The Devil on Her Tongue

by Linda Holeman

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  It was too late to go to Nossa Senhora da Piedade when I arrived at the long landing wharf in Vila Baleira.

  I was counting on staying in the one small inn off Palm Square that had rooms to rent for the occasional visitor to the island. I walked up the jetty. Rooi’s was still there, but looked much different than when I had left. There were flowers blooming in the window boxes, the shutters were freshly painted and the stones at the front door swept. A neatly lettered sign boasted a dining room. I was excited at the idea of seeing Rooi and finding out how life had treated him for the last six years. And wanted him to see how life had treated me.

  I wore my best dress and shoes, and a hat in the latest style from Lisboa. A plump dark-skinned woman with her hair in an elaborate wrap of colourful fabric came through the back door as I entered through the front. She looked at me in an inquiring fashion. “Is Rooi here?” I asked, setting my bag on the floor and looking around.

  The front and back doors were open to create a pleasant cross breeze, and the big room was decorated with matching tables and chairs. The tables had tidy embroidered cloths, and a small container of flowers sat on each one. It was gracious and pretty, nothing like the filthy, stinking inn where I had spent my younger years, playing dominoes and pretending to drink the wine.

  She nodded. “He’s in the back room. I’ll go and get him,” she said, in heavily accented Portuguese.

  In a few moments, he followed her into the dining room. “When Palma told me there was a tall yellow-haired woman here,” he said, coming towards me and taking my hands, “I could only hope. This is Palma, my wife, from the Canaries.”

  I tried not to show my surprise. Rooi, at his advanced age, finally marrying. Or maybe he’d long been married to Palma but had only brought her back to Porto Santo after I’d left.

  “Look at you,” he went on, squeezing my hands tightly before letting go. “My own Diamantina, grown into such a fine woman. What brings you back to Porto Santo after all these years?”

  “I’m here to take Sister Amélia to her convent in Funchal. I’ve brought you something.” I took three bottles from my bag.

  He lifted each of them with an appreciative whistle. “Kipling’s?”

  “I’m … I was affiliated with them.”

  “You still do a little blending?” he asked, winking, and when I nodded, he said, “I can see you’ve made a good life. I’m not surprised. Nothing the Dutchman’s daughter does should surprise me.”

  “I have a daughter now: Candelária. Coming close to five years old and quick as a fox. Like my father used to call me. Klein vos,” I said, smiling.

  “You must bring her here, so I can meet her,” Rooi said. “Like you, my fortunes have changed.” He put his hand on Palma’s shoulder and with the other gestured at the dining room. “I collected on an old debt in the Canaries, and with Palma’s influence—and her cooking—I have been able to enjoy a different life.”

  We ate dinner together, Rooi and Palma and I, a dinner Palma had prepared with unknown and wonderful spices. I told Rooi about my father, and a little about my life since I’d left Porto Santo. Rooi and Palma insisted I stay with them. Palma led me to the upstairs room Rooi had formerly used to store his pipes of wine, and where I had occasionally run to escape a drunken sailor, or simply to get away from the chaos of the inn for a few moments. Now it was quiet and clean, with a comfortable bed and a wide window that opened to the star-studded sky over the ocean.

  The next day, I crossed the square and saw the same palm and dragon trees, the same benches with men sitting on them, what looked like the same dogs sleeping in the shade. The square was smaller than I remembered it. If anyone recognized me, they gave no indication.

  I spoke to the young Father at the church, and gave him the sealed scroll. He read it, nodding gravely when I told him I would take Sister Amélia with me on the packet the next morning. I thought briefly that he would be annoyed at this news, knowing he would be forced to bring in local women to take over her duties, but he smiled. “Good,” he said. “It’s a lonely life for her here.”

  Sister Amélia dropped the small copper pan she was holding and put her hands to her cheeks when I stood in the kitchen doorway. “Is it really you, Diamantina?” she cried out after the clang of the pan hitting the stone floor receded. I went to her and hugged her, and she held me tightly.

  As we stepped back and looked at each other, I heard familiar sounds. “They’re still alive?” I asked, and she nodded. I thought of Candelária’s vision.

  “Since you left, they have brought me daily companionship and happiness,” she said, and together we went into her tiny cell to look at Zarco and Blanca, their cage hanging in the open window. “They remind me, always, of you. It is good to have something to care for.”

  I smiled at the familiar little green lovebirds with their red heads, and then at her.

  “I never imagined I would see you again,” she said. “Your letters have brought me such joy.”

  “You received them?”

  “The young priest is kind. Although it is against the rules, he gave me each as it arrived. I’ve kept them all, and I read them often. I saw your life in Funchal as you described it, and I remembered so much of my own life there. But the Father could not allow me to write back to you. If his indiscretion had ever been discovered, it would go badly for him. I was grateful you didn’t give up, and kept writing.”

