The Devil on Her Tongue (32 page)

“Thank you,” he said, and took the pot from me. “For caring for him.”

I followed him into the house. I wondered about his wife, Olívia, and tried to imagine her.

During dinner, Espirito spoke of his work at Kipling’s, and how he and Olívia had attended the wedding of Martyn Kipling’s younger daughter. He talked about wine sales and of a problem in the blending room. He said a shipment going to Brazil had been
delayed because of storms at sea, and at that I made an involuntary sound of dismay.

He looked at me, and I asked, “How often do ships leave Funchal for Brazil?”

“Once a week for much of the year. But within the next month, December, the storms are at their worst, so fewer ships depart until at least the end of February. Why?”

I shook my head as if it wasn’t of great importance. But it was. I would have to get to Funchal soon, if I was to leave. Not only did I fear Bonifacio coming after me and preventing me from leaving, but I wouldn’t have enough money to stay anywhere for longer than a few nights if the passage cost as much as Abílio had once told me.

After dinner, Espirito again drank
licor de castanha
with Papa for a few hours, then went to stay the night with his friend Felipe. “I’ll see you in a few weeks, Papa,” he said. “I’ll come two days before Christmas to celebrate with you, so I can be back in Funchal for Christmas Eve.”

As I lay in bed that night, I thought of him. It was almost unbelievable he and Bonifacio were brothers. Espirito was full of life, laughing easily, telling endless stories. Bonifacio was silent and distant, as if not really present much of the time.

I knew I couldn’t wait any longer to leave. On Saturday, I made a large jug of Papa’s special tonic of powdered thistle and wormwood, covering it with a cloth and setting it in the middle of the table. It would last him a few days at least.

Sunday morning, I remained in bed, telling Bonifacio I was ill and wouldn’t go to church with him and Papa and Cristiano.

He nodded and left the bedroom. I looked at Cristiano, sitting on his pallet.

“Cristiano,” I said, and he raised his eyebrows at me. “Come here.” He came to me, and I took his hand. “You’re a good boy,” I said. “And a big boy. You are a big boy.”

He was staring at me, his fingers tightening on mine.

“Go to church with Bonifacio and Papa,” I said, and then put my arms around him and held him for a moment. “Go now,” I said, looking away, tears filling my eyes.

He stood there.

“I’m just ill,” I said, putting my arm over my eyes.

I didn’t hear him leave the room. Once the house was quiet, I sprang from bed and tied everything I owned into my shawl, along with a piece of bread and cheese wrapped in a cloth. I slung my medicine bag across my chest and filled a skin with water and looped it over my shoulder. I took the bag of money from Bonifacio’s chest and hid it inside my bodice. I put my gutting knife into my waistband.

Cautiously going outside, I saw a number of small figures far down the hill, heading towards the church. I ran onto the road.

I was panting long before I expected to, and the ankle I’d sprained in Porto Santo twinged as I climbed with my heavy load. I went behind a tree and took a long drink from the water skin. As I started again, I heard a faint voice, and froze.

It was Cristiano, running up the path. I closed my eyes.

“Irmã,” he called, over and over, and I opened my eyes. Sister. He was calling me sister. It was the first time he had spoken aloud in daylight hours. I hesitated, but then kept climbing. His voice grew louder and closer. Finally I stopped again. I looked back at him and shook my head.

“No! Go back, Cristiano,” I called, but he wouldn’t stop, and in moments he had caught me. His face was contorted, wet with tears.

“No, Sister,” he cried, his face against my waist, gripping my skirt. “No.”

I put my arms around him. “I have to go, Cristiano. And I can’t take you. I can’t,” I said, crying as well. “It’s so far, and I don’t have enough money for us both, and …”

He lifted his face to me, and his look was so stricken I dropped to my knees and held him.

“Don’t go away, sister,” he said, and his new little voice, high and sweet, was a knife in my heart. He buried his face against my neck.

