The Devil on Her Tongue (30 page)

“ ‘I won’t hurt you, Cirilio,’ I told him, trying to get him to look at me, but he was terrified. ‘You don’t have to be afraid.’ Why should he believe me? Hadn’t he seen that I did nothing to help or protect his mother?”

Bonifacio held out his hand, his fingers spread, as if what he was about to say next was written on the back of them. “I told him, ‘You are no longer Cirilio. Now you are Cristiano.’ I wanted him to have a Portuguese name for his new life. At that, something came into the child’s eyes, some skepticism that made me realize the boy considered me either a fool or mad. And that made me think that he possessed intelligence beyond his years, which I presumed to be four or five, I couldn’t tell. But when I tried to take him, he screamed in a terrible way. All the other children were on their feet, watching us, the smaller ones clinging to the older ones. The old woman tried to comfort him, rubbing the dress on his face. I picked him up and put my hand over his mouth to silence him. And then … I carried him away.”

He stopped. A grey light was washing over the room now, and the birds were louder.

“I overpowered him, and took him away. I took him all the way to Rio de Janeiro. He never spoke again, except in the nightmare, which came his first night with me, and has never stopped.

“Because I still wore my robe, we were given free passage on a ship sailing to Lisboa. Cristiano sat or lay motionless, his mother’s dress over his face, throughout that long journey. He was very ill when the sea was rough. Although I talked to him in his patois at first, eventually I spoke only Portuguese, to prepare him for his new life.” He stopped, shaking his head. “When finally the ship stopped in Funchal to take on supplies for the rest of the journey to Lisboa, I left Cristiano below and went on the deck. I didn’t know what I’d feel when I looked out upon Madeira after so many years away. I had thought to never see it again. But as I stood in the warm and familiar air, a beam of sunlight shone upon the mountains. I believed this to
be a sign: I was lost, and had prayed every day to be shown a path. The sun on the mountains was like the finger of God, pointing out my rightful place—my home, Curral das Freiras. I was being shown another part of my penance, one I hadn’t imagined until that moment: to face my father and my brother, and confess that I was not worthy of being a priest. Facing the parish and all those who had seen me go off to the seminary and then to Brazil, full of a pride I couldn’t hide. I knew that I had to look into all their faces, and accept that I was contemptible and undeserving, and that they knew me to be so.”

Bonifacio’s voice was hoarse after talking for so long, and he roughly cleared his throat. “On shore, Cristiano was unable to walk, so weak that he immediately fell into a deep, exhausted sleep in my arms. Looking down at him, seeing the darkness around his eyes, the drawn cheeks, I felt even stronger guilt. And … I thought the guilt would fade. But I have come to realize Cristiano’s purpose is never to let me forget what I did. He is my daily reminder. To him, I am as much a monster as the men who slit open his mother’s belly.”

“You wanted to use him to help relieve yourself of your guilt?” I pulled my shawl up around my shoulders in a quick, angry gesture.

We sat in silence.

“You have heard it all,” he said. “I can see how you look at me now. But we will have to find a way to live together. Nobody but Father Nóbrega and Father Monteiro know what took me from the priesthood, not even my father or brother. I ask you never to repeat my story. I’m only telling you so that you can understand Cristiano’s behaviour.” He stood. “As there was nothing for me in Brazil anymore, there is nothing for you on Porto Santo. So you may as well make the best you can of this life with me in Curral das Freiras.”

He left the house. I knew he was headed for the church, where he would stay on his knees, praying, waiting for early Mass.

I blew out the sputtering candle, then went out and climbed the mountain path. I watched the rising sun, imagining the ocean far beyond.

A
week later, a voice called from the yard.

“
Bom dia
, Bonifacio!”

I wiped the sweat from my forehead with my arm and came out of the kitchen. I saw him before he noticed me: the man with the long hair who had taken me for a whore in Rooi’s inn. The man, smelling of the grape, who had been in Rooi’s inn the night before I met Bonifacio. The man who had humiliated me.

