The Devil on Her Tongue (70 page)

B
oarding the square-sailed
Bom Jesus
, Cristiano straightened his shoulders. It was the first time he’d been on a ship since the long and terrible journey he’d taken with Bonifacio from Brazil.

As for me, hadn’t I planned to do this: go to Lisboa to speak to Dona Beatriz about the sale of Kipling’s? All was changed now. I didn’t care about Kipling’s, or Quinta Isabella, or where I would live, or how. What importance was any of that if I did not have my child?

What had Bonifacio told Candelária? How did he imagine she would be accepted into a convent at four and a half years old?

After only one chaotic, horrifying thought that he might take her all the way to Brazil with him, I didn’t let myself think that again. I wouldn’t be able to put one foot in front of the other if I allowed myself that image.

As we left Funchal, I leaned my head on my arms along the ship’s railings, our travelling cases at our feet. Cristiano touched my arm.

“Does the sea make you ill, Diamantina?” he asked.

“It’s not the sea, Cristiano. It’s my fear for Candelária.”

He put his arm around my shoulder. He was as tall as me now, his voice sometimes dipping and rising. As he had been a handsome little boy, he was now growing into a young man of striking looks, with his smooth, dusky skin and soft curls, his eyes glowing a dark greenish brown.

When Madeira was far behind us, its outline blurred on the horizon, the sun rested near the sea, warm and orange. I watched it,
knowing I would have to find the strength to face whatever awaited me in Lisboa.

Cristiano and I spoke little on the week-long journey, as the
Bom Jesus
fought against the strong wind that swept towards the bottom of the earth. I watched the waves and the life they held through the day. At night the sky was a mantle of stars, and sleep was near to impossible. I grew more distraught the closer we came to Lisboa, and clung to the only comfort I had—the name of the convent Bonifacio had once spoken, Teresa de Jesus. If my daughter was not there, I would travel to every convent in Lisboa, and beyond, in all of Portugal. I would not stop looking until I found her.

Cristiano knew my fear and turmoil, and one stormy night came to my cabin to beg me to come outside to the deck. “You must come, Diamantina,” he said over the creak and groan of the ship as it rose and then plunged downwards. He was dripping wet, his eyes alight.

“But it’s a thunderstorm,” I said, holding the door frame with both hands to keep from sliding into Cristiano.

“It’s something wondrous. Please.”

I wrapped myself in my cloak and followed him outside, struggling to stay on my feet with the rise and swell of each high wave. My stomach churned from the movement. Lightning filled the sky, each flash followed almost immediately by a thunderclap. I pressed closer to Cristiano on the tilting, slippery deck. The crew and other passengers clutched the railings and each other for support as they stood with heads tilted back, staring at the tops of the foremast and mainmast. From their points, a glowing ball of blue light streamed upwards into the tempest.

“What is it?” I shouted over the storm.

“Corpo Sancto,” he yelled into my ear. “The sailors say it’s a divine token, the presence of our guardian saint. It means that the worst is passed.”

I jumped at a huge clap of thunder, and when it had died, I asked, “The worst of the storm is passed?” I held my wet hair back from my face as I looked into his.

“You may take it as you wish, they say. The worst of what haunts you.”

We stood together in the pounding storm. In spite of Cristiano’s assurance, I felt that everything around me was in flames—the sky with lightning, the water with luminous particles, and the very masts.

We sailed inland down the wide estuary to the Tagus River, buffeted by a strong current. The sunlight flickered on the water and, towering in the distance, the grand city stood proudly, as if held on the palm of God’s hand. The ancient royal residence of Castelo de São Jorge dominated the vista on the tallest of the hills, while bell towers and church spires competed with each other above the rooftops of the houses below. I looked at Cristiano, and he at me, and we both felt the power of the magnificent city that lay before us, glowing in the early afternoon light.

In my dream that last night on board, I stood on the summer house steps, and all around was the blue of Madeira, hydrangeas at my feet and jacaranda trees above. There was the blue of ocean and sky, and when I looked at my hands, blue marks were on them as well, the symbol of the forked tail and wavy lines. And then, from the corner of my eye, came a flash of Candelária’s dress, her favourite dress of pale blue, dyed from the leaves of woad. When I awoke and thought of the blue fire I had seen on the masts during the storm, I felt that this dream of blue was an omen, a good omen, and I needed one on this day.

I had brought three of her little dresses—including the pale blue one —for her to wear when I found her. When I found her. I would not say
if
. I had brought her rag doll.

