The Mandolin Lesson (22 page)

Occhiali da Sole
. Sunglasses.

This is our first day in Cavalese and I am engaged in buying yet another pair of sunglasses. This time they are for my son, who has just returned from the
piste
. After an awkward moment skiing, he fell over and crushed the glasses in his jacket pocket. I have to sort out the problem as I am the ‘language expert'. It is my main function to be useful as an interpreter.

I have long given up any hope of finding pleasure in skiing. The boots feel like lead and I am afraid of injury to my hands. I am happy pottering around the town, window shopping and stopping for a leisurely
cioccolata con panna
, hot chocolate with cream. When I have had sufficient of these pleasures, I return to the hotel for a rest or a spot of undisturbed practice. I am quite happy during the day being left in peace, knowing that my husband and son, who are always energetic and fidgety, are being occupied by something they enjoy. In the evening, we come together for delicious food and a glass or two of local wine. It is an excellent arrangement.

This week I plan to go to Padua for my lesson on Wednesday, since Monday, being January 6
^th
, is a public holiday. Epiphany, or Twelfth Night, celebrates the successful conclusion of the journey of the Magi and brings the Christmas festivities to an end. On this day, many Italian children receive presents from
Befana
– a kindly witch.

I locate the only travel agency in Cavalese by looking through the
Yellow Pages
and I make an early visit only to find it shut for the holiday. On Tuesday, I go first thing to ask about trains to Padua. There is a connecting bus from Cavalese to the nearest station, but I need to arrange my train ticket in advance. It seems that I am able to take a train, originating from Bolzano, from Egna-Ora to Verona, where I will have to change for the train to Padua.

The helpful young lady behind the counter is a little flummoxed when I tell her that I want to go tomorrow. She speaks with her colleague and then she comes back to talk to me. I elucidate the importance of my trip to Padua and the difficulty I had in coming any earlier since they were closed for the holiday. The young lady speaks again with her colleague. After some deliberation, she tells me that if I return at six-thirty this evening they will make sure they have the ticket ready. The agency usually requires a day or two's notice to make a booking. I hadn't appreciated how small Cavalese is. The agency is a branch of a bigger organisation with the main office elsewhere. People come to Cavalese for skiing holidays in winter and rarely require assistance to travel to other towns. Normally, once they are stationed in the mountains, they stay there.

During the early evening, we join the exodus into the streets for the customary
passeggiata
before dinner. It doesn't seem to matter that it is dark and icy cold. The town is in festive spirit. Tree skeletons sparkle with pinpricks of white light. Inside the stable of the life-size nativity scene, the three kings are paying homage to baby Jesus. Outside the
presepio
, in the snow-covered sunken garden, there are other visitors dressed in local period costumes and bearing gifts. The female pastoral figures wear long skirts, scarves and shawls. They are at the other end of the social scale from the kings. The rustic theme is continued in the building, which is adjacent and at right angles to the stable. It is decorated with dangling sheaves of wheat and maize.

Nearby, the street is offered a magnificent display of art. The illuminated exterior of the
Palazzo della Communità
is covered in colourful frescoes. Once the palace of the bishops who held the power base of the practically autonomous
Val di Fiemme,
it is still a symbol of power and authority. Today, local affairs are predominantly run from this building.

I take a few photographs of the
presepio
, the
Palazzo
and the majestic
campanile
, which is also dramatically lit up. I am using a tiny discreet camera that uses advanced film. A Christmas present, it is supposed to be the latest in technology and almost idiot proof. Despite the minimum of fuss in preparing to take a picture and the miniature size of the machine, I still feel self-conscious and uncomfortable taking photographs. It is a new experience for me, trying to capture moments of interest and importance. Whether I will manage to distil the essence of a feeling or an emotion is another matter. Here, I am trying to catch something of the atmosphere that will remind me and set off a chain of thoughts. I am so much more at ease with music and words that I am not convinced that this will be anything other than an occasional experience.

