Read The Mandolin Lesson for Free Online Page A

and just be.
    Near the platforms for international departures, there are benches to sit down on. These benches are made of metal and are reminiscent of park benches. The whole area is partially exposed to the elements and the night air is cold and sharp. I find a place to sit and from which I can see information about my train. It is still early evening and yet this station, like many others throughout the world, acts as a magnet to marginalised people. The homeless, the drunk, the mad and the sad, all intermingle with international travellers.
    I am profoundly grateful when I enter the safety of the overnight train to Venice. I easily find my carriage and compartment. The compartment is divided into six couchettes, three on each side. Each berth is provided with a small pillow, a blanket and a plastic bag containing a clean pillow case and a sheet. My bed is at the top, which I had thought would give me even more security and privacy once I had made the journey up the ladder. I quickly take up my belongings and arrange them in a recessed shelf near my head. I then set to work making up my bed. It is neat and cosy and I look forward to collapsing on it, but I feel I cannot collapse just yet. It is so odd sharing one’s bedroom, my compartment, with five complete strangers. The train moves out of the station and everyone mills around in the corridors looking out of the windows at the illuminated city melting away into darkness.
    A lady in uniform passes through the corridor informing people that the buffet is ready to serve supper. The thought is tempting: a thin, moist steak accompanied by French fries and a glass of red wine. I wish for a moment that I hadn’t eaten earlier, but I console myself with the thought that it was a better plan. I am now better organised. I don’t, for example, have the hassle of taking all my belongings with me to the buffet car. I have, as it is, to take a small calculated risk by leaving my stowed away belongings whilst I visit the bathroom and clean my teeth. I feel uncomfortable about it, but I am exhausted and it is too complicated. I think, anyway, that taking my mandolin to the bathroom will only attract unnecessary attention to it. I also have enough trouble keeping my balance in the short walk between the compartment and the bathroom. The train seems to move about considerably more than I remembered from the spring rehearsal.
    At last I am tucked up in bed and I try to relax and rest. I am not wearing night clothes. I wear instead the underneath layers of my day clothes: a long-sleeved cotton polo neck sweater and cotton leggings. They are chosen for comfort and their quality of being non-creasing. It is the most practical solution to the problem of travelling in this way.
    I do not sleep well on the train. I am restless. At times, I become too hot. I remove the blanket a little but I leave the sheet in place. I have arranged it to be folded in half with the fold on the outward edge of the bunk. In this way, I feel I will be contained and less likely to fall out of my lofty bed. I hear the voice of the customs official at the Swiss border. I handed my passport to the carriage steward soon after boarding the train. Passengers are re-issued with their documents in the morning. This ensures that passengers are not disturbed from their sleep. I lie awake on the still train thinking that I have just arrived in Switzerland, the second foreign country of my journey. I also think about the Calace
Preludio
I have to play for my audition. I run the opening bars over in my head, imagining how my fingers feel to play it. This should send me to sleep but it doesn’t. I remember how once I had found that listening to my own imagined playing of this piece had comforted me in hospital. When I was very ill, it soothed me and made me soporific. Now it only served to increase my anxiety because I worry that I haven’t been able to practise on the journey. Then I worry that I have had