The Devil on Her Tongue

by Linda Holeman

  “Yes. He’s returned. He left word at Kipling’s as you requested.”

  After he had completed last rites, Father Monteiro sat with me as Papa’s breaths grew so far apart that occasionally I touched his wrist or neck to make sure his heart still beat.

  And then he was gone.

  Father Monteiro anointed Papa’s body and covered him, and we went into the sitting room. “Shall I prepare for the viewing and funeral Mass even though neither of Vitorino’s sons is here? If Bonifacio is staying away until the end of Lent, we can’t wait for him.”

  “I don’t understand why Espirito hasn’t come yet. Can we wait just a while longer?”

  “The weather is warming, and …” He stopped, then continued. “You see the importance of not waiting too long, Diamantina.”

  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.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Two 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.

  The whole parish noticed that Bonifacio was not at his father’s Mass and burial the next morning. And yet, as people came to us to offer their condolences, nobody mentioned him.

  As soon as we were back at the house, Olívia turned to Espirito. “Please go and summon the men to bring my sling.”

  “It’s too late to start back now. And I want to stay for a few days, until Bonifacio returns. There are issues to settle now that Papa is gone.” He glanced at me. “If you’re agreeable with us staying.”

  “Of course,” I told him, although I couldn’t imagine coping with Olívia.

  “But Espirito, I have my appointment with Dr. McManus tomorrow. I can’t miss it. You know how important the appointments are.”

  “I’m sure he’ll see you another day,” he said.

  “What is your condition, Olívia?” I asked. It wasn’t the bloody cough, as there was no telltale flush of the cheeks, no salty tang of blood on her breath. But she was so thin, her chest almost concave as she took shallow, rattling breaths, her complexion now verging on bluish-grey.

  She looked away for a moment, then back at me. “It’s a bronchial obstruction.”

  “What are the symptoms?”

  Olívia looked either annoyed or upset by my questions.

  “I’m a curandeira, Olívia. I’ve seen many illnesses.”

  At that, she gave a twisted smile. “A country healer can’t help with this. I’ve had attention from the best English physician in Funchal.”

  “She has very laboured breathing and wheezing. She sometimes gasps for air,” Espirito said, and Olívia’s lips tightened. “The breathing difficulties ease during dry periods. When the rains come, they grow worse.”

  I remembered a little girl on the beach who had died when only eight years old. She had wheezed and gasped for many months, her lips blue at the end.

  “Do you inhale eucalyptus oil? And drink a tea made of sage and camomile? I’m sure sleeping propped up helps, and burning certain herbs—I can give you some—on bricks in the bedroom can be beneficial.”

  Olívia blinked. “Well, yes. That’s what Dr. McManus has recommended.”

  “Also that she avoid physical strain of any kind. That’s why it’s so difficult for her to travel all the way here,” Espirito added.

  Was this the reason they had no children, then? She was so frail; I couldn’t imagine her sustaining a pregnancy and birth. Perhaps Espirito and Olívia lived in the same way as Bonifacio and I, except Espirito stayed away from his wife’s bed to protect her while Bonifacio stayed away from mine to protect himself.

  “I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Olívia said. “We’ll leave first thing tomorrow, then,” she said, as if Espirito hadn’t just said he wanted to stay a few days. “I’m going to rest. Can you make flan, Diamantina?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d like flan for dessert,” she said, and went into Papa’s bedroom.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  After dinner, Espirito went to the church to say more prayers for Papa. I sent Cristiano to bed. Olívia was sitting in front of the fire reading while I went to the wash house to do the dishes. When I came back, her bedroom door was closed.

  I sat at the table, mending a rent in the knee of Cristiano’s breeches. When Espirito returned, I put down my sewing and stood. “I know that the senhorio will soon take back the house and land, and that we can’t live here any longer. What will happen? Will we come to Funchal with you and Olívia?”

  He looked at the fire. “I have to speak to Bonifacio.”

  “It’s difficult to be around him, as you’ve seen,” I said. “And he’s growing worse. He’s so unpredictable. Cristiano is afraid of him.” I was too, but wouldn’t admit this to Espirito. “He’s deeply angry, and frustrated.”

  “Frustrated?”

  “I just mean that he … I know he wishes he were still a priest. He doesn’t really want to fit back into the ordinary world. He isn’t interested in friendships, or … or anything. Cristiano is a burden to him. He had hoped …” I stopped, knowing I couldn’t divulge Bonifacio’s story. “He married me for the wrong reasons. And I him.”

  As my mother had predicted, I had been able to leave Porto Santo because of the flaming sun—because of Bonifacio—but she hadn’t known what would happen once I left. “I only wanted to get away f
rom Porto Santo. I want to go to Brazil, to my father.”

  Espirito sat at the table. “As I said, I’ll have to speak to Bonifacio.”

  I sat down across from him. “But when my father replies to the letter I gave you to send to him, there will be enough réis for passage for Cristiano and me. And we’ll leave. Bonifacio cares nothing for us—he’ll probably be glad to see the last of us. It will be less than a year, Espirito.” In my need for him to understand how desperate I was for his help, I reached across the table and took his hands. “We just need a place to live until I hear from my father. Is it possible we could stay with you? I know Olívia doesn’t like me, and I know that will make things even more difficult, but …”

  “You will not come with us,” Olívia said from the bedroom door, and I jumped, lifting my hands from Espirito’s. She came towards the table. “I heard what you said. But you’re married to Bonifacio. You can’t run off to the New World without him. A marriage is a lifetime commitment, as any woman knows. No matter what transpires between you, you are tied to your husband until you die.” She looked at Espirito. “Isn’t that so?”

  She wore a beautiful green silk sleeping cloak, incongruous with the walls, the floor. The whole house.

  When Espirito didn’t answer, she said, “Come to bed now, Espirito. We will have an early start back to Funchal tomorrow. And you will stay here and wait for your husband to return, Diamantina. It’s him you should be discussing your future with. Not my husband.”

  Espirito rose and followed Olívia into the bedroom, closing the door quietly.

  I slept poorly, Olívia’s words resonating in my head. Before anyone else was up, I rose and made breakfast, and packed a bag of bread and boiled eggs and cooked chicken for their journey. Every movement was an effort.

  We didn’t speak during breakfast. The young men were summoned and waited at the end of the yard with the sling to carry Olívia back to Funchal. But as we all stood on the step, Espirito told his wife, “I’m waiting here for Bonifacio, as I said yesterday.”