*

At a quarter to six in the morning, I leave the Hotel St Valiér by an emergency exit door in one of the recreational rooms. None of the staff are on duty yet and I arranged with the headwaiter yesterday that I would leave by this door as the front entrance is still locked from the night. I walk through the garden and around the side of the building to reach the road running at the front of the hotel. I turn right and walk towards the bus station. It takes only a few minutes, but it is eerily quiet. The only sound is my feet crunching the snow underfoot. I tread carefully, deliberately, but with a new confidence. No longer am I afraid of sliding and slipping, falling and hurting myself. I always used to concentrate on what might go wrong and I was terrorised by a walk in the snow. Now, instead of thinking about the possible icy patches, I focus on placing each foot firmly and I imagine it sticking there. Thinking positively seems to influence my feet. I feel secure and I am secure.

The bus station is deserted. I am alone and it is dark and silent. I look around uneasily. It could be a set in a thriller film. It could be the scene of one of my anxiety dreams. I try to think of how the bus will look when it comes. I was expecting it to be parked here already. I hear the murmur of an engine. It isn't a bus. It is a dark saloon car. It stops. I feel very uneasy. The passenger door at the front opens gingerly. My heart races. A teenage girl wearing headphones and carrying a rucksack slowly emerges. I begin to feel calmer. A bus arrives, but it isn't my bus. I begin to feel anxious again. I am also feeling quite cold. Another bus arrives. This time, it is my bus.

The bus is really a coach. Inside, it is warm and comfortable. I sink into the generous seat. The descent down the mountain to the valley where the nearest local train station is takes about an hour. The bus driver has the radio on softly. It is a strange sensation being driven in comfort around the slow bends which wind though snow-laden woods, whilst listening to Italian songs and chatter on the radio. The skiers, Italian and foreigners alike, are not yet out on the slopes and I am slipping into the everyday routine of Italian life – only this time, I am commuting from the most extreme rural perspective I have witnessed so far.

Occasionally the bus stops and people climb up the stairs at the front to board. There is always the exchange of some greeting with the driver. “
Buon giorno.” “Ciao.” “Salve.”
Some of them are young and obviously on the way to school. Sometimes we stop and we are surrounded only by the woods, and people seem to appear from behind the trees. I am not sure where their homes are. Some must have a long walk to the bus stop.

In the valley, we are on the flat again, but I am mystified at first by all the name signs. I am looking for the station of Egna-Ora, but I see signs for Ora-Auer and Egna-Neumarkt. We are in Trentino – Alto Adige, Sud Tirol, and the Austrian influence is everywhere. All the signs display the German equivalent. In Italian, Egna and Ora are two different places, but the train station is positioned between them and is, therefore, called Egna-Ora. However, the German equivalent would be Neumarkt-Auer. With all these possibilities, I am confused and I check with another passenger to see whether we have arrived at the station I require. I am told that we are just five minutes away.

At the station, shortly after seven, the ticket office is closed and there are no staff to be seen. I feel in my pocket for my ticket, checking I have it safely. I am glad that I arranged it in advance. I wait till almost the last minute before I leave the relative warmth and shelter of the station building. On the platform it is bitterly cold and I hear German being spoken by a family standing nearby. Everyone else looks dressed for business.

The journey to the Veneto takes us through the stations of Trento, Rovereto and Ala. I look eagerly out to view the winter landscape of Sartori's life.

At Verona, I have just missed the Venice train that will take me to Padua and I have to wait almost an hour for the next one. This is the problem with travelling. A journey may theoretically only take a certain number of hours, but all the extra time waiting for connections adds to the total journey time. I do not arrive at Padua until midday. My journey has taken approximately six hours.

At the
Conservatorio,
the Maestro and the other pupils are all amused to hear of my journey this time. My account is prefaced by the fact that I did not even fly to Italy. I flew instead to neighbouring Austria. From Innsbruck, I transferred by coach to Italy and the last leg of my journey to Cavalese was undertaken by taxi. I look around and watch the smiles and looks of incredulity as I explain that I have travelled today from a ski resort in the mountains. This time, it was expedient to combine a family holiday with the mandolin lesson. I have the impression that they think I am quite a character. Maybe I am.

I enjoy very much playing the Sauli partita and I am given the next one, in F major, to prepare for the next month. After only three hours in the class, I have to make my excuses and begin the return journey to the mountains.

