The Devil on Her Tongue (26 page)

“Cristiano will need a new pallet,” I finally said, but neither man replied.

When we were done eating, Papa poured himself a hornful of cherry liqueur and carried it out to the front step, where he sat drinking it. I took the dishes to the wash house and washed them, and when I came back, the bedroom doors were shut. I took a deep breath and entered the room I would share with Bonifacio and Cristiano. A candle burned behind the hanging sheets, throwing a wavering, muted glow. Cristiano was in a deep sleep, his little eyebrows twitching slightly, his cheeks flushed.

I set my candle on the chair and cleared my throat. Eventually, I carefully, almost cautiously, lay on the bed. Then I turned on my side to face the sheets. Papa’s soft snores came over the partition. “Cristiano’s head was crawling with lice,” I finally said.

When there was no answer, I said, “Bonifacio? Why is the child so uncared for?”

“He’s difficult to handle,” Bonifacio said, his voice low. “He won’t let me touch him.”

I turned onto my back again and looked at the lighter square of my window. The stiff branches of an olive tree were outlined by moonlight. “I saw the slave mark on his shoulder.” I waited. “Who is he?”

“I brought the child from Brazil with me,” he said quietly.

“You were in Brazil?” I sat up, surprised at the secrets that were being pulled from my husband, one by one.

“I was a priest at a mission in Tejuco.”

I knew nothing of Tejuco. “When did you return?”

“Not long ago,” he answered, and then there was the sound of a book closing, and the candle behind the curtain went out.

“You’ve only just left the priesthood?” I sat waiting in the darkness, then asked, “Who was Cristiano’s mother?”

After a long silence, Bonifacio said, “She was among the slaves brought from Luanda, in West Africa, to sieve for diamonds in the rivers and streams around Tejuco.”

“And his father?”

Again no answer. Eventually I understood that Bonifacio would say nothing more tonight. I leaned forward to look at the sleeping child, one hand curled sweetly under his cheek. Could Cristiano truly be Bonifacio’s son, even though he denied it? Was a relationship with the slave woman the reason he had left the priesthood?

After some time, I blew out my candle and lay down again. Small puffing sounds came from behind the sheets, and I knew Bonifacio slept. I stayed awake for a long time. I missed the sound of the waves on the shore. Staring at the branches of the olive tree, moving slightly in the night breeze, I remembered my father’s stories of diamonds. The wind grew stronger, and the olive tree rustled.

I wondered how long I would have to stay here.

I
was in a deep sleep when the screams awoke me. I sat straight up in the darkness, my heart pounding, not knowing where I was. Then I saw Cristiano standing at the foot of my bed, screaming in a language I didn’t recognize. A candle flared; Bonifacio pushed aside the hanging sheets as I scrambled out of bed and tried to put my arms around the child. He wouldn’t be comforted, writhing and slapping at me without seeing me. His eyes were open, and yet there was no comprehension in them; I knew he was caught in the dream world. His face, in the wavering light, was a show of pure terror, and he kept screaming the same sentence over and over.

“Cristiano, stop. Wake up,” I said, struggling to dodge his fists and hold him. “Wake up,” I kept saying, not understanding his words, not knowing what else to do. His body was rigid and hot as though he burned with fever. Finally I pinned his arms between us, and his cries softened and then faded to nothing. He began to tremble violently. I held the back of his head with one hand, pressing his face against my shoulder. I felt a growing damp patch on my blouse from his tears and running nose, and smelled an acrid odour.

I gently moved him away from me, my hands on his shoulders. He was no longer trembling, but looked confused, staring at me, and then suddenly he looked down and drew in his breath.

“It’s all right, Cristiano. It’s all right. Come, let me help you,” I said, glancing over my shoulder at Bonifacio.

He shrugged. “It’s like this every night,” he said. “Every night,” he repeated, then retreated behind the sheets.

The little boy, swaying with exhaustion, let me pull off his wet shirt. I took the red one from the cupboard and put it on him. The blankets were wet as well. I directed him to my bed. He got in, but squirmed as far from me as possible, his face against the wall. In a few moments he was asleep.

When I awoke, there was dim light in the room. Daybreak had come later than I was used to, the sun having to rise above the mountains.

Cristiano wasn’t in my bed, and I didn’t know whether Bonifacio was still sleeping. I went through the empty sitting room. Once outside, I knew that it was too early for the men to have risen, as only a few birds peeped sleepily. Besides, surely I would have heard Bonifacio moving about, or he would have woken me to make breakfast. I looked for Cristiano in the
latrina
and the kitchen. As I stared around the hillside above me, I saw a spot of red, moving high on a cliff, far beyond the last house on the mountainside.