  I took Sister Amélia’s hands. “I worried so much about you. I went to the Madre Superiora of Catarina of the Cross, and she decided that you had served your penance. She’s given written permission for you to leave, and—”

  Sister Amélia cried out, dropping to her knees, still gripping my hands.

  “—and I’ve already passed it on to the Father. We will leave tomorrow morning.”

  At that, she kissed my hands, tears streaming from her eyes, while the birds sang of their love.

  After I left Sister Amélia, I carried my boots and walked down the beach to Ponta da Calheta. Along the way I picked up a rusted belt buckle as it washed against my bare foot, then a knobby whelk, and finally a foreign coin encrusted with tiny barnacles. I took them with me to the end of the beach, holding them as I sat on the rock I knew so well, watching the waves. After a time I left the sea’s offerings on the rock and walked back to Vila Baleira, never looking behind me.

  It was difficult to say goodbye to Rooi the next morning, but I promised to send him a sketch of Candelária.

  At the back gate of the church, Sister Amélia waited for me with a large basket and the birds in their cage. Her cheeks were flushed, and as I took the basket of her few belongings and we walked out through the gate, she gripped my arm, her bare feet suddenly faltering.

  “What is it, Sister Amélia?” I asked. The colour had left her cheeks, and her skin was now dough-coloured.

  “Everything feels … it feels too big.”

  “The square?” I looked at the small area.

  “Not just the square.” She fought to catch her breath. “The sky. The sea. Everything.”

  I led her to a bench, and we sat for a few moments. When she could breathe normally again, she said, “I’ve dreamed of walking more than my daily counted steps and seeing more than a tiny slice of sky the whole time I’ve been inside the church. And now …” She smiled. “I couldn’t sleep last night. The idea of being with the other Sisters, and the beautiful gardens of the convent—of it being real, and not just my dreams … it feels as though I’ve been truly touched by God’s hand.”

  We had a good following wind, and anchored in Funchal by late afternoon. I went with Sister Amélia to the gates of the convent. She set down the birdcage and reached for the bell cord, hesitating for just a moment, and then turned. “I won’t be able to ever do this again,” she said, as she put her arms around me and I returned her embrace.

  She wiped her eyes and pulled the cord.

  A nun slid back the grille on the heavy w
ooden door. “Is it really you, Sister Amélia?” she asked after a moment. “There have been a few whispers, but none of us knew if it was true.”

  “Yes, Sister Gabriella. I’ve returned.”

  The grille slid closed and the door opened. “Welcome back, Sister.” The two women gazed at each other for a moment, their eyes showing their pleasure.

  Sister Amélia said, “This is Diamantina. She brought me from Porto Santo.”

  As she picked up the birdcage, Sister Gabriella looked at the lovebirds and said, “They will enjoy living in the garden. And we will all enjoy them as well.”

  “You will come for the yearly visits?” Sister Amélia asked me. “We will only be able to speak through the grille—”

  Sister Gabriella cleared her throat. “Monthly. We are allowed monthly visits now.”

  Sister Amélia shook her head as if this were another wonder.

  “Of course I’ll come,” I said. “Every month. I can’t wait for you to meet Candelária,” I told her, and then watched as she went into the cloisters of Catarina of the Cross.

  As I walked up the hill to Quinta Isabella, I felt peaceful for the first time since Espirito had told me he was leaving.

  I had loved Espirito, and he me. To have been loved and given love in return was more than many ever knew. I had been able to bring some measure of happiness to Sister Amélia. I had my own small sum of money from my work in the adega, more than enough to buy passage to Lisboa to see Dona Beatriz. I didn’t know what I would find, but I was confident that once I spoke to her I might be able to put together a bright new life on Madeira. Maybe Henry Duncan would hire me—and Cristiano—to work for him.

  As for Bonifacio … I would try to teach myself patience. With Espirito gone, perhaps he would be less suspicious of everything I did. As Candelária grew older, I would explain to her that the things Papa said were not to concern her.

  More than anything, as I approached the quinta, I was looking forward to holding Candelária, feeling her little arms around my neck, smelling her sweet child’s scent.

  And so, yes, I told myself, I would forge happiness out of life, even without Espirito.

  Ah, life. What lessons you set before us, so that we will never forget to be humble.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  “You’re back, Diamantina,” Nini said, smiling. She and Binta and Raimundo were sitting in the kitchen, empty plates in front of them. “Cristiano has eaten, and he and Tiago have gone to town. Sit down, and I’ll get you some dinner.”

  I looked around. “Where is Candelária?”

  Binta and Nini stared at me. Raimundo shook his head.

  “What is it? Where is she?” I slowly set my bag at my feet.

  “But …” Binta looked at Nini and back at me. “Bonifacio said …”

  “Said what?” My voice was sharp.

  “He came to us only an hour after he took you to the waterfront. He told us you’d changed your mind and wanted to take Candelária with you. He said he had to go to Lisboa, but first he would take her to you on the ship,” Binta said, blinking rapidly. “Candelária was so excited.”

