Susan Buckland: The piano lesson

COMMENT

A reader of this column has observed that a number of my travel encounters have involved "hunks". Yes, well, far be it from me to turn the other way when a handsome man approaches.

But to prove that men of the non-hunk variety hold interest I'd like to tell you about Mario Messina.

We met on a Mediterranean cruise ship. Not through any romantic inclination, I hasten to add, but because a music exam awaited me back home and I hoped to find a pianist to help with a lesson during the 11-day cruise.

In the ship's L'Atmosphere Bar, I found Mario, a cruising crooner. He was warming up for the cocktail hour, rippling his fingers over the keys and singing "I get a kick out of you". He was a fluent one-man band, as sure on the piano as he was convinced that he looked like the British actor Michael Caine.

"Michele Caine," he said me, pointing to himself with an endearing smile. In a pleasantly middle-aged way he did resemble to the British actor. I nodded in agreement and then I asked him. Would he have any time to help me with music I would be sitting for my exam?

English was a language Mario could sing but not speak. So I fell back on the Italian I had learned as a student in Italy and soon we were chatting about his country and mine and why I was on board the good ship Lirica and why he had taken his musical talents to sea. We made a time the next day for a music lesson.

The offer to help with my piano playing reminded me of the spontaneous generosity I had experienced so often among the Italians when I lived in his country. When the moment arrived for the lesson, however, I felt self-conscious. Mario, a talented musician, far outshone my ability on the piano.

Sensing my hesitation he turned the focus on himself and began talking about his first experience of playing the piano aged 7 and his later involvement with teenage bands and theatre orchestras. It's a cruisy life now, playing on ships and then returning every three weeks to Naples and the family. "My job is a labour of love," he said.

His friendly chatter did the trick. I tossed inhibition overboard and we had the piano lesson. In return he asked me to teach him a song from New Zealand.

He soon mastered the words and music of Pokarekare Ana, liking the way the Maori words ended in vowels, as Italian words do.

It was then my turn to learn an Italian song. And before long we were singing a raft of Cole Porter classics. It was a blast.

Because of Mario, L'Atmosphere was one of the most popular bars on the ship. He struck a chord with passengers as well as the piano.

On the night we had arranged that I take his photograph he looked resplendent in a red jacket and bow tie.

But he had something unexpected up his velvet sleeve.

"Signori e Signore," he announced to the crowd in the bar. "My special guest tonight will sing for you now. Please welcome Susanna from Nuova Zelanda."

There was no getting out of it. Why had I confided in Mario that I fancied myself as a kind of Peggy Lee, singing in smoky bars? "Fever, you like?" he asked the guests in the bar. "Si!" they cried in unison. Feeling feverish myself I moved to the grand piano while Mario played introductory bars.

No sooner had I got through Fever than Mario plunged me into Fly Me to the Moon. Followed by Summertime.

I sang on, catching the reflection of light bouncing off a pair of spectacles in the audience.

They belonged to Philippe, a dapper little music-loving passenger from Belgium who looked like a cross between Agatha Christie's Inspector Poirot and Tin Tin. He was smiling, thank God.

I thanked Mario later, telling him that two Martinis and his empathetic piano accompaniment had helped me surmount stage fright. Mario gave his best Michael Caine smile. "Sempre un lavoro d'amore," he said. Always a labour of love.