The Devil on Her Tongue Page 11

  Then, in a far corner, I noticed a man who wasn’t a sailor. I assumed he was a wine merchant, as there was little reason for anyone else to come to Porto Santo. He was well dressed in brown breeches and a long jacket with a striped waistcoat of lambswool over a white linen shirt. His black hair, gleaming in the candlelight, was smoothly combed back and tied at the nape with a strip of fabric. His skin was clear above his neatly trimmed beard. As he raised his tin cup to his lips, he looked in my direction, letting his eyes linger for a moment, and then away.

  I took out a bottle I’d blended the week before, poured a cup and went to him. “Good evening, senhor,” I said, my box of dominoes under one arm, holding the wine towards him with the other hand. I expected he would react as the sailors did, with a wink or gap-toothed smile. But this man stood, bowing slightly from the waist.

  “Boa noite, senhorita,” he said, and remained standing.

  There was a shouted curse and a burst of laughter from the French sailors at the next table.

  “May I help you in some way?” he asked.

  “I play dominoes with the customers. Would you care for a game?”

  “No. No, thank you.”

  I put the cup in front of him. “I’ve made a special blend of wine for you. I know you’ll find this more palatable than Rooi’s usual offering. A drink for those who play is on the house.”

  He eyed the cup suspiciously.

  “Please. As my guest. As a welcome to Porto Santo.”

  His polite expression didn’t change. “I’m perfectly fine with the Verdelho the innkeeper served me,” he said. “I’m quite familiar with it.”

  “You’re from Madeira?” I asked, wanting him to invite me to sit down.

  “Yes.”

  “May I sit down?” I said finally, and did so without waiting for his consent. My only excuse for my boldness was my strange mood, and my renewed sense of loneliness after seeing Abílio.

  As he sat, I opened the domino box. “Just a quick game, senhor,” I said. “You’ll enjoy it.” I leaned forward as I spoke, and breathed deeply. He smelled sweet, not of some artificial scent or pomade … What was it? I leaned closer, closing my eyes, and breathed in again.

  “Senhorita?” he said, and I realized I must appear a fool. It was grapes. I smelled grapes. Yes. He was a wine merchant.

  I straightened and spread the tiles on the table. “Do you live in Funchal, senhor? I’m sure you do—such a fine-looking gentleman. I hope to go there someday. I’d love to see the—”

  “Perhaps you didn’t hear me,” he said, his voice louder. He pushed the cup I had brought towards me. His fingers were long and slender, his nails clean. “I’m not interested in your special drink, nor in your game, or in any game you imagine I would be a willing partner in. I’m not here for that.”

  My hand froze over the bones. It was as if he’d punched me in the stomach. I stood, trying to breathe, setting the tiles back into their box. As I turned to go, he said, “Don’t forget your wine.”

  I ignored him and hurried to the counter. I told Rooi I had to leave.

  “You’re still sick?” he asked.

  Without answering, I hurried out, keeping my head turned away from the well-dressed man.

  I realized how I had appeared to him. If I was honest with myself, what would I have done if this clean, attractive man had made me feel important for one night? Made me feel I was worthy of his touch?

  If I had been a praying woman, I would have gone to confession.

  Later, reading at the table by the light of my last candle, my humiliation faded and anger took its place—anger at myself over losing my evening’s wages. What did it matter what the man thought of me? I knew who I was, and he didn’t.

  I slept restlessly, not quite able to rid myself of the expression in the man’s eyes as he had looked at me. I thought of my mother, eating less and less, fading before my eyes. I felt the overwhelming need to be away from this place.

  The next morning, as I walked up the beach, I decided to ask Father da Chagos if he had a letter for me. It had been over a year since I’d last stood at the church doors and waited for him. And I doubted that he would seek me out should something actually arrive. As to the handsome man from the inn—I hoped he had left on the morning packet, and would never return to Porto Santo.

  I stood at the open church doors, waiting for a parishioner I could ask to please bring Father da Chagos to me. I leaned against the door frame. The sun was hot, and I took a step inside, seeking the cooler dimness.

