The Devil on Her Tongue

by Linda Holeman

  Cristiano was sitting on the step, cradling a yellow chick. Through the open doorway I watched Espirito bend to put his hand on the boy’s head. “Goodbye, little man,” he said. “Remember what I told you about talking to the mice in the wash house.” Then he walked into the deepening evening, whistling, his arms swinging by his sides.

  Bonifacio immediately rose and went into the bedroom with his Bible, closing the door. I waited until Espirito disappeared down the road before taking the dirty dishes to the wash house. When I was done, I told Cristiano to put the chick back with its mother and come inside.

  I lit a candle as Cristiano got into bed, and when I pulled the coverlet over him, he turned on his side, clutching the cloth that had been his mother’s dress. Today with Espirito was the first time I had seen him behave as any small boy might, smiling at Espirito’s story of the mice and eating his dinner with noisy enthusiasm.

  Ever since Bonifacio had told me the terrible story of what had happened in Brazil, I had looked at the little boy differently. Where earlier I had felt only confusion about him and his behaviour, now I felt an ache when I watched him.

  I didn’t want to feel this way, for when the time came for me to go, it would be hard to leave Cristiano.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  On All Souls’ Day, the four of us walked down the slope to Nossa Senhora do Livramento. I carried a basket of flowers Cristiano and I had collected, at Papa’s request, for Telma’s grave.

  After the Mass, we joined others in the cemetery as they celebrated their departed loved ones. We decorated Telma’s grave with the flowers, and Bonifacio closed his eyes. “Réquiem ætérnam dona ei Dómine,” he prayed for the soul of his mother. His face was so calm, his expression so pious, that I knew he was again in his old life. Every time he attended Mass, he must long to be the one performing the sacred rites. He longed for the holy life as I longed for the ocean.

  But he was no longer a priest, and I was no longer part of the rhythms of the sea. I thought of my own mother, sinking under the waves, and sent a message of love to her.

  After we ate dinner that night, Papa held out a delicate gold chain adorned with a small medallion of the Holy Mother. “It was my Telma’s,” he said, putting it into my hand. “I wish you to wear it always, and as you wear it, you will be reminded to honour my son. Our son, Telma’s and mine.”

  I looked down at the medallion.

  “Put it on,” Papa urged, and I slipped it over my head. It rested on the front of my blouse, its slight weight touching the silver talisman underneath. I glanced at Bonifacio. His jaw was tight and his face dark.

  “Should it not have been Olívia’s? She was your first daughter-in-law,” he said to Papa.

  “Don’t spoil it for your wife,” Papa said. “It’s not her fault.”

  I wanted to ask Papa what he meant, but the air was thick with Bonifacio’s anger.

  Apart from the daily early Mass, Bonifacio rarely left the yard. There was no work to be done on the vines during the cool months, and so apart from the daily chores of chopping wood or hauling water to the wash house or making minor repairs to the house and outbuildings, he sat on the step and read his Bible. Sometimes I felt him watching me as I crossed the yard or hung clothes on the bushes, but each time I glanced at him, his head was lowered over the page.

  I heard him in the sitting room some nights, whispering the same prayer as he had in Funchal on the night we married, begging for help to be holy and chaste. I found the cat-o’-nine-tails in a sack under his bed the first time I washed the bedroom floor. Also in the sack was a shirt with strips of stiff goat hair sewn into it, and a belt with sharp metal studs on the inside of the leather.

  During the fourth week I was in Curral das Freiras, I found Bonifacio’s shirt soaking, the water pink, in a tub behind the wash house. I knew then that he’d been wearing the belt with the studs, cinching it so tightly around his waist under his shirt that the sharp metal bit into his flesh and made it bleed, wanting to concentrate on the pain instead of the needs of his body.

  I didn’t mention the bloodstained shirt, disturbed by the idea of Bonifacio’s fight against his vow of chastity. And yet again, I was glad for this vow. I couldn’t bear to think of him touching me.

  To pass the time until I could leave, I learned to use the abundant chestnuts to make soup and pudding and cake, delighting Papa. I helped him in the garden, touching his arm when I heard birdsong. Although he could no longer hear their voices, as I pointed to each bird, Papa told me its name. I realized I waited for him to smile at me and pat my arm or shoulder after each meal, saying, “Thank you, daughter.”

  There was abundant plant life in the cool dampness of the valley. I visited Rafaela one morning, and she showed me her herb garden and described the use of the root and flower and seed of each plant I hadn’t known on Porto Santo. She was bringing up her granddaughter, close in age to Cristiano. I watched the little girl stand in front of Cristiano and hop on one leg. After a while he solemnly mimicked her, his tongue caught between his front teeth in concentration. Then they caught grasshoppers in their cupped hands, the little girl squealing, Cristiano silent.

  He was usually at my side, helping me as best he could. I spoke to him as we worked, telling him whatever I was thinking about. I talked to him as I had once talked to my missing father. I worried about his desire to climb the steep cliffs, but there seemed no way to stop him; he refused to listen to my admonishments. I often climbed up to fetch him from a dangerous perch. And yet I understood his need to get closer to the sky. I also felt closed in, especially when the mountains caught the clouds and mist covered the valley.

  One day, I found a safer path to climb, where the incline was firmer and there were roots and small trees to hold, and showed it to him. As we went upwards together, we came upon a wide, flat shelf of rock and sat there. I tried to whistle and call back the birds’ tunes: the rich, melodious song of the blackbird, the high-pitched call of the shy little firecrest, and the pleasant chattering of the blackcap. The first time Cristiano tried to mimic the firecrest, I laughed and clapped my hands, and he laughed with me.

  I knew how clever he was. He learned anything I showed him almost immediately. Some evenings after dinner, I read aloud from one of my books. He sat closer and closer to me on the bench, and then let me put his finger under the words as I read them. Eventually I suspected he was beginning to understand the letters on the page.

  His soft curls were growing back. At times, as I read to him, I ran my fingers over his hair, and he let me.

  Every night, at the first tiny whimpers that signalled his nightmare, I went to him before he was on his feet. I whispered or sang in Dutch or Portuguese as I held him tightly, anything to wake him enough to release him from the terror before it took a firm hold on him.

  His hot little body, pressed against mine each night as I soothed him, was the only human contact I had. I hadn’t known I’d feel so much for him. Each time I imagined leaving here, leaving him—and Papa—I was overcome with queasiness.

  Espirito came back to Curral das Freiras a few weeks after his first visit. Anxiety arose in me when I saw him come into the yard.

  Again Cristiano was delighted. He sat beside Espirito on the step as Espirito and Papa talked and drank licor de castanha while Bonifacio stayed in the bedroom with his Bible.

  While preparing dinner, I heard Espirito’s laughter a number of times. He was drying his hands in the wash house as I carried a pot of soup across the yard.

  “Diamantina,” he said, coming towards me, and I stopped, steam rising from the pot. He looked at his mother’s chain around my neck.

  “Your father gave it to me,” I said, my chin lifted.

  He nodded. “It’s good to see my mother’s Blessed Virgin. How is my father doing? He says he’s well, but he doesn’t look any better than the last time I was here.”

  I waited a moment. “He’s not. Every day I give him what I can to take away the pain, but … but
it’s not going to go away.” I shook my head. “He’s growing weaker all the time.”

  “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.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The 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.”

&nb
sp; 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.”