The Devil on Her Tongue (36 page)

Suddenly I—Vitorino’s daughter-in-law of half a year—was in charge of his funeral. I wondered how Bonifacio would punish
himself when he came home and learned that his father had died. “Yes. Of course. We need to go forward with the funeral.”

Father Monteiro held my hands for a moment, and then left.

After I had washed and shaved Papa, I dressed him in his good clothing and combed his hair. Cristiano and I picked flowers and placed them around Papa’s body; we both cried. And then I took the chain from around my neck, his Telma’s medallion of the Holy Mother, and placed it in his pocket. It would go with him in death. He had asked me to wear it to be reminded to honour their son, but I did not honour Bonifacio. I had only worn it to please Papa.

A cart came and took him to the church to be laid out for the viewing. I dragged his mattress outside and beat it thoroughly and rubbed it with sweet grasses and lavender. I washed all the bedding. As I scrubbed and beat, panting with the exertion, I remembered what Papa had said about the landowner reclaiming his land.

I left the bedding to flap and dry in the wind as my mother had always instructed the women of the beach to do after a death.

The next day, I sent Cristiano out to collect eggs. I knew he would play with the baby chicks for a while. I had bathed and sat at the table brushing my damp hair, hanging to my waist.

And then Espirito stood in the open doorway. I hadn’t heard him arrive. I jumped up and went to him. “I’m so sorry about your father,” I said. I was suddenly short of breath. What was wrong with me? Espirito was in mourning. And yet I was thinking of his hands in my hair. Of leaning into him, feeling the length of his body against mine.

I was just lonely, I told myself. I had been thinking of my mother’s death, and how alone I’d felt. I only wanted someone to comfort me.

“Thank you,” Espirito said. “I’ve been to the church and spoken with Father Monteiro. He told me how kind you were with my father, easing him in his last days,” Espirito said, meeting my eyes. His own were bright with tears. “He said you were able to bring him comfort and peace, and for that I thank you, Diamantina.” He
came closer and took my hand. It seemed that the warmth of it transferred into mine. “For the last week I was travelling west on the island, checking on the vineyards I buy grapes from. I only arrived home yesterday and received the message that my father was so ill. We left in the middle of the night to be here. All the way I hoped I would see him one more time. But …”

He let go of my hand, and I felt as though I’d lost something.

“Father Monteiro also told me that Bonifacio is in the mountains for Lent. He didn’t see Papa before he died either.” His eyes had lost their softness, and a muscle in his jaw tightened. “Who cut the wood and hauled the water since he left?”

“I did.”

“You shouldn’t have had to look after everything on your own, as well as care for my father. That Bonifacio would leave when Papa was so ill … Why didn’t you ask someone from the parish for help?”

“I managed, with Cristiano.”

“Is the boy all right?”

“Yes. Although very sad over Papa. As I am. I … I only knew him for six months, but I cared deeply for him, Espirito.”

He touched my shoulder, and then turned. “Olívia has made the journey with me,” he said, and went back down the steps.

T
wo young men, soaked with sweat, stood at the entrance to the yard. They carried a large canvas sling on a long pole over their shoulders. Inside the sling I could just make out the figure of a small woman.

I was immediately anxious at the thought of meeting Olívia. My hair was loose and I was barefoot and wearing an old patched skirt and blouse. I hadn’t prepared anything for dinner. I had never been able to envision Espirito with his wife. Maybe I didn’t want to.

I watched as he helped her from the sling and they started for the house, Espirito’s arm around Olívia’s back. She was dainty and elegant. Her hair was thick and glossy, black as pitch and, in spite of her long journey, intricately twisted in a fashion I’d never seen. Her face was too sharp, and her pallor troubling, but even her obvious illness couldn’t hide her beauty.

“So this is Diamantina,” she said as she and Espirito came up the step.

I smiled hesitantly. “I’m pleased to finally meet you, Olívia, although sorry it’s under such sad circumstances.”

She studied me, something fierce in her clear, intelligent gaze. “Not as I would have imagined.”

I stopped smiling. Did she mean the circumstances, or me? “The viewing is after dinner.”

“Olívia,” Espirito said, “you need to rest.”

“With the difficulty of the journey,” she said, “I saw my father-in-law very infrequently. In spite of your very recent entry into the
family, I dare say you knew him better than I.” She glanced through the door. “I’m sure our presence will make things awkward for you. At least Bonifacio isn’t here.”

What did she mean? I felt a flush of annoyance. By her dress and manner, she was of a fine heritage, and it was clear that Espirito provided a gracious life for her.

“You must rest after the journey, as your husband says,” I murmured.

Olívia picked up a forkful of goat meat and studied it, then set it down.

“Is the goat not to your liking?” I asked. “Can I offer you something else? I have some soup in the kitchen.”