I lifted my skirt to my knees and climbed. It was so steep that small trees grew sideways out of the mountainside. By the time I reached the boy, I was panting, my bare feet scratched and cut.

Cristiano sat in his red shirt and clean breeches, staring across the highest mountain, hugging his knees. Last night, as he screamed, I saw he was missing his two bottom milk teeth. He had to be at least six, maybe closer to seven years old.

I sat beside him. He moved slightly so I had more room, but he didn’t glance at me. I could see the tiny roofs of houses on other terraces, and the steeple of the parish church below. After a few moments the sun rose above the mountain we faced. I put my hand out, palm up, and it appeared the sun rested there, a glowing disc.

“It looks like I’m holding the sun in my hand. I used to do this when I was a little girl and watched the sun rise.”

He didn’t respond.

“What are you looking at?”

He shook his head, clearly impatient with me.

“
Ma casa
, Cristiano,” I said, finally guessing what he might be
thinking. I stretched my hand in the direction Bonifacio and I had come from: Funchal, and beyond, the ocean and Porto Santo.

He looked at me and nodded slowly. He had climbed up to see over the mountains. Maybe to see the ocean, which would take him back to his home.

I reached out to put my hand on his knee, but he drew away. After a time I rose. “It’s time to go back.”

I started down the mountain slowly, holding on to branches and rocks, constantly looking behind me. Once, Cristiano slid on his heels and grabbed my skirt, making no sound.

As we approached the house, I saw Bonifacio on the road leading to the foot of the valley, and the church.

I gathered the soiled clothing and blankets from the bedroom floor, picking up Cristiano’s scrap of cloth. “You can help me scrub the clothes at the—”

Cristiano grabbed the cloth and clutched it, backing away as if I’d threatened him.

I watched him. “I won’t wash it if you don’t want me to. Was it a blanket?”

He didn’t answer, but turned and ran. I finished the washing and hung the clean bedding and clothes over bushes to dry in the sun and breeze. Shading my eyes, I looked up the mountain, hoping Cristiano hadn’t climbed so high this time.

I found him asleep on a bed of soft ferns behind the chicken house, the cloth against his face.

Dinner that evening was the same: the endless prayer while the food cooled, and then silence as we ate. Tonight Cristiano sat beside me on the bench, eating a piece of meat with his fingers. I put a fork into his hand. He set it on the table, but after a few moments he picked it up and used it awkwardly.

“Espirito came to see me while you were away,” Papa said, looking at Bonifacio. Then he grimaced, pressing his abdomen with his fist.

Bonifacio didn’t look up from his plate.

“I can bake bread if I have flour and some leaven,” I said. Papa didn’t appear to hear, his head bent over his bowl.

“My father trades eggs for bread from a neighbour,” Bonifacio said.

“There’s no reason to do that anymore. I can make the bread,” I said. “And we could use some milk, and cheese. Could Papa trade the eggs for that?”

Bonifacio nodded, and we finished the meal in silence. I stood, reaching for the empty bowls, but Papa raised his hand and I sat down again.

“Bonifacio,” he said. “The
senhorio
will take back the land when I die. He and I agreed on this—I haven’t had to compensate him for a number of years. Because I believed you would never return to Curral das Freiras, I told him there would be no one to carry on after I was gone. He has already arranged for someone from his own family to take over here.”

“I know, Papa. You already told me this.”

“That was before you had a wife.” He glanced at me. “Even with the child, you had more freedom. But now, with a wife … When I’m gone, you will have to leave Curral das Freiras and go elsewhere.”

“There’s nothing for me anywhere else.”

“There will be nothing here for you either. You will make a new life somewhere. And you must do the right thing for your family. You have a family now.” Again he looked at me.

When Bonifacio didn’t speak, Papa said, “Bonifacio. Tell me you will do the right thing for your wife and the boy.”

Bonifacio cleared his throat and met his father’s eyes. “I will do the right thing.”

“Good,” Papa said. “We will not talk of this again.”

As on the previous night, he sat on the step to drink his cherry liqueur. I mixed a tonic of ground milk thistle and wormwood into warm water. I touched his shoulder so he would look into my face.
I knew that if he watched our lips, he understood more easily. “For your stomach,” I said, handing him the cup.

He studied me for a moment, then drank the liquid in one swallow. “Thank you, daughter,” he said.

When I went to the wash house with the dirty dishes, Cristiano came with me. Again he just sat on the stool and watched me. As I worked, I thought of Papa’s words. I would not be here long enough to see all of this: Papa dying and Bonifacio making a new life away from Curral das Freiras.

When we returned to the house, Bonifacio was already in his bed behind the sheets. I made Cristiano a bed on the floor again.

The nightmare came, and again I fought to calm the boy. This time Bonifacio stayed on his side of the room. Eventually Cristiano slept, as did I.