by Vicky Adin
“What I think happened here is one of two things. A transcription error – someone has misread or misheard the name Rossi, turning it into Rossa; ‘Della’ means ‘of the’, or ...”
“But this shows Isabel as a widow, not his wife, and Julia’s father is unknown.”
“Or, more likely, Luciano told the shipping clerk what he wanted them to know.”
“You mean he lied?”
“Probably. Whatever it all means, the record is what it shows. But I don’t think your Isabel was a widow either.”
Megan’s Diary
15 May 2011
I was speechless when Paul told me about the passenger list, but at least I now know when Isabel left Florence and roughly when she arrived in New Zealand. And I have a name to follow - Isabel Della Rossa. I still don’t understand why Grandma Julia carried the name Trevallyan as Gordon told me, in that case. What is it with people who change their name and disappear off the face of the earth! It’s so frustrating.
What I have learnt is that Italy in those days was notoriously regional. Similar names, spelt differently, would identify whether the family came from the north or south, which might have explained something of Luciano’s mystery. Like with Paul’s family. That was an unexpected revelation. I’ll enjoy finding out more about his history. He said he’d been concerned they may be related and had spent some considerable time trying to trace Luciano’s family, but could find nothing – and certainly nothing that linked him to Paul’s family in any way.
According to various records, most of the Italian passengers went straight to the Hutt or Nelson, to join other Tuscan families in the booming market gardens and tomato trade, while Isabel remained in Auckland. I wonder if she made friends with anyone and if they wrote to each other. Paul has doubts. I don’t even know how well Isabel spoke Italian. I presume she must have had a smattering.
Whichever way we look at it, we can say with certainty Luciano travelled to New Zealand with Isabel. The question is, was Julia their baby? The birth certificate didn’t name a father. Was it Luciano or someone else? Luigi even? I hadn’t thought of that possibility before.
Did Luciano betray my great-grandmother? Had Isabel been separated by choice or abandoned? Did he plan to leave Isabel and the baby alone in a strange country or did something happen to them once they’d arrived? Paul is convinced Luciano lied.
He is also sure they would have had something to do with the art scene in Auckland.
So, a starting point, but oh, so many unanswered questions.
Still, something good has come from all this. I am suddenly itching to get back home and read Isabel’s letters. Maybe they will fill in the gaps.
Chapter 28
Megan never did get the knack of touting to tourists as they wandered around the marketplace, like the Italians did. As a favour to Teresa, she’d agreed to help man a stall, where they could sell their seconds. Not that Megan saw anything wrong with their so-called ‘seconds’ but she knew Teresa would not tolerate anything less than top quality. Most of the family found themselves roped in during the summer tourist months. The task could be quite tiring, with long hours and, some days, little return. Even though calling out about the best deal Florence could offer would possibly attract more people, it just wasn’t her style.
Despite the clamour and crowds surrounding her, Megan had time to think while she sat on the high stool beside the stall. In the six weeks since Sarah’s departure, she’d spent many hours with Paul, but as the academy’s Spring Quarter neared its end, they spent less time together. Their easy friendship had shifted. She couldn’t quite explain how, or on whose side, but something was different. He seemed distracted. In some ways, she didn’t mind – things were happening too fast anyway. She wasn’t ready for any sort of relationship, she wasn’t sure she ever would be.
Thinking back she remembered occasions when she’d caught sight of Paul in the corridors seemingly in high spirits, laughing and joking with a student or fellow staff member, to find his mood changed by the time he’d joined her. Whether as a response to her newly cautious frame of mind or something else, she didn’t know. One day, before he’d noticed her, she saw him place his hands on a student’s shoulder and kiss her on either cheek, highly excited about something, yet he never mentioned it. But then, why should he? It was none of her business, but it left her wondering about his past relationships and, for that matter, current ones. It seemed impossible a man with his appeal would not have had any dalliances since his wife died. She’d simply chosen not to think about it before. She realised how little she knew about him. Nothing in fact, other than what he had told her.
Towards the end of June, Paul suddenly announced he needed to return to the States. His reasons sounded vague, something to do with his tenure and requirements to teach.
“Don’t rush back to New Zealand while I’m gone. Summer in Tuscany is amazing,” he said. “Let me show you. Stay in Florence, please. I’ll try not to be away too long.”
Megan was noncommittal. Winter in New Zealand held little attraction, but with the second anniversary of Tony’s death coming up at the beginning of September, she wanted to go home, regardless of Isabel’s journal and its timetable. Waiting around Florence all summer seemed pointless.
Thinking it through, Megan decided it was best for her to leave before Paul returned. She could hardly believe she’d nearly got caught up in a silly spring romance, if what they shared could be called a romance. Had she become a little too desperate for company, as Sarah had warned, and fallen for his suave sophistication?
The phone call from Jason, confirming her earlier suspicions about Trina, bolstered her decision.
“Hey, Mum! Guess what? You’re going to be a nana again. A Christmas baby they reckon.”
“How wonderful! Congratulations, to you both.”