It is a very long and tiring journey home. I read a bit. From Verona, I close my eyes and try to rest. A female doctor sitting opposite is interrupted by her mobile telephone. I hear her giving advice about a sick child. The phone is cut off and she waits a bit before continuing her conversation. Why do return journeys drag so? This morning I was so excited to be going to the
Conservatorio
and now I can't wait to get home.

At Egna-Ora, I have half an hour to wait for the bus and the lacerating cold is unbearable. There are no refreshments at the station, which is isolated, but a small road leads into the station and there are a few buildings at the beginning. One is a bar and I order a cappuccino. It is the wrong time of day, mid-evening, for a cappuccino, but I am frozen and I need a warm milky drink. I mention this to the lady behind the counter and she is most hospitable. I sit down and read the local paper provided, whilst I drink slowly to while away the time and keep warm.

When I finally reach my hotel at just after nine, the evening meal has finished. The headwaiter has kindly saved me a plate of cold meats, cheeses, grilled vegetables, salad and bread, together with some wine. I am grateful for this feast. I sit in the empty restaurant with my family, sharing the day's events whilst I hungrily devour my supper. I am absolutely exhausted and it is no time before I am soundly asleep.

On the train to Padua, I am sitting opposite Ugo in a compartment of six seats. We met on the platform at Brescia whilst we were waiting for the train.

Ugo is very chatty this morning, asking me lots of questions about the mandolin scene in England. I don't feel completely awake yet for detailed conversation. Suddenly he stands up and takes down his briefcase from the overhead luggage rack. He rummages around inside the case for a moment and takes out a booklet.

“Have you seen this before?” he asks me.

“No,” I tell him, “I know of this and strangely I have been trying to trace it.”

The booklet, a photocopy of the out-of-print original, is entitled
Mandolin
Memories
by Samuel Adelstein – a nineteenth century American mandolinist. I know this document is of interest to me, but I'm not exactly sure why.

“
Leggi, leggi
,” Ugo encourages. Read it, read it.

I settle back in my seat and begin.

The language is old-fashioned, sometimes rambling and a little clumsy to my twentieth century ears, sometimes beautifully crafted and exquisitely evoking the charm of a long-forgotten era. The text rumbles along, describing the rise in popularity of the mandolin in America during the close of the nineteenth century. Previously the mandolin had been almost unknown outside its native country, Italy, and even then it had been dormant for some time.

In fact, Adelstein is describing the renaissance, the first renaissance, of the mandolin. He doesn't mention that during the Baroque period it had enjoyed great popularity, which had extended far beyond Italy to other important European cultural centres: Paris, Stockholm, London and so on. This has all become known only recently as part of current research undertaken by mandolinists and musicologists during the last twenty years. I am part of a second renaissance of the mandolin, which is happening now and taking place a hundred years after the first.

I look out of the window. We are edging along the southern shore of Lake Garda. The late winter sun shines brilliantly. I love the houses: blocks randomly stacked together in ice cream colours of strawberry, pistachio and lemon, and sensuous villas in the pale creamy yellow of old ivory. I try to take in and hold every detail; the ravishing light, the water shimmering and its colour changing like mother-of-pearl. The water is always a perpetual source of fascination to me. I could stay here and watch forever; the whole scene is so ineffably beautiful.

My eyes return to the text and I am startled by two sentences:

So, here is the connection. Here is the importance. History repeats itself. Adelstein was originally a violinist and travelled to Italy in 1890, just over a hundred years ago, in order to find out more about how the mandolin should be played. He travelled all the way from America, making his way to Italy via Paris. In Italy, he met the leading mandolinists of the day, including Carlo Munier and Raffaele Calace. He attended their concerts and studied under their supervision. Of these great exponents, Adelstein says that they
‘were astonished and expressed surprise that one should come so far for instruction.
' How many times have I heard the other students at Padua say exactly the same thing?

Here I am walking in the footprints of Samuel Adelstein.

Ugo tells me that he is editing a book in which
Mandolin Memories
will be republished along with two translations of it, one in Italian and the other in French. The Italian version has been translated by my friend Giovanna and the French version by Didier Le Roux, who I met on my very first trip to Brescia. Ugo has written a preface to this book and he has a special task that he would like me to undertake. He would like me to translate the preface from Italian to English.