  The kitchen was too hot. “You let her go with him?” I heard my voice, shrill. “Why? Why did you let her go?”

  “He’s her father. How could I stop him? And why would I?” Binta said.

  A terrible fear came over me, and then whiteness.

  “If she isn’t with you”—Nini’s voice came from far away, as though through water, and I was pushed down, onto a bench— “where is she?”

  There was the hard smoothness of tin at my lips, and then water in my mouth. I swallowed. As the whiteness edged away, I said, “He took her.”

  “Bonifacio took her? He took her with him to Lisboa?” Raimundo asked.

  A name was nudging at the back of my mind. I would remember it.

  “To Lisboa?” Binta repeated.

  “A convent. He took her to a convent.” I stood, my legs shaky. I straightened and wiped my forehead with my palm. “Raimundo, take me to Funchal in a cart. I need to buy my passage to Lisboa right now. For tomorrow.”

  “It’s too late. The ticketing is closed. When it opens in the morning—”

  “The morning?” I cried, my voice loud. “I can’t wait until morning.” I walked around and around the kitchen, then stopped, suddenly remembering Candelária’s anxiety about me leaving. Something scares me. It’s not the ship, Mama, not the ship.

  “I’ll take you first thing, Diamantina,” Raimundo told me.

  At the kind, worried expression on his face, I grabbed my bag and ran out of the kitchen, through the yard and up the path to the cottage. I slammed the door, my back against it as if keeping out some danger, and dropped my bag with a thud. I went into my bedroom and opened the wardrobe. All her clothing was still there, the small dresses and shifts and stockings and her extra boots. Then I knelt at Candelária’s wooden chest and pulled everything out, scattering the toys on the floor. I didn’t know what I was searching for. I picked up a rag doll—her favourite doll—and pressed it against myself, looking around with jerky, panicked movements. A folded letter sat on my dresser. I scrambled to my feet and grabbed it, and unfolded the parchment with trembling fingers.

  Diamantina,

  For close to five years I have raised my brother’s child.

  Like you, she was born of immoral parents, and from birth there has been the threat that she will follow your crooked course as you followed your mother’s. I have already seen the evidence, and it is my duty to prevent this further spread of evil. She must be shown God’s light, and since you are incapable of knowing it, you are incapable of teaching it. Realizing that your mother’s curse will be driven out of her, and that she will be shown how to walk the righteous path, and live purely and in a state of grace, will be your reward on this earth, for you can expect none in the next life.

  I embark on a new journey, following the direction God—not man—has set for me.

  It was unsigned. The black ink gleamed. I saw the thin loops of each letter in Bonifacio’s familiar crabbed style. I saw my hand, with my wedding ring, holding the paper. I dropped it, and it fell to the floor in a slow, delicate flutter. Before me I saw Candelária, her pointed chin and arched brows. A little sylph, a slender, graceful child. I thought of how she looked at the world around her in wonder, with my mother’s eyes. I thought of Sister Amélia as we crossed from Porto Santo to Madeira, and how her wimple prevented her from seeing anything other than what was directly in front of her.

  The blood drained from my head as it had in the kitchen, and I had to take long, deep breaths. I put my hands on the dresser and looked at myself in the mirror over it. The woman who stared back was not familiar. She was older, her face rigid. Frozen, like the ice my father had described when I was a child.

  Convento Teresa de Jesus. That was the name Bonifacio had once spoken. “Convento Teresa de Jesus,” I whispered to that stricken, frozen face.

  I was still in the travelling clothes I’d worn for my voyage to Porto Santo when I stood before the clerk at the ticketing office the next morning. I had lain on the bed fully dressed but hadn’t slept, waiting for the light. I heard Cristiano come in shortly after dark but couldn’t bear to see him, couldn’t bear to utter the terrible thing that had happened.

  I would tell him when I had the strength, tell him that instead of taking him to Brazil, as he’d threatened, Bonifacio had taken Candelária away.

  “A ticket to Lisboa. Senhora Rivaldo,” the clerk confirmed as he wrote, yawning, and then asked, “And who is your travelling companion?”

  When I didn’t answer, he peered at me. “Senhora? Whom do you travel with?”

  “I go alone.”

  He shook his head. “I cannot sell passage to a woman travelling alone to Lisboa. It’s against our policy. You can have anyone accompany you—servant, relative, it matters not—but you cannot go alone,” he repeated. “You must go with another woman, or a male of at least twelve
years.”

  “Fine. Fine,” I said, taking more réis from my bag. “Give me the second passage.”

  “And the name?”

  “Cristiano Rivaldo.”

  “A relation,” he stated.

  “Yes.”

  “Age?”

  “Thirteen.”

  He painstakingly wrote. “Passage for two adults on the Bom Jesus, leaving in two days’ time.”

  “You have nothing for today, or tomorrow?”

  “Two days’ time,” the clerk repeated, and pushed the tickets across the counter.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

  Boarding 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.