The Devil on Her Tongue

by Linda Holeman

  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.”

  Again I tried to speak rationally. “I am her mother. She does not need to be in the orphanage.”

  The woman’s expression was inscrutable. “Frankly, your presence is surprising. Your husband informed me that you were no longer in the child’s life.”

  “Not in her life?”

  “He informed us that you had left the child. For unsavoury reasons.”

  “Unsavoury?” I couldn’t stop repeating her words.

  “He said you had chosen another man over your marriage and child. After what she’d … experienced, he said, he felt this was the best place for her. He did not give the reason he felt incapable to raise her until she was ready to enter as a novice, and it was not my place to make this inquiry.”

  I shook my head. “No, no, Madre. This is a complete fiction. No,” I said again. “I would never leave my daughter. He took her from me, Madre. He took her.” Although I spoke calmly, my heart leapt at the tiniest movement of the woman’s thick eyebrows.

  “His was a most compelling case, senhora, and his sincerity touching. He wants the best for his child.”

  I tried to breathe evenly and speak very slowly and carefully, knowing how important what I said next would be. “May I speak frankly, Madre? My husband is … he is unwell. He imagines things which are illusions. I’m afraid he suffers a malady, a form of brain fever. Did you not witness anything irrational in his behaviour?”

  “He was very lucid,” she said. “Very convincing.”

  “No,” I said firmly. “My husband has lost his way. I only ask that you consider that his words may have been affected by his inability to reason clearly.”

  She studied me, her expression never altering. “You can understand my doubt over the best way to approach this situation, senhora. The child’s father came to me with one story and the child’s mother now comes with another.”

  My blood thudded in my ears.

  “As I have told you,” she said, “your husband presented a compelling story about what he described as your unacceptable behaviour. Have you some way to refute that story?”

  I stood again, this time clutching my bag. “I am here, Madre. I did not leave my child. Bonifacio did not speak the truth about me no longer being in my daughter’s life.”

  “Bonifacio?”

  “Yes. My husband. The child’s father, Bonifacio.”

  She expelled a long breath. “I’m further confused, senhora.” Her voice held the slightest edge of impatience. “The child was brought here by Senhor Abílio Perez, and the dowry paid by him.”

  “I beg your pardon, but it was not Abílio Perez who brought her. My husband Bonifacio is about my height, with thinning dark hair threaded with grey. Is this not the man you refer to?”

  She shook her head. “No. This man was quite tall, with thick dark hair. No grey.” She looked thoughtful. “He had a scar on his neck, just under his jaw.”

  I tried to lick my lips, but had no saliva.

  “Senhora, perhaps you should sit down. May I offer you some water? I can see that you’re very disturbed by all of this. Was the man who brought your child here her father, or not?” When I didn’t answer, she said, “Senhora Rivaldo, surely you understand that with all this confusion I can’t release the girl to you.”

  “Please, Madre. Tell me what to do, tell me …” As I heard my voice verging on hysteria, I stopped.

  “I’m afraid I can only release her back to Senhor Perez. A father’s pledge of his child is not easily revoked.”

  “But—”

  She extended her hand towards the door. “That is all for today, Senhora Rivaldo. Perhaps the only thing for you to do now is speak to your husband.”

  “Yes,” I said, fighting for composure. “I will bring her father back, and we can straighten this out. But first, Madre, please. Let me see my daughter.”

  “It would not be prudent. Seeing you would only distress her. We have already begun her spiritual training. I’m certain you do not wish to confuse her.”

  “But she has been taken from me.”

  “By her father,” the Abbess said firmly.

  I knew how she viewed me at this moment, and it was a time for caution. “I only want to assure myself that she is well. She must be frightened and bewildered, as she had no preparation for being removed from her home. Or from me. If I could talk to her for only a moment, Madre. Please.”

  “As I told you, I don’t think it wise. But …” She glanced down, touching her rosary again, and that one word carried the strength to help me wait as she paused. “I do understand your concern,” she finally said, rising, and went to the door, opened it and spoke quietly.