We stayed like that for a long time. Then I stood and wiped his
face with the hem of my skirt. I took his hand, and we walked back down the hill.

By the time Bonifacio and Papa returned, I was in the kitchen making bread, and Cristiano sat on the stool watching me. My belongings were back in place, as was Bonifacio’s bag of coins.

“You are better, daughter?” Papa asked, and I nodded.

I continued kneading, my movements slow and strong as I thought about Rafaela and her granddaughter. Cristiano would surely be happier with them than here, in this house with a dying old man and a bitter former priest disappointed in himself and with the world.

But I knew that Bonifacio would never agree to Rafaela taking Cristiano once I was gone. I would have to try to work something else out for the boy. I had to.

T
he next morning, I was at the stream, washing clothes, when I heard Cristiano scream. I dropped the sodden shirt I was beating and ran to the house, limping after yesterday’s climb.

Papa was standing in the garden, staring at the house. Cristiano’s panicked screams were unlike those in his nightmare. I rushed through the sitting room and into the bedroom. Bonifacio gripped Cristiano’s wrist.

“What happened? What’s wrong?” I shouted above Cristiano’s shrieks. “Let him go.”

Bonifacio dropped the boy’s wrist, and Cristiano immediately ran to me, crying.

“He’s been in my things,” he said, and it was then that I saw the open lid of the chest. “I don’t know if he’s stolen anything, but it’s clear he’s been touching everything. My coins are not where I left them.”

I swallowed.

“I was only trying to reprimand him,” Bonifacio said. “He has to learn to be honest and truthful. He’s old enough to understand that—”

“Be quiet,” I said, and Bonifacio’s mouth closed, and then opened. He stepped closer to me, fury on his face, and Cristiano gasped. “It’s not Cristiano,” I said. “He hasn’t touched your belongings. It was me. I was looking in your chest.” In my hurry to replace the coins yesterday before Bonifacio returned from church, had I placed them in the wrong corner?

Bonifacio was staring into my face, his own darkening. “You’re saying that to protect the child.”

“I’m not. I’ve looked in your leather satchel, and found your priest’s robe and cincture. I saw your Jesuit cross. I know you have a bag containing one hundred and seventy-six réis. So.” I put my arm around Cristiano’s shoulders and stayed where I was, although Bonifacio’s expression made me feel a thump of anxiety. “Will you reprimand
me
now?” I saw Papa’s face, pale and perplexed, in the doorway behind Bonifacio.

Bonifacio turned and saw his father, and took a step back. “The chest contains my belongings. You have no right to look in it.” He spoke angrily, but kept his voice too low for Papa to hear.

“I was curious.”

He studied my face a moment longer, then went to the chest and took out the bag of coins. He slammed the lid and left the bedroom, his footsteps thudding on the wooden floor as he left the house.

I knew I would never again see the réis. I sat on my bed and put my head into my hands. Cristiano sat beside me, leaning against me.

“He has so much anger. He wasn’t always this way. I apologize for my son,” Papa said, and I raised my head and looked up at him.

“Having a good woman will help him,” he said. He glanced at the sheets dividing the room. “He was a priest for too long, and has forgotten how to be a man. But he will remember. And then he will be a better husband.”

Two days before Christmas, as he had promised, Espirito appeared. He immediately handed a little box to Cristiano.
“Feliz Natal,”
he said.

Cristiano took the box and opened it, his eyes shining as he took out small carved wooden animals, lining them up on the table.

“Cristiano?” I said.

“Thank you,” he said, smiling, and Espirito nodded, looking both surprised and pleased.

“You’re welcome. Well, look at that,” he said, pointing at Cristiano’s mouth. “Where did your tooth go?” Cristiano had lost his top right milk tooth a few days earlier.

Now he laughed, sticking his tongue through the little space.