“Trina’s contract with the art gallery finishes at the end of July, and she’s not going to renew it, so I’m looking at a change in my routes. If I’m successful, and I think I will be, we want to go home.”
Megan held her breath. Does he really mean what I think? “Home...? Do you mean ...?”
“Yes, Mum. I mean Auckland.”
“Jason! That’s the best news I’ve heard all year – and I’ve had quite a bit of news in that time. That’s wonderful.”
“See. I told you I would make it up to you one day. Are my stakes a little higher now?”
“Yes. They are,” she laughed. “You back in Auckland and a new grandchild will just about do it, but don’t get too cocky.”
He couldn’t go into any more detail or give her any idea of a time frame, it would depend on the outcome of his application, but they definitely wanted the baby born in New Zealand.
Teresa and Giacomo couldn’t stop talking when Megan told them the exciting news. Megan had trouble keeping up with their torrent of words and gestures, sometimes in Italian and sometimes in English. They were disappointed, though not surprised, that Trina would not return to Florence. They understood.
“The young. Bambini. They make their own way these days,” said Giacomo, shrugging his shoulders and waving his hands. “Never do they listen to their elders.”
“So different to my day.” Teresa sounded cross. “We never dreamed of such a thing. To move away from our mamas ... But then ...” Teresa shook her head sadly, aware she could not take the place of Trina’s mother.
Megan added to their sadness when she told them her news about leaving too. Such terrible news, they said, and pleaded with her to stay longer.
“At least until Ferragosto, Assumption Day, on 15th August,” Teresa begged. “It holiday time, celebration time. Festivals and parties, you know. You stay. You have good time. People go to beaches. It quieter then and the students – they won’t come back until September.”
Megan laughed along with Teresa. She had learnt much about their theatrical manner of speaking in the past few months and knew not to take them too seriously.
“I can’t
thank you enough for the way you welcomed me into your family. In many ways, I’m sorry to leave but no, I must get back.”
Megan didn’t tell them Paul texted to say he would return early August. It was too complicated to explain. She did agree to stay until the end of July and help as much as she could for the next month. “Trina’s job will finish then, so I’m sure she will come to visit.”
With that, Teresa and Giacomo had to be thankful and gave Megan their blessing.
* * * * *
For once, Megan wished modern communication didn’t make it so easy to get hold of people on the other side of the world. Now she had made up her mind to leave, she didn’t need Paul sending emails or texts every other day. She became distant with her responses, and sometimes didn’t respond at all, which made his emails even more insistent. Finally, he phoned.
The first time Megan saw his name come up on the screen, she ignored it – with some difficulty. It went against all her instincts and training not to answer a phone, but she knew this conversation would be a difficult one – one she preferred to have face to face or not at all.
She thought her behaviour more fitting to a silly teenager than a mature woman, but feeling decidedly foolish, she couldn’t think what to say to this man. To tell him it was over would assume something more between them. Could she even think there was something ‘more’? Yet to ignore him and pretend nothing had happened between them would insult them both. Sarah was right. She was totally inexperienced at this relationships lark. Oh, how she missed Tony.
Goodness, I haven’t thought about Tony like that in ages. Just as I thought I was ready to move on and remember all the good times, he is suddenly back reminding me of the yawning gap he left.
Megan knew why Tony suddenly sprang to mind. She needed advice and she always went to him when troubled. Who could she go to with this dilemma? No one came to mind. Her daughter would be horrified, her son embarrassed, and Teresa would tell her, in true Italian style, to follow her heart, and only encourage her further. Paul came next in her list of choices, but that thought was the silliest of all. She found herself in this position because of him in the first place. Why, even the word silly had become a descriptor of her thoughts and behaviour of late. Something she’d never been called in her life before.
Her cell phone rang.
“Hello, Paul.”
“Oh Megan. I’m so glad I’ve got hold of you at last. Look, I just had to talk to you about this. I didn’t feel it was something I could put in an email.” He sounded flustered and out of sorts.
“Goodness, Paul. Whatever is the problem?”
“It’s just that ... Well, what I mean to say is ... Please don’t ask for explanations at the moment. I just can’t give you any – nothing that would make sense anyway – so it’s better not to try.”
Megan’s heart thumped, a sense of foreboding tugged at her while she waited for Paul to finish.
“It’s just that after all I’ve said to you, it turns out I won’t be back in Florence after all.”
“What?” Megan couldn’t help exclaiming, even though whether he returned to Florence or not would not change her plans.
“Yes. Sorry. I have to stay here. Look. I’d better go now. You may not hear from me for some time. But I’ll get in touch as soon as I can.”
All her concerns were wiped away in one very short and, for Paul, totally out-of-character phone call. She had no idea what he was up to, but something had him rattled.
Isabel’s Journal
12 July 1911
For the last few weeks, my friend from the art studio has taken me to all sorts of different places to meet his fellow artists, and I’ve got to know some of the models. We share a meal sometimes, if I can make an excuse to Mrs B.
