The Devil on Her Tongue (27 page)

The next morning when Bonifacio returned from Mass, he carried a small, rolled-up pallet under one arm, and in the other hand a basket with a sack of flour and lidded containers of both leaven and milk. I put down the pallet for Cristiano, then went to the kitchen and mixed up dough in the wooden oblong bowl, and while it rose I cleaned out the bread oven. Then I plucked and cleaned a chicken Papa brought me, its headless neck still dripping blood. It was the same as preparing a partridge or quail, although bigger.

“Do you want to help me pick beans in the garden?” I asked, and Cristiano nodded. I knew he had a voice, evidenced by his nightmare-induced babble, but during the daylight hours it disappeared. I watched him, trying to imagine what had happened to him in Brazil.

That evening he knelt, but refused to lower his head or clasp his hands in prayer, at the bench before dinner. I saw him fighting sleep during that endless, exhausting prayer, and eventually he laid his head on his arms on the bench.

I decided to give him some bread and cheese before dinner from then on, to hold him through the long prayer. I also woke him before I went to sleep, directing him to the pot in the corner in the hope that it might help stop the bedwetting during the nightmare.

And on that third night, when Cristiano was sleeping once more, I again questioned Bonifacio through the sheets about the child’s silence and if there was an explanation for his nightmares.

“He has experienced a difficult life,” he said, but would not be further drawn.

O
n the fourth morning, there was a great ringing of bells as Cristiano and I collected eggs.

When we came back to the house, Bonifacio was already on the step, holding his Bible and dressed in his wool suit and white shirt and black shoes and hat. “Change your clothes for church,” he said.

I shook my head. “I’m not coming.”

“I will go to daily Mass alone, but on Sundays you will accompany me. Leave the boy here. I tried to take him once, but he created a terrible scene.”

“I don’t want to go to church,” I said, walking past him.

He grabbed my shoulder, and the unexpectedness of it made me drop the basket, the eggs smashing. Cristiano sucked in his breath, looking from the broken eggs to Bonifacio’s hand on my shoulder.

“You
will
come,” Bonifacio said.

Cristiano’s eyes were wide, his chest rising and falling.

“All right,” I said, pulling away from Bonifacio. “All right.” I agreed more because of the look on Cristiano’s face than anything else. “But the boy is coming as well.”

Bonifacio turned his back and crossed his arms, staring at the church in the valley below. Papa slowly came from his room, also dressed for church. He looked down at the mess on the stoop, stepped over it and started down the road without waiting for us.

I wondered that none of the neighbours had stopped by. Each day, when I was in the yard, people had passed on the road and stared at me openly. I always waved, and most waved back, although their
expressions were more curious than friendly. The evening before, as I sat on the step fixing a torn hem on my skirt, Papa had walked by. “I’m going to visit a friend,” he said.

I stood. “Why haven’t I met anyone?”

He held out his hands, palms up. “Bonifacio returned to Curral das Freiras in disgrace, and is ashamed. He turned everyone away, even the woman who cooked and cleaned for me for many years. He isn’t interested in his old friends, and made it apparent. So nobody cares to visit. I go to my friends when I want to talk and drink.”

Now, I cleaned up the broken eggs and changed into my best skirt and blouse. I secured my braids around my head. When I came into the sitting room, Bonifacio sat at the table, and Cristiano was on the step.

“You can’t enter the church without a head covering,” Bonifacio said.

“I
know
that,” I said. “Cristiano, come inside and put on your better shirt.”

He shook his head violently, wearing the same expression of fear as when he saw Bonifacio grab my shoulder.

I smiled at him, but his expression didn’t change. “Cristiano,” I said softly. “Please. You don’t need to be afraid.”

He shook his head again.

“You will come with me,” I said firmly, not wanting to leave him here alone. “Nothing bad will happen. I promise.”

We walked down the road behind Bonifacio. Cristiano lagged further behind as we approached the church doors, but I stopped and waited for him.

There were tables and benches set up in the yard in front of the church. On them were big pots and baskets, bowls and dishes and cutlery.

Inside, the congregation was already gathered, and the three of us stood at the very back. In a niche to one side was a beautiful female saint. On the other side was the Holy Mother, wearing a
crown. The ceiling was painted with depictions of Jesus, surrounded by saints and cherubs. There was the familiar scent of incense and the glow of flickering candles. Light filtered in warmly through the high open windows, casting rays onto the walls and glinting on the gold of the tabernacle and the Holy Mother’s crown.

Cristiano was trembling. I looked down at his poor scabbed, bare head and put my hand on his shoulder to comfort him. I felt a quiet relief that he didn’t pull away from me. A very elderly priest came from the sacristy and raised his arms, palms up, gazing at his congregation. As his eyes went over the crowd, they stopped on me.

He smiled. Clothing rustled and heads turned as a small sea of faces looked at me.

I kept my chin high, my face still.

“Welcome,” the Father said, and I nodded, glancing at Bonifacio. He was pale.

“
In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti
. Amen,” the priest began, and then turned to the tabernacle.

I knew every Latin prayer and every response from watching while hidden in Nossa Senhora da Piedade. I knelt and stood as the others did, although I didn’t bless myself. When it was time for Communion, and the priest lifted the consecrated hosts from the tabernacle, I left the church, Cristiano following. I did not want to take the Body of Christ. I would attend church as Bonifacio dictated, but that was all.

We stood on the far side of the churchyard. Eventually the priest opened the door and stood while his parishioners trickled out, talking and laughing with each other. Papa walked slowly with a few older men. Bonifacio did not appear.