I am silent for a moment. I am both thrilled and daunted by the prospect. It is yet another connection. I am walking in Samuel's footsteps. I have no option other than to accept the task.

*

‘
A
Night in Tunisia
'.

No, I have not suddenly been transported across the Mediterranean Sea to the shores of North Africa. I am joining the Mandolin and Guitar Orchestra for the Monday rehearsal and we are playing jazz tonight. We are trying a Papparelli/ ‘Dizzy' Gillespie number called ‘
A
Night in Tunisia
'.

Claudio Mandonico, the conductor, looks up and greets me. He is always pleased to see me, even if I am the most infrequent attendant of rehearsals. The orchestra meets twice a week to rehearse and I only visit when I am in Brescia.

This evening is strangely nostalgic. We are upstairs in the room we rehearsed in on my first ever visit. I ask why we are using this room and it soon becomes obvious. The extra percussion instruments required are already set up here.

I am tired from an exacting day in the mandolin class and also from the journey to and from Padua. Now I am sitting next to Miki, Giovanna is sitting further forward, and I am struggling with crazy rhythms and a style I am not used to. Curiously, though, instead of becoming exhausted, I seem to be growing more and more animated as each moment passes.

I am quickly intoxicated by the repetitive quirky rhythms. They swing and dance provocatively around the same spot. The hollow sound of a traditional drum echoes behind me. A modern drum kit increases the tension. All these elements combine to generate infectious energy, raw and urgent.

*

On the commuter train from Brescia to Milan, I have a sticky moment. I take my ticket from my bag in preparation for the ticket inspector. Ticket inspectors invariably visit, usually several times in a journey. I place the ticket in my pocket, but as I do so, I realise that my return ticket to Milan has been validated twice. I remember putting it in the punch machine this morning at Brescia station. I look closer and notice that the other hole with time, date and place refers to Padua, yesterday, late afternoon.

I look in disbelief. I can't believe I have made a mistake. I thought I was so organised this time buying a return ticket for Milan to avoid queuing at Brescia station when I returned. I flick though the other bits of paper in my handbag. The return ticket to Padua is unmarked. There is definitely no hole, no stamp. Obviously, I validated the wrong ticket yesterday.

I take a moment to consider my predicament. I devise two plans. The first is that I will erase all knowledge of what has happened from my mind and act as if nothing has happened. The inspector, despite it being unlikely, might overlook the other marking on the ticket.

The second plan is that if he or she notices, I will act surprised and explain the truth, as if I am only just becoming aware of the mistake. If I have to pay the fine, so be it.

To my absolute delight, the ticket inspector takes my ticket, punches it, and with glazed eyes returns it with a ‘
grazie
signora
'. I am relieved not to be the centre of conflict and attention in my carriage. I am grateful that I am not a protagonist in the kind of drama I have seen so often before.

In Milan, I have the whole day free until mid-afternoon, a rare treat, and I intend to make the most of this opportunity. Ugo has told me of some interesting early mandolins in two different museums. I take my mandolin and overnight bag to the left-luggage office, taking care to remove my umbrella from my bag as it is raining. Then, I head for the newspaper stand, where I purchase a map and some tickets for the
metropolitana
– the underground train. I spend five minutes sitting down in the waiting room whilst I study the map and memorise the salient details. I don't want to wander around looking like a lost tourist. I then fold the map up and put it in my pocket and make for the
metropolitana
.

As I approach the entrance of the
metropolitana
at nine o'clock in the morning, I am met with a terrible disappointment. Officials are closing the entrance with metal shutters. For the second time this morning, I stare in disbelief. I ask an official what is happening. Apparently, the
metropolitana
is having a strike and no one seems to know when services will be resumed. I walk back to the waiting room upstairs in the mainline station and have another look at my map. I have such a long stretch of time before me that I have to press on with my plan. I noticed that there were hundreds of disgruntled commuters waiting for buses and taxis outside the station. My only realistic option is to walk.