It’s so very exciting. I’m happy to just sit in the studio and watch the students. Some paint only hands or feet; others are studying the face. Some leave a face floating on the canvas with no visible means of support, some add a dark background. Some of the students have progressed to full-length portraits but, shocking as it seems, the girls are almost nude. If they are lucky, some are partially draped in a length of cloth or clothed in revealing costumes, standing beside a fake column or statue. The first time I saw this, I was horrified and embarrassed but am surprised to find myself interested in the human form.
Even so, I told him he was using the girls to his own benefit and it was degrading. He just laughed, telling me I would understand when I grew up. I wish he wouldn’t treat me as a child sometimes. I blushed as he put his hand under my chin and kissed me gently on the lips. I was all a muddle after that.
The next time I called the studio was empty except for my friend.
He asked me to model. I refused. He argued; I refused again. He asked for a kiss, I refused. He chased me round and round the room. We were laughing as we played cat and mouse. He caught me. His Bella, he called me.
Then he kissed me: long, slow and oh, so gently. I agreed – but my face only.
He said someone else could paint my face. And he knew who.
He’s promised he’ll paint me – properly – one day. My image was embedded in his mind forever, he said. He is so romantic I feel quite giddy in his company. I do so hope he will paint my portrait. I would even sit for it if he asked me. He will ask me, I know, and I will sit for him.
Déshabillée or not.
* * * * *
Megan’s Diary
12 July 2011
I have read the last entry in Isabel’s diary today, one hundred years exactly since she wrote it. I find that extraordinary – even if her story is a little sad. Her diary doesn’t tell me much although I have found that entry I was looking for – the one about being chased around the room. She was young and in love.
So the things I know: she spent time with a group of artists and their models in their homes, just as Paul described; Isabel did have her portrait painted, and I know who painted her face – Luigi – the portrait still hangs in the art school. And I know what happened next with Isabel and her ‘friend’, and not too long after either, given the dates. She gave him a lot more than a kiss. The extra three words at the end were added later. I wonder what the significance of that might be? Did he ever paint her, I wonder? Is there another portrait of her somewhere?
Whether Isabel ripped out the last pages – however many there were – to keep it private, or because the entries were too risqué, even for her, or whether Constance ripped them out after having read the diary, I will never know.
It’s frustrating not knowing – who was the friend? It had to be Luciano, surely, given the passenger list Paul discovered. But some things just can’t be found in official documents, never mind how hard one looks and interprets the possibilities.
One thing is becoming clear though – Isabel loved art. She was fascinated by it, drawn to those who created it and clearly loved one of them enough to throw all caution to the wind and have a liaison. What an old-fashioned word that is, but it fits with the times, so I will use it with amusement.
Is the art world in New Zealand something I need to find out more about? Will I find Isabel there? Was that her passion? And can I honour her name with a painting?
Chapter 29
Megan had not realised how much she had missed home until now. The moment she’d arrived in the familiar Auckland airport and worked her way through customs to the arrivals area, she knew she’d made the right decision. She felt at peace, happy to have cut her trip short. Nowhere was quite like the New Zealand she loved, despite August’s damp chill.
The windscreen wipers swept back and forth while Sarah kept up a constant chatter about the latest happenings: Nick’s boss was driving him to distraction and she was trying to persuade him to break out on his own; she was pleased with Jason and Trina’s news and looked forward to their return, and Bella waited excitedly at home, along with a pile of mail.
“As I was saying, Mum,” continued Sarah, drawing Megan back into the conversation.
“You know you’re welcome to stay with us as long as you like. Please don’t rush any decisions about renting or buying until you are really sure.”
Megan listened as Sarah explained how she’d cleared their spare room and retrieved some of Megan’s things from storage to make the place more homely. “Sounds wonderful, darling. Thank you.”
For now, Megan would accept Sarah’s home as hers.
Glad to be back, the near hour-long journey to Albany seemed more like a pleasure trip than a necessity, even through the rain. As they drove along roads, with gardens of midwinter green, she appreciated the beautiful country she called home. With its mix of standalone houses and taller buildings, sea views and lush parkland surrounding Maungakiekie, One Tree Hill Domain and Cornwall Park, the whole place was stunning.
As they drove across the harbour bridge Megan had the chance to admire her city and harbour with its bays, boat moorings, volcanic peaks and headlands. Rangitoto Island, which normally stood sentinel in the gulf, now appeared as a shadowy dark shape in the gloom, the water between them like slate, but she had no trouble recalling its summer face. She remembered the trips with Tony; when the sun shone, the trees were a vibrant green, the sky a clear blue and the Waitemata lived up to its name: sparkling waters. They had climbed the boardwalks that protected the volcanic stone and native trees from harm, until they’d reached the summit and breathtaking views far and wide. She must go there again this summer and take the whole family ...
“Nana. Nana.”
Megan could hear Bella’s excited screams even before the car had come to a complete stop in their driveway. Megan hurriedly got out of the car, beaming with delight as Bella threw herself into her arms. Oh, yes, she was so glad to be home.
* * * * *
The next morning an hour of noisy helter-skelter reigned. Sarah apologised profusely every few minutes as they rushed through their routine to get ready for work and Isabella off to day care.