She glanced at Cristiano, sitting beside me. “I have a delicate palate, and can’t digest country food easily.” She looked at Espirito. “I told you we should have brought some of Ana’s dishes.”

Espirito didn’t speak for a moment. “There was no time for that kind of preparation.”

Olívia turned from him and looked at me. “Is that what you’re wearing tonight?”

I had changed into my green and black striped Sunday skirt and finely embroidered white traditional blouse, long-sleeved, with a fitted waist that flowed over the skirt. “Yes.”

“Come into the bedroom with me,” she said, rising, and I left my unfinished meal and followed her into Papa’s room, where Espirito had set their bags. I tried not to think of Papa dying on the bed only days earlier, and Espirito and Olívia lying on it together tonight. I was glad I had so thoroughly cleaned everything, and that the room was fragrant with the scent of lavender and mountain wind.

She pulled a simple dark grey gown from one of her travelling bags. “Wear this. You’re much taller than me, but you’re slender enough to fit into it. If you’re quick about it, you can let down the hem before we leave.”

I was insulted that she had criticized my food and now my clothing, but I would not make the situation worse. I had to think of
Espirito and his grief. “Thank you, Olívia, but I prefer to wear my own clothes.”

“You represent Espirito’s family, and all eyes will be on us at church. Just try it on.”

I looked at her for another moment, again thinking of Espirito in the next room. It would be easier to comply than have her create an unpleasant scene. I pulled off my clothes, standing in my simple cotton shift as Olívia settled the dress over my head.

“Turn around and I’ll lace it up,” she told me, once my arms were in the sleeves. As I did, she cried out sharply.

I looked at her over my shoulder. I didn’t think her face could become paler, but it was as white as paper. As I turned towards her, she backed away.

“Why are you marked like that?” Her eyes were huge. “What are you?” She kept backing away, reaching for the door behind her.

“Olívia. They’re just … my mother did them.”

She braced herself against the door as if I might lunge at her like a cornered animal.

“Why did she do it?” She pushed open the door. “Espirito. Come here.”

Nobody had ever seen my body but my mother. I had been distracted and annoyed when I turned for Olívia to lace the dress; I certainly hadn’t been thinking of the markings on my back.

Espirito came to the door. “What’s wrong?” he asked, looking first at Olívia and then at me, standing with the dress unlaced and loose on my shoulders. I held it against my chest with one hand.

“She’s got marks on her back.”

Espirito frowned. “Marks?” I saw his throat move. “Did Bonifacio beat you?”

“Not that kind,” Olívia said. “Marks like a slave. Show him.”

“No,” I said, and Espirito said, “No, Olívia,” at the same time.

“Well,” Olívia said. “I don’t like this one bit. Her mother did it to her,” she said to Espirito, then stared at me again. “Was your mother a slave? But she couldn’t be,” she answered her own question. “You’re so … you don’t look like a slave, with your hair and eyes …”

Neither Espirito nor I spoke. Cristiano had come to stand behind Espirito, and now craned his neck to peer around him.

“
Was
she a slave? Your mother?” Olívia asked again.

“She was a healing woman.”

“That doesn’t explain the way you’re marked.”

Espirito touched her arm. “Olívia.”

She pulled away. “First he brings home a dark-skinned child, and now her. What does Bonifacio think he’s doing? We have a right to know what has come into our family.”

I took my clothes from where I’d set them on the bed and pushed past her and Espirito. “I’m not a
what
,” I said, and went to my bedroom and pulled off the grey dress and put on my own clothes. I went back to Olívia, still standing with Espirito in the doorway of Papa’s bedroom. I dropped the dress at her feet and then took Cristiano’s hand.

“Come, Cristiano,” I said, “it’s time to go to the church.”

We all went in a wagon Espirito had borrowed, pulled by an ox. Papa had been well loved; the whole of Curral das Freiras came for the viewing. On the way home, Cristiano fell asleep, his head in my lap. Espirito helped Olívia down and then took Cristiano into his arms. Cristiano stirred against him.

I hurried into the house to light candles. I carried one to my bedroom so that Espirito could see to follow me.

“Put him on my bed, there,” I whispered.

Espirito did as I asked and straightened, looking, with no expression, at the sheets hung between the two single beds. Even though they were pulled back, the situation was clear.

I was oddly embarrassed at him realizing that Bonifacio and I didn’t share a bed. “Thank you,” I said, and he said good night and joined Olívia in Papa’s room. I heard the murmur of their voices over the partition for a while. Surely she was whispering about me. Eventually there was silence. I imagined Olívia in Espirito’s arms as they fell asleep.

I thought of the way she had studied me, openly critical, and didn’t like the image of Espirito’s long, slender fingers, smelling of the grapes, touching her.