His hair was still long, tied at the back, but now he was clean-shaven. Without the beard, he looked younger.

“You,” he said, his voice incredulous as I walked towards him. “What are you doing here?”

I swallowed and fixed my eyes on him, refusing to blink. “This is my home.”

“Here?”

I put my hands on my hips. “I am married to Bonifacio Rivaldo. How may I help you?”

“Married?” he repeated. “Bonifacio
married
you?”

My face burned, and my voice grew loud. “My husband is at the stream with his father. Cristiano,” I called over my shoulder, and he came from the house. “Take this man to Bonifacio, and …” I stopped, startled, as Cristiano ran down the step and across the yard to the man, who picked the boy up.

I opened my mouth to tell him no, that Cristiano didn’t like to be touched, but Cristiano didn’t struggle at all. “I like this,” the man said, touching the circle of shelled chestnuts I had strung together
and hung around Cristiano’s neck. “But where are your curls?”

Cristiano stroked the man’s cheek with his fingertips. The man nodded at him. “We both lost some hair. You remember I had a beard the last time you saw me, don’t you? I had to shave it off. Do you know why? I found a family of mice living in it. A father and a mother and five babies. They nibbled at the food stuck in my beard from my dinner, and they tickled so much they kept me awake all night.”

Cristiano’s eyes were wide.

“So I finally took them out of my beard and said, Listen, Senhor and Senhora Mouse, I’m sorry, but you tickle too much. You’re going to have to find another home. I’m shaving off my beard.”

Now Cristiano made a wry face.

“You don’t believe me? Well, Papa Mouse wasn’t happy about that, and we had a bit of an argument, but finally he took his wife and children and moved out, and I shaved. We’ve remained friends, however, and I saw him only last week. He told me he and his family are now living in a pastry shop, and feasting on all the sweets there. He says it’s far superior to the crumbs of bread and bits of cheese they found in my beard. And now I can sleep at night.” With that, he tickled Cristiano under the chin, and Cristiano made a sound that actually verged on laughter. A dimple I’d never seen appeared in his left cheek.

Without warning, tears came to my eyes.

The man, smiling at Cristiano, glanced at me. His smile faded. “How long could he have known you? He really married you?” He set the boy down.

“Yes,” I said, looking aside and blinking the tears away. “Cristiano will take you to Bonifacio.”

“I know where the stream is,” he said in a sarcastic tone. “Come along, Cristiano.” He took the little boy’s hand and Cristiano’s small fingers closed around his.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“I am Espirito, Bonifacio’s brother,” the man said, stopping. “And your brother now as well.” He shook his head. “He married without telling me. And a woman like you. Full of surprises, my brother.”

I was setting out dinner when I heard the rumble of voices and went to the step. Bonifacio and Papa, followed by Espirito and Cristiano, were coming towards the house. Bonifacio and Espirito each carried a bucket of water for the cistern.

Espirito was taller than Bonifacio, and looked much younger than his brother, even though I knew they were only two years apart.

Bonifacio’s expression was unreadable. Had Espirito told him about me? I had thought of nothing else as I waited for the men to return.

Would Bonifacio banish me from Curral das Freiras, now that he had learned I was not as clean as he thought? “My brother will be staying for dinner,” he told me, then took Espirito’s bucket and went to the wash house.

“Cristiano, go with Bonifacio and Papa and wash your hands,” I said.

Espirito stood in front of me. He still smelled of the grape, tinged now with tobacco.

I crossed my arms over my chest. “Well? Did it please you to inform your brother about me?”

“What do you refer to?”

I glanced at the wash house. “Don’t play me for a fool. You know what I’m talking about. Did you tell Bonifacio about our meeting on Porto Santo?”

“So he doesn’t know your past. You didn’t divulge who you really are?”

I took a deep breath. “Your brother and I accept each other.”

He made a sound in his throat. “I don’t know what happened to him in Brazil, or his reasons for returning with Cristiano, but him marrying you, well …” His voice trailed off as the men came from the wash house.

