I looked at my cubicle, and thought of Sister Amélia and her cell.
The kitchen was in an even worse state than the sitting room. The simple fireplace, similar to the one in my old home, was fashioned from three large stones set in a rectangle with one side open to lay the wood. There was a chimney, so although the smell of grease hung over everything, at least the low ceiling and walls weren’t blackened by years of smoke, as my hut had been.
There was an oven like the one in the church kitchen, but when I looked inside, it was evident no baking had been done for some time. A big cast iron pan sitting on the fireplace stones was filled with hardening fat, and a blackened kettle and smaller pots were piled on a table along with wooden spoons, earthen jars of oil and a large cistern of water. A big basket was filled with chestnuts. On a set of shelves draped with thin muslin to keep out flies were a slab of dried beef and more baskets of cabbages and sweet potatoes and various beans. There was a bowl of eggs and a salt tub and the remains of a loaf of bread.
Another shelf held a row of jugs—I counted fourteen of them. I took the stopper out of one and smelled it: the aroma of cherry and brandy and a touch of cinnamon wafted out.
I cleaned the ashes from the fireplace and went out to the woodpile. As I stacked kindling and wood in my arms, Cristiano came from the step and followed me into the kitchen. I started a fire, then filled the big kettle with water from the cistern.
Cristiano watched me, sitting on a stool at the table. I smiled at him a few times, but his expression never changed as he followed my movements. He scratched his head vigorously, clearly tormented by lice. Eventually he put his elbow on the table and wearily rested his cheek on his hand, as though he carried burdens too heavy for such a young boy.
“How old are you, Cristiano?” I asked.
He shrugged.
When the kettle boiled, I took it off the hook and hung the pot filled with vegetables and the dried beef and water and salt and spices in its place.
I went back to the house and took my scissors from my sewing pouch. I could smell the pallet: like Cristiano, it stank of urine, and I knew there would be lice in it. I dragged the little stuffed mattress and blankets through the sitting room and threw them off the step, then went back to the bedroom and fashioned a temporary bed for him out of clean blankets on the floor at the foot of my bed.
I took the long blue shirt from the cupboard and went back to the kitchen. Cristiano still sat where I had left him. “Come to the wash house with me,” I told him firmly, taking the kettle, and he did as I asked.
As he stood beside a rough bench holding different-sized pieces of flannel and a small dish with a soap mixture, I filled one of the tubs with water from the cistern and warmed it with the boiled water. Cristiano held his cloth to his nose and mouth, unmoving, as I cut off his beautiful curls. The lice had bitten him severely, and I had to cut the hair right to the skull to get rid of all the nits. His tender scalp was criss-crossed with scratches from his own fingernails. I wrapped the curls in a piece of flannel to be burned.
When I motioned for him to come to the tub, he laid the cloth on the bench, stroking it tenderly for a moment, then pulled off his shirt. As he started to undo his breeches, he stopped, staring at me, and I turned away.
As Cristiano sat down in the tub, I looked over my shoulder at him. “Do you want me to help you?” I asked, rubbing soap onto a flannel. As he looked up at me, I was startled to see the letter T burned into the front of his right shoulder. Under it was a second mark, a cross, this one newer. I had seen similar marks on the shoulders and arms of blackamoors on the wharf in Vila Baleira as they unloaded cargo. Shirtless, their dark skin glistening in the heat, I had studied the variety of letters that identified their owners. I assumed the cross signified they had been baptized.
I handed the soapy, wet cloth to Cristiano, watching as he rubbed it over his face and chest and arms. He was a slave child, then, but by the colour of his eyes and the lighter shade and looser texture of his hair, he was a mulatto or perhaps a quadroon. His little body was perfect, his neck long and graceful, but he was too thin, his ribs and collarbones sharp.
He rubbed the cloth over his head. “Close your eyes,” I said, and poured warm water over him. He wiped his eyes with his fists, and I held out a large flannel and wrapped it around him as he stepped out of the tub.
