Free The Mandolin Lesson by Frances Taylor Page B

gondolas that bob up and down ceaselessly. My gaze extends to the ambiguous horizon and then focuses on the church of
Maria della Salute
, across the water. I have a silk screen print of this church at home. My picture is predominantly turquoise: a symbol of hope and gratitude, it was built to honour the deliverance of the city from the plague.
    *

    Apart from a short gap during which we consume delicious pizzas, the rest of the day is spent walking around: exploring, admiring and reminiscing. At about five o’clock, I start to worry that I haven’t done any practice. My legs are tired and I want to go to our hotel. We take the
vaporetto
to the station and collect our luggage. We take another
vaporetto
along the Grand Canal towards our stop at the
Accademia
. The water-bus is crowded with people returning home from work. A tired baby is crying and being comforted by its mother. Through the glass door at the front of the boat, I see the famous Canaletto scenes of Venice drenched in the pink light of the setting sun. Probably this scene has been observed and described thousands of times, but I am left with a sense of privilege at having seen it first-hand.
    *

    In the hotel, I have a shower and change. It is bliss to be clean and to be able to relax in the privacy of our room. I begin to practise. My husband is restless and departs for another short walk. I think he should rest but he wants to make the most of every minute. I say nothing. It is no use trying to dissuade him. It only makes matters worse.
    My need to practise is urgent and my mind is quickly focused on the notes. I have prepared the first three sonatas by Lecce, out of a book of eighteen. Each sonata is just a single movement. My teacher has written out the notes by hand, copying them from the original manuscript. My book is a photocopy of his work, bound together with a red spiral binding and plastic covers. I imagine how the book would look with notes printed by the computer and handmade marble paper beneath the plastic covers.
    I sit on the edge of the bed with my music propped up by pillows and I begin to play. The music is reasonably clear in comparison to some handwritten examples I have seen. I play the first phrase a couple of times. It contains four G major chords. I love the quality of their sound, but one of the chords is a little tricky because it is short – only a semiquaver in length (or really quick for the uninitiated). I try it a few times until I am satisfied and then I move on.
    I am soothed by the patterns that follow. Arpeggios and chords in various inversions, the notes played separately and repetitively. They create a harmony, an order, a peace, a stillness within me. At the same time, the relentless semiquavers imbue me with an energy; intensified by a dominant seventh here or lightened by the decoration of a trill there. At the cadence points, there is always just a skeleton of notes to suggest the punctuation. Such simplicity. Such beauty.
    An hour has disappeared as if it were a few seconds, and I am content.
    *

    My husband returns. He takes a shower whilst I watch the Italian news on television. I love watching Italian television because there is no need to be interactive. I can relax knowing that I am soaking up the language at my own pace. If there is something I don’t understand, it doesn’t matter because I don’t need to respond.
    I am hungry and ready for my dinner. I have in my mind several good restaurants where we have eaten before, but my husband has a better plan. In his search for perfection and the avoidance of other tourists, he thinks we should take the
vaporetto
to the
Giudecca
, where we are sure to find a quiet restaurant used only by the locals.
    The
Giudecca
is certainly quiet and seems largely unlit. We stumble along in the dark looking for the restaurant of our dreams. We see shops closing and one or two bars, but no eating places. We decide to return to the other side of the canal and