I study the map carefully and check the position of the stations before the
Teatro
alla
Scala
, Milan's famous opera house. On the number three line from the Central Station, the stops are
Republica
,
Turati
and
Monte
Napoleone
. There seems to be an almost direct overground route, with just a slight twist to the left and then to the right in the middle, between here and the opera house. It doesn't look too difficult and it doesn't look too far on the map, although maps can be deceptive. If the distance between
Milanese
stations is roughly the same as the distance between London tube stations, then I have to walk perhaps a distance equivalent to the length of Oxford Street. After Tottenham Court Road station, there are three stops: Oxford Circus, Bond Street and Marble Arch. It seems feasible. I put up my umbrella and set out into the inclement weather, heading towards Milan's historical centre.

I have never seen the heart of Milan, even though I am frequently moving through the city. I often fly to Linate airport and take a bus to the station. It is a very convenient service, running frequently and taking only twenty minutes between the airport and the station. I see the suburbs and unknown Milan. I see old-fashioned trams and interesting shops. I always notice a street called
Via Stradivari
as we approach the station from the north-east of the city. I think it is wonderful to have a road named after a violinmaker.

Standing in front of La Scala, Milan, I feel humbled. This is an important moment in my journey. All my life I have heard of the prestigious reputation of La Scala, one of the great opera houses of the world. My friend, Maria Cleofe Miotti, plays mandolin in performances of Prokoviev's
Romeo and Juliet
, as does Dorina Frati who was so hospitable to me on my first solo visit to Italy. And I feel another sense of connection because I sometimes play for the same ballet in London at the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden – another of the world's great opera houses.

I enter the
Museo Teatrale della Scala
, The Theatrical Museum of the Scala, by a door on the left of the main façade. As I buy a ticket, I am warned that the theatre itself is closed for a rehearsal. The price of admission to the museum normally includes a peek at the opulent splendour of the interior. I am not bothered by this news because I have come specifically to see the mandolins in the museum collection.

I wander through the glass cases, looking at scores, conductor's batons, pictures and other memorabilia. I see a charming eighteenth century porcelain figurine of a mandolinist. I see an early flute and various Baroque keyboard instruments, but I see no sign of the mandolins. I check carefully as I return through the displays to make sure that I haven't missed anything accidentally in my excitement.

At the custodian's desk by the exit, I feel quite let down. Clearly there are no mandolins, but I feel that Ugo wouldn't have given me incorrect information. In the past I probably would have accepted the situation and departed, puzzled and frustrated. Today, something stirs within me. I find myself mentioning the mandolins to the custodian. I tell him that I had understood that the museum contained a collection of early mandolins. I tell him that I was advised by Maestro Ugo Orlandi of the
Conservatorio
at Padua to visit the museum and that it was a matter of some urgency because I have a flight to London that I must take later in the day.

All at once, the custodian is taking headed notepaper from the drawer in his desk and he starts to write a letter. He tells me that the mandolins have been moved to the nearby
Palazzo Clerici
, just a few minutes' walk away. He says that if I take the letter with me and present it to the reception, I will be allowed to see the mandolins that are of such interest to me. I thank him profusely, hardly believing what has taken place. In a split second, I summoned up the confidence and language to pursue what I wanted, and against the odds a door has been, quite literally, opened for me. So many times in Italy, what seems impossible suddenly becomes possible.

At the
Palazzo Clerici,
I walk up the steps into a building which seems to be mostly for business. I hand over my letter and I am asked to give up my coat and umbrella. A uniformed security officer carrying a huge bunch of heavy keys is summonsed and he takes me up in the lift to a higher floor. He unlocks the door of a huge white room housing various glass cases. Then he hovers at the door whilst I have my own private viewing of the mandolins. I have the impression that the collection is not quite ready for the pubic and I feel enormously privileged to have this opportunity to view it.

Outside in the rain again, I feel a huge sense of achievement at having found the mandolins. I abandon the idea of visiting the instrument collection at the
Castello Sforzesco
as the custodian at La Scala museum informed me that the castle was closed for restoration. He has saved me an unnecessary walk. Instead, I relax by going to the
Duomo
.

The cathedral is the largest and most complex Gothic construction in Italy. It has 135 spires that stretch towards heaven like stalagmites. It is hard to comprehend the time that skilled craftsmen have laboured to produce such an intricate structure. It is eternally incomplete. My guidebook explains that after six centuries it is still not really finished, owing to the continuing maintenance and restoration required.