I gave him the clean shirt and he turned his back and let the flannel drop, pulling the shirt over his head as he pushed his arms into the sleeves. The shirt fell below his knees. He turned and walked towards the house. After I had thrown out the dirty water and wiped the tub clean, I left the filthy clothes to be washed and went back to the house. Cristiano was lying on the blankets at the foot of my bed, his eyes open. I took a few powders from my medicine bag and mixed them with one of my salves. I sat on the floor beside him. “I’m going to rub some of this on your head. It will soothe the scratches,” I told him.
He didn’t move as I gently massaged the mixture onto his scalp, but he closed his eyes.
Poor, strange little thing, I thought, looking at his shorn head. “You don’t have to go to sleep yet, Cristiano,” I said. “You haven’t had your dinner.”
He kept his eyes shut.
“Are you hungry?” I asked.
He didn’t move.
I went out and quietly closed the door.
While I waited for Bonifacio and Papa to come in for dinner, I peeked into Papa’s room. It was empty but for a bed and a low stool and a few chests along one wall. The room smelled of unwashed bedding and clothing soiled by grease and sweat. I would need a full day to wash Papa’s and Cristiano’s bedding and clothes, and work through the sitting room as well, cleaning all the cobwebs from the walls and the dirt and dust from the floors and furniture. I didn’t want to live any length of time in such filth.
When I heard the men at the wash house, I set the table with plates and spoons, the steaming pot of stew and the half loaf of bread. They came inside and Bonifacio knelt at the bench, his hands folded in prayer. Papa set down one of his earthenware jugs of the cherry alcohol and grunted slightly as he knelt. Bonifacio looked up at me.
“Kneel to pray,” he said, and although I was angered at his command, I didn’t want to create a fuss in front of Papa on my first evening in his home.
“Thank you, Lord, for our food and all your other blessings,” Bonifacio said, and as I was about to rise, he continued in Latin. I stayed where I was. He spoke for so long that when he finally stopped I was further annoyed that the stew had grown tepid, oil swimming on the top.
We ate in silence in the flickering candlelight. I was exhausted from the day’s walk, and the smell of the cooking stew had been tempting as I stirred it earlier. Now it was hard to swallow, and sat like a leaden lump in my stomach. I wasn’t comfortable being in the small house with Bonifacio Rivaldo.
“Cristiano will need a new pallet,” I finally said, but neither man replied.
When we were done eating, Papa poured himself a hornful of cherry liqueur and carried it out to the front step, where he sat drinking it. I took the dishes to the wash house and washed them, and when I came back, the bedroom doors were shut. I took a deep breath and entered the room I would share with Bonifacio and Cristiano. A candle burned behind the hanging sheets, throwing a wavering, muted glow. Cristiano was in a deep sleep, his little eyebrows twitching slightly, his cheeks flushed.
I set my candle on the chair and cleared my throat. Eventually, I carefully, almost cautiously, lay on the bed. Then I turned on my side to face the sheets. Papa’s soft snores came over the partition. “Cristiano’s head was crawling with lice,” I finally said.
When there was no answer, I said, “Bonifacio? Why is the child so uncared for?”
“He’s difficult to handle,” Bonifacio said, his voice low. “He won’t let me touch him.”
I turned onto my back again and looked at the lighter square of my window. The stiff branches of an olive tree were outlined by moo
nlight. “I saw the slave mark on his shoulder.” I waited. “Who is he?”
“I brought the child from Brazil with me,” he said quietly.
“You were in Brazil?” I sat up, surprised at the secrets that were being pulled from my husband, one by one.
“I was a priest at a mission in Tejuco.”
I knew nothing of Tejuco. “When did you return?”
“Not long ago,” he answered, and then there was the sound of a book closing, and the candle behind the curtain went out.
“You’ve only just left the priesthood?” I sat waiting in the darkness, then asked, “Who was Cristiano’s mother?”