  The Sister who had brought me to her appeared. “Take Senhora Rivaldo to the south garden, Sister Matilde. There she can view her child. She is not to speak to her, and the child is not to see her.”

  I stepped forward. “I’d only tell her—”

  “I’m allowing you to see her,” the Abbess said. Her tone held a warning.

  “Thank you,” I said then, knowing I must not do anything to tip the balance of this fragile moment.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

  Candelária sat on a small bench at the far side of the rectangular courtyard, open to the sky and shadowed by high walls on all four sides. The rain had stopped, but the stone walls were weeping with damp. Surely the bench she sat on was also damp. Although the Abbess had called it the south garden, there were no trees, no flowers. It was a courtyard of grey stone: stone walls, stone floor, cold and surely echoing, should there be any sound.

  I watched Candelária through a grille. Her head was down. She wore brown boots and a brown tunic over a white blouse. I had never seen her so still, so melancholy. I had never dressed her in brown. “Why is she all alone?” I asked. “Why isn’t she with other girls?” Sister Matilde put her finger to her lips. “Until she has been closely observed to make sure she will not influence the others negatively, she remains on her own for certain periods of each day. It is this way for all of the new girls. These intervals give her time to consider her spiritual learnings, as well as to grow used to silence.”

  “Negatively influence the others? She’s not even five years old,” I said angrily. I leaned forward to call Candelária’s name, to have her come to the grille so that I could comfort her, and tell her that whatever lies her father—or Abílio Perez—had told her about me were not true. That I did not wish this for her, and that I was here to take her away. That I would never let her go.

  Sister Matilde put her hand on my arm and shook her head. “I only want to bring her comfort,” I said. “To let her know her mother is here.”

  “You heard the Abbess. You are not to speak to her. You must believe that the child’s Heavenly Father will bring her all the comfort she needs,” she whispered, and then pulled on my arm with surprising strength. I was wrenched from the grille, and the sight of my child. “You can see she is well cared for. You may take solace from that,” Sister Matilde said.

  I stared at her in disbelief. Could she truly believe that any mother would be consoled at the sight of her child so alone and bereft? Then she led me back through the long, confusing passageways to the door. I emerged into a weak sun at the front of the convent.

  Cristiano came to me. “She’s not here?”

  “Yes,” I said, and he smiled with relief, saying, “Thanks to God.”

  “They won’t let me take her yet. Not yet,” I repeated, and we went towards the waiting carriage, the two white horses shaking their heads to dispel the flies that had returned with the sun.

  Cristiano
held my arm as I climbed in. “Where will we go now?”

  “Take us to Santa Maria de Belém,” I told the driver, giving him the name of the street I knew so well after corresponding with Beatriz these last five years. “And hurry,” I urged him, as if the next hour might make a difference in Candelária’s life.

  As the horses trotted along the main avenida that ran beside the waterfront of Santa Maria de Belém, I wondered, over and over, what Abílio had to do with this. How had Candelária come into his life, and why had he taken her to the convent?

  “Diamantina?” Cristiano said, and I turned to him. “You’re whispering. What are you saying?”

  I shook my head. “Everything is so confusing. I don’t … I don’t understand what has happened.”

  “To Candelária?”

  “Everything. It’s everything,” I said.

  The driver stopped at last outside a huge and elegant two-storey structure of white stone, gleaming in the sun. It was surrounded with formal gardens shaded by tall trees. There was a coach house on one side, and through its open doors I saw carriages, chaises and carts.

  We climbed down and I started towards the pathway.

  “Diamantina,” Cristiano called. “You must pay the driver again.”

  I fumbled for more réis and put them into the driver’s hand. Cristiano carried our cases as we walked along the pathway through flower beds and small fruit trees, now dropping their leaves in the autumn air. At the grand door I pulled the bell cord.

  A black-skinned man in a fine set of rich brown velvet breeches and jacket, the wide ribbons of his white shirt tied in an elaborate bow at his neck, opened the door to us. He had a swollen eye and badly bruised cheekbone. I gave my name. He looked surprised, and then frowned. “Senhora Rivaldo?” he repeated, and I nodded.

  “I am a good friend of Dona Beatriz,” I said.