“Diamantina,” Papa said. “Get out the
licor de castanha
.”

Bonifacio went into the bedroom, and Papa and Cristiano sat at the table. I poured four cups of liqueur; Papa took his. I picked up two of the cups while Espirito looked around the room, his gaze
stopping on the jug of autumn wildflowers on the table, the crisp white curtains I’d made for the windows. He went to the dish cupboard and took down a book.

“Those are mine,” I said, more brusquely than was necessary.

“Yours?” he asked, looking at me.

“Yes. I read,” I said, stressing the word. I took a sip from my cup.

He studied me closely, and I didn’t understand his expression. He returned the book to its place. “You left your family and your life on Porto Santo to come here with my brother?”

I stepped close and gave him his liqueur. “You’re surprised that a woman who reads worked in a dirty inn,” I said very quietly. “I’ll tell you something else that may surprise you.” I glanced at Papa, engrossed in cleaning under his fingernails with the tip of a knife, and at the open bedroom door. “When I enticed a drunken sailor to play dominoes with me, and when I won—as I always did—I made sure he gave me a réal and then left me alone.” I spoke even more quickly and quietly. “I insisted all of them leave me alone. Do you understand? I only played dominoes to make a few coins.”

He showed no reaction.

“I have no family,” I went on. “I was alone in the world. Your brother offered me a new life, and I took it. He had his own reasons for what he did.” I hated that my hands were shaking. When Espirito at last accepted the cup, I moved away from him.

He drank, and then said, “I’m surprised. Surely you can understand that.”

My neck felt stiff. “Because you see me as—” I stopped as Bonifacio came in from the bedroom with his Bible. I drank from my cup to hide my discomfort.

Espirito turned from me and went to the table. His own liqueur untouched, Bonifacio knelt at the bench. Espirito and I set our cups on the table and, along with Papa and Cristiano, knelt as well.

At the final amen, we all sat, and Papa poured himself another cup of the liqueur. “Diamantina made this,” he said to Espirito, lifting his cup. “Good for her first try. Remember how Mama made it?”

“I do,” Espirito said.

After that, only the sounds of our spoons clinking against the
bowls broke the silence. The tension between Bonifacio and Espirito cast a heavy pall over the table, and made it difficult to swallow. What caused the unease? Only Cristiano ate with gusto, constantly glancing at Espirito, his little face bright.

“So now you enjoy a game of dominoes, brother?” Espirito asked, gesturing at the box on the dish cupboard.

My spoon hovered over my bowl.

“You know I’ve never been interested in games,” Bonifacio said. “Unlike you.”

I set down my spoon. “It’s mine. My father taught me to play.” Then I added, “Would you care for a game after dinner, Espirito?” I stared into his eyes, daring him to speak.

“No. But my brother is right, I’ve always enjoyed games.”

I looked away, wiping a thin smear of olive oil from Cristiano’s chin with my apron.

“Bonifacio,” Espirito said then, “why didn’t you stop by when you brought Diamantina from Porto Santo, and introduce us?” His voice had a mocking quality.

Bonifacio ignored him.

“Perhaps you can bring your wife here the next time you come,” I said evenly.

“She’s not strong enough to travel far.”

Silence.

“You work with wine?” I asked.

“My brother told you?”

“No. I can smell the grape on you.”

“You have a finely developed sense of smell.” His voice was unreadable now.

I watched him. “Yes. I do.”

“Espirito works for Kipling’s Wine Merchants,” Papa said, looking at our faces as he worked at following the conversation.

That explained why Bonifacio received his post there. I cleared my throat. “What do you do?”

Espirito put down his spoon. “I’m the overseer. As well as negotiating the price of the
mosto
that comes down to Kipling’s, I do some of the blending as well.”

“I used to—” I stopped, about to blurt out my own small attempts at blending wine at Rooi’s. Instead, I said, “I’m interested in the blending of wines.” From the corner of my eye, I saw Bonifacio’s head turn towards me.