After a long silence, Bonifacio said, “She was among the slaves brought from Luanda, in West Africa, to sieve for diamonds in the rivers and streams around Tejuco.”
“And his father?”
Again no answer. Eventually I understood that Bonifacio would say nothing more tonight. I leaned forward to look at the sleeping child, one hand curled sweetly under his cheek. Could Cristiano truly be Bonifacio’s son, even though he denied it? Was a relationship with the slave woman the reason he had left the priesthood?
After some time, I blew out my candle and lay down again. Small puffing sounds came from behind the sheets, and I knew Bonifacio slept. I stayed awake for a long time. I missed the sound of the waves on the shore. Staring at the branches of the olive tree, moving slightly in the night breeze, I remembered my father’s stories of diamonds. The wind grew stronger, and the olive tree rustled.
I wondered how long I would have to stay here.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
I was in a deep sleep when the screams awoke me. I sat straight up in the darkness, my heart pounding, not knowing where I was. Then I saw Cristiano standing at the foot of my bed, screaming in a language I didn’t recognize. A candle flared; Bonifacio pushed aside the hanging sheets as I scrambled out of bed and tried to put my arms around the child. He wouldn’t be comforted, writhing and slapping at me without seeing me. His eyes were open, and yet there was no comprehension in them; I knew he was caught in the dream world. His face, in the wavering light, was a show of pure terror, and he kept screaming the same sentence over and over.
“Cristiano, stop. Wake up,” I said, struggling to dodge his fists and hold him. “Wake up,” I kept saying, not understanding his words, not knowing what else to do. His body was rigid and hot as though he burned with fever. Finally I pinned his arms between us, and his cries softened and then faded to nothing. He began to tremble violently. I held the back of his head with one hand, pressing his face against my shoulder. I felt a growing damp patch on my blouse from his tears and running nose, and smelled an acrid odour.
I gently moved him away from me, my hands on his shoulders. He was no longer trembling, but looked confused, staring at me, and then suddenly he looked down and drew in his breath.
“It’s all right, Cristiano. It’s all right. Come, let me help you,” I said, glancing over my shoulder at Bonifacio.
He shrugged. “It’s like this every night,” he said. “Every night,” he repeated, then retreated behind the sheets.
The little boy, swaying with exhaustion, let me pull off his wet shirt. I took the red one from the cupboard and put it on him. The blankets were wet as well. I directed him to my bed. He got in, but squirmed as far from me as possible, his face against the wall. In a few moments he was asleep.
When I awoke, there was dim light in the room. Daybreak had come later than I was used to, the sun having to rise above the mountains.
Cristiano wasn’t in my bed, and I didn’t know whether Bonifacio was still sleeping. I went through the empty sitting room. Once outside, I knew that it was too early for the men to have risen, as only a few birds peeped sleepily. Besides, surely I would have heard Bonifacio moving about, or he would have woken me to make breakfast. I looked for Cristiano in the latrina and the kitchen. As I stared around the hillside above me, I saw a spot of red, moving high on a cliff, far beyond the last house on the mountainside.
I lifted my skirt to my knees and climbed. It was so steep that small trees grew sideways out of the mountainside. By the time I reached the boy, I was panting, my bare feet scratched and cut.
Cristiano sat in his red shirt and clean breeches, staring across the highest mountain, hugging his knees. Last night, as he screamed, I saw he was missing his two bottom milk teeth. He had to be at least six, maybe closer to seven years old.
I sat beside him. He moved slightly so I had more room, but he didn’t glance at me. I could see the tiny roofs of houses on other terraces, and the steeple of the parish church below. After a few moments the sun rose above the mountain we faced. I put my hand out, palm up, and it appeared the sun rested there, a glowing disc.
“It looks like I’m holding the sun in my hand. I used to do this when I was a little girl and watched the sun rise.”
He didn’t respond.
“What are you looking at?”
He shook his head, clearly impatient with me.