Espirito glanced at me and I tentatively smiled at him. He presented four bottles of Kipling’s wine to Papa, and held a package out to me. “Olívia’s mother suggested you might make use of it for the
Bolo Rei
for Epiphany,” he said, and I opened the container to find glazed fruit and a variety of nuts. “She said the King’s Cake wouldn’t taste right without them. Is that a new shirt, Papa?”

“Diamantina made it for me to wear to Mass on Christmas Eve,” Papa said, and Espirito again glanced at me.

As we ate the special dinner of roasted kid and potatoes and cabbage I’d prepared, Espirito opened the second bottle of wine and spoke about festivities in Funchal.

“I can’t imagine a living Nativity in the big square,” I said. “And all those singers out on the streets. It must be wonderful,” I said, smiling, resting my cheek on my hand as I leaned my elbow on the table.

Espirito refilled my empty cup. “The New Year has many celebrations too.”

“Bonifacio,” I said, dropping my arm and sitting straight. “Let’s go to Funchal for the New Year. Please? Surely Cristiano would be excited by it as well. Papa would be all right for a few days. Rafaela’s sister could look in on him.”

Bonifacio studied me. “Why do you need to go to Funchal?”

“I don’t
need
to,” I said, although this was a lie. I did need to go, to see the water again, and rest my eyes on the ships in the harbour. “I just want to see the festivities.”

“Is Curral das Freiras not to your liking, Diamantina?” Bonifacio lowered his head over his plate as he ate, and I studied his thinning dark hair, his pale scalp visible. “Are you so unhappy here?” he asked, still not looking up. “Do you want for anything?”

“I’d like more cloth. Both Cristiano and I need some new clothing. And a book or two,” I said, perhaps too loudly, my lips slightly numb from the wine. “I should be able to get a new book.”

Espirito cleared his throat. “Bonifacio, you could stay with us for a few nights. Olívia could take Diamantina to the shops.”

Bonifacio lifted his head and glared at him. “I’ll make my own decisions,” he said. “There’s no reason for us to go to Funchal. And your offer for us to stay with you and Olívia”—he stressed her name, and then paused—“is not necessary.”

There was a strained silence. “If you’re finished dinner, you can play with your wooden animals, Cristiano,” I said, cutting him a generous slice of the sweet bread I’d made for dessert. He took it and set up his animals on the floor in front of the fireplace.

“When did he start speaking?” Espirito asked, watching him.

“A few weeks ago. He opens up a little more every day,” I told him.

More silence.

“You should play dominoes with Diamantina, Espirito,” Papa said. “We play often. She’s good.”

I ran my finger around the rim of my plate.

“Do you want to play?” Espirito asked, his voice noncommittal.

I stacked the dirty dishes out of the way and took the box from the shelf and emptied it onto the table. Papa watched, drinking his wine, but Bonifacio left his cup and went into the bedroom with his Bible.

We played in silence for a few moments. Every time it was Espirito’s turn to lay a tile, I took a sip of my wine. It was a deep burgundy, sweet and rich, unlike anything I’d ever tasted in Rooi’s. “I saw so many wine merchant signs as we came into the bay at Funchal,” I told him. I thought of Henry Duncan and our conversations on Porto Santo as I struggled to learn English.

“They’re all owned by the English. We Portuguese only work for them.” He gave a small hard laugh, then looked up from the pattern we’d created on the table between us. “From the middle of the last century our wines attracted them, and they profited from trade agreements. They forbade the export of European wines to English colonies unless through English ports and on ships flying the English flag. The one exception to this rule was Madeira, so naturally it became a regular supplier to all ships heading to the outposts of the British Empire, especially to the Antilles and the
American colonies.” He took a drink. “And then the Methuen Treaty at the beginning of this century allowed excellent trade relations between Portugal and England. It gave us a much lower duty on wine exported to England, in return for which we removed restrictions on the importation of English-made goods. Look at this, Diamantina,” he said, smacking down his last tile and grinning at me. “I’ve beat you.”