At the dock, there was a confusion of fishing boats and caravels unloading their cargo, and gun salutes as ships arrived and departed, and bells ringing near and far. There were crates of noisy poultry,
and cages of milling sheep and goats. Masters of the ships shouted and bullied the black men working in pairs, hauling loads on their heads and backs. What riches they carried: bales of cotton and indigo, animal hides, copper and timber, and too many wonders I had no names for. We alighted with our cases and made our way across the thronging quay, stopping as a procession of pilgrims passed in front of us with their litanies and tinkling bells.

“Convento Teresa de Jesus,” I said to the driver as we climbed into one of the waiting carriages lining the square, after Cristiano had loaded in our bags. “Is it near?”

“It’s in the parish of Alcántara. Not so far, west of the city,” he said, and slapped the reins on the horses’ backs.

The sights of Lisboa continued to astound us as the carriage slowly made its way through streets jammed with other carriages and coaches and chaises and wagons and litters. Near the waterfront were the cries of the street vendors with their grains and sugar, bananas and yams, pepper and tobacco and cacao. Cristiano touched my arm, pointing at a long tuberose root.

“Cassava,” he said. “I remember women pounding it to make manioc flour. And the taste of the bread they made with it.” It was the first memory he’d ever shared of his life in Brazil.

The waterfront rang with the sounds of sawyers and carpenters and stonemasons. I saw ship riggers and rope makers at work, and as we left the riverside and went farther into the city, we heard the blare of distant trumpets and muted drum rolls, a fanfare that surely announced some royal procession. Along leafy streets were the open windows of tanners and carpet weavers and clockmakers, and sitting outside, their backs against the walls, women worked on lace and embroidery.

“Why is rosemary burning everywhere?” I asked the driver.

“To ward off a recent plague,” he said, and I sat back again, breathing in the unmistakable fragrance. My mother’s scent, and Candelária’s middle name. Another good sign.

“Here is the edge of the city, the parish of Santos,” the driver eventually said, “and soon we will arrive in Alcántara.”

A light rain had started by the time he stopped in front of high grey walls, with gardens and a small orchard and a mill behind a maze of connected buildings. I paid him the réis he named. “Please wait for me,” I told him. My greatest hope was that I would emerge from the convent with Candelária. And we would go directly back to Lisboa, stay overnight at an inn, and board the next boat to Madeira. Home, to Quinta Isabella, for as long as it was home. To the blue of the sky and water, the trees and flowers, and my daughter in her blue dress.

The walls of the convent were damp and dreary. From behind them the nuns could be heard intoning their prayers. Their voices merged with the fall of the rain in a mournful dirge. I looked at Cristiano, and hoped for the gift of grace.

At the gate, I asked to see the Abbess. I was admitted and taken into a small, austere room with two benches. High, narrow windows revealed nothing but similar windows on an opposite wall. I waited an interminable length of time, listening to the same distant chanting I had heard outside. There was silence, then more chanting. At the very moment I began to despair I had been forgotten, the door opened. A Sister bowed her head, and I followed her along twisting hallways. I did not hear the voices of children, or any sound. It was painful to imagine Candelária in this place.

I was ushered into the office of the Abbess. “How may I help you?” she asked. She sat on a straight, high-backed chair, her fingers loosely moving along the beads of her rosary. “Please. Sit.”

“I’m Senhora Rivaldo, Madre,” I said, perching on the edge of the chair facing her. “I’m looking for my daughter, and believe she may have been brought here.”

The Abbess shook her head. “No child with the surname of Rivaldo has been brought to Teresa de Jesus as a candidate for our order’s novitiate.”

A moan escaped me. “Candelária Rivaldo,” I said. “You’re certain?”

At that, her fingers stopped their movement. “There was a Candelária brought very recently for the orphanage. But she was Candelária Perez.”

I stood, my small drawstring bag falling from my lap onto the floor. “The orphanage? Perez?”

“Yes. Candelária Perez,” she repeated.

I swallowed, sitting down and picking up my bag. “There’s been a mistake. Candelária should never have been brought here.”
Why did Bonifacio give her name as Perez? He knows, then. How does he know?

“So you’re saying Candelária Perez, not Rivaldo, is your daughter?”

“Yes. And … please, Madre. I wish to take her home. I’ve said it was a mistake.” I attempted a smile. “As you can see, she is not an orphan.”

“Her father felt it better she remain in our orphanage until she can eventually enter the convent as a novice.”