All of the parishioners studied me with the same open curiosity as those who had passed our house. Nobody smiled. Cristiano and I stood silently. Finally, a heavy-set older woman came to me and took my hand.

“Welcome to our parish,” she said. “There is rarely a new face among us.” She glanced at Cristiano. “I’m glad the child has someone to care for him. Many of the children are suffering from ringworm right now. If you need something, please come to me. I’m Senhora
Cardozo. Rafaela. I’m the
curandeira
for the valley,” she said, still holding my hand, and at that I squeezed her fingers.

“I’m a
curandeira
as well,” I said. “From Porto Santo.”

“You’re far too young to be a healer.”

“My mother taught me what she knew.”

“Ah. Well, you still have many years ahead, and much to learn,” Senhora Cardozo said. “How is Vitorino? He’s come to me for help with his stomach for the last few years, but he hasn’t been by lately.”

“I’ve been giving him a tonic of milk thistle and wormwood twice daily.”

“Yes, this is effective,” she said, nodding. “You can also use the oil extracted from the fruit of the laurel.”

“He seems able to digest the powdered thistle and wormwood easily.”

“Very good. Yes, very good,” she repeated. “I’m glad he has you to care for him as well, senhora. We have worried about him since Bonifacio came home and did not wish my sister to cook and clean the house and do the laundry as she had for many years, since Telma died.”

I thought of what would happen to Papa when I left, then pushed that thought aside. “I am Diamantina.”

She smiled again, then said, “
Bom dia
, Father Monteiro.”

I turned to see the priest coming towards us. Cristiano made a sound, and I felt his sudden grip on my skirt.

“Good morning, Rafaela,” he said. “And greetings, Senhora Rivaldo. Of course, we all heard that Bonifacio brought home a wife.” He looked at Cristiano and smiled. “I’ve met the child once before.” The old priest had a gentle face, his dark eyes almost hidden in wrinkles. The clean scent of soap wafted from his robes. “Hello, Cristiano,” he said.

Rafaela moved away to join a small group of women.

“I’m Diamantina,” I told him, as I had Rafaela. “Your church is beautiful. Who is the saint at the front of the apse?”

“She’s our patron saint, Our Lady of Deliverance, a symbol of great devotion for our parish. I’m always here for confession, Diamantina,” Father Monteiro said, and then looked at Cristiano
again. The boy’s eyes were huge, and he was biting his bottom lip.

“For everything there is a season,” Father Monteiro said. “The child will eventually come around.” I saw the kindness in his eyes. “I hope you will enjoy meeting more of the good people of our parish. We always gather after the Sunday Mass, and enjoy food and wine together.”

Bonifacio came up behind the priest, stepping around him to stand beside me.

I nodded. “Oh, yes, I’d like—”

“Not today, Father Monteiro,” Bonifacio said firmly.

“Yes,” I repeated. “Cristiano and I will stay. Bonifacio, we’ll come home with Papa.”

He looked at me, a muscle in his cheek jumping.

Father Monteiro left us.

“Come home,” Bonifacio said.

“No. You told me to come to church, and I came. Now I want to stay.”

As I defied him, the colour first drained from his face then rose from his neck. He turned and strode up the road, away from the church.

B
onifacio wasn’t in the house or garden when Cristiano and I got home, and I didn’t see him until dinner. His prayer was shorter, and he jabbed his fork into his food. He left the table abruptly, half his dinner uneaten.

When Papa and Cristiano had gone to bed, Bonifacio came to the wash house where I scrubbed a pot.

“You flagrantly disobeyed me,” he said. “We have been married less than a week, and you dare to act this way?”

I looked from the dirty pot to him. I had been waiting for this confrontation ever since I got back. Rafaela had introduced many of the women to me, and although they appeared shy or perhaps uncomfortable speaking with me, they were not unfriendly. Cristiano wouldn’t play with any of the other children, but he’d lost his usual wary expression and watched with interest as a small group of boys chased each other and kicked a ball.

“Is it a sin to eat and talk with others, Bonifacio? Even if it’s impossible for you to find pleasure in these ways, you have no right to take that pleasure from me.” I dropped the pot into the water, and droplets flew onto my blouse. “I know you want to maintain your former vows, and perhaps in some ways continue the life of contemplation and prayer you knew so recently, but you can’t expect the same of me.” I put my wet hand on his sleeve for emphasis.

He flinched as if my hand burned him, and his face flushed.

I took my hand away. “I like Father Monteiro,” I said. “It’s clear he’s a kind-hearted priest. Unlike Father da Chagos.”

“What do you mean?”

“I knew him all my life, and yet he treated me with only a begrudging generosity of spirit, as if it pained him to help me.”

“Are you forgetting that were it not for Father da Chagos, you would have been left in that mouldering hut for the rest of your life, living like a …” He stopped.

“Like a what, Bonifacio? Say it. Say what you really think of me.” I was facing him now, my voice as loud as his.

“I know you had no choice in the way you were forced to live.” His tone dropped. “And Father da Chagos told me that he admired you for your purity, in spite of the temptation that came your way.”

I wanted to open my mouth and laugh, a long, hard laugh. That fat old flatulent priest knew from Abílio’s confessions what we’d done. And he knew, along with everyone on the island, how I’d been debased by the sailor on the beach. I wondered now if the good Father thought that beating and humiliation deserved. He had no trouble lying to Bonifacio in order to have me taken from his parish, the town and the whole island.