“Ma casa, Cristiano,” I said, finally guessing what he might be thinking. I stretched my hand in the direction Bonifacio and I had come from: Funchal, and beyond, the ocean and Porto Santo.
He looked at me and nodded slowly. He had climbed up to see over the mountains. Maybe to see the ocean, which would take him back to his home.
I reached out to put my hand on his knee, but he drew away. After a time I rose. “It’s time to go back.”
I started down the mountain slowly, holding on to branches and rocks, constantly looking behind me. Once, Cristiano slid on his heels and grabbed my skirt, making no sound.
As we approached the house, I saw Bonifacio on the road leading to the foot of the valley, and the church.
I gathered the soiled clothing and blankets from the bedroom floor, picking up Cristiano’s scrap of cloth. “You can help me scrub the clothes at the—”
Cristiano grabbed the cloth and clutched it, backing away as if I’d threatened him.
I watched him. “I won’t wash it if you don’t want me to. Was it a blanket?”
He didn’t answer, but turned and ran. I finished the washing and hung the clean bedding and clothes over bushes to dry in the sun and breeze. Shading my eyes, I looked up the mountain, hoping Cristiano hadn’t climbed so high this time.
I found him asleep on a bed of soft ferns behind the chicken house, the cloth against his face.
Dinner that evening was the same: the endless prayer while the food cooled, and then silence as we ate. Tonight Cristiano sat beside me on the bench, eating a piece of meat with his fingers. I put a fork into his hand. He set it on the table, but after a few moments he picked it up and used it awkwardly.
“Espirito came to see me while you were away,” Papa said, looking at Bonifacio. Then he grimaced, pressing his abdomen with his fist.
Bonifacio didn’t look up from his plate.
“I can bake bread if I have flour and some leaven,” I said. Papa didn’t appear to hear, his head bent over his bowl.
“My father trades eggs for bread from a neighbour,” Bonifacio said.
“There’s no reason to do that anymore. I can make the bread,” I said. “And we could use some milk, and cheese. Could Papa trade the eggs for that?”
Bonifacio nodded, and we finished the meal in silence. I stood, reaching for the empty bowls, but Papa raised his hand and I sat down again.
“Bonifacio,” he said. “The senhorio will take back the land when I die. He and I agreed on this—I haven’t had to compensate him for a number of years. Because I believed you would never return to Curral das Freiras, I told him there would be no one to carry on after I was gone. He has already arranged for someone from his own family to take over here.”
“I know, Papa. You already told me this.”
“That was before you had a wife.” He glanced at me. “Even with the child, you had more freedom. But now, with a wife … When I’m gone, you will have to leave Curral das F
reiras and go elsewhere.”
“There’s nothing for me anywhere else.”
“There will be nothing here for you either. You will make a new life somewhere. And you must do the right thing for your family. You have a family now.” Again he looked at me.
When Bonifacio didn’t speak, Papa said, “Bonifacio. Tell me you will do the right thing for your wife and the boy.”
Bonifacio cleared his throat and met his father’s eyes. “I will do the right thing.”
“Good,” Papa said. “We will not talk of this again.”
As on the previous night, he sat on the step to drink his cherry liqueur. I mixed a tonic of ground milk thistle and wormwood into warm water. I touched his shoulder so he would look into my face. I knew that if he watched our lips, he understood more easily. “For your stomach,” I said, handing him the cup.
He studied me for a moment, then drank the liquid in one swallow. “Thank you, daughter,” he said.
When I went to the wash house with the dirty dishes, Cristiano came with me. Again he just sat on the stool and watched me. As I worked, I thought of Papa’s words. I would not be here long enough to see all of this: Papa dying and Bonifacio making a new life away from Curral das Freiras.
When we returned to the house, Bonifacio was already in his bed behind the sheets. I made Cristiano a bed on the floor again.
The nightmare came, and again I fought to calm the boy. This time Bonifacio stayed on his side of the room. Eventually Cristiano slept, as did I.
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.
The Devil on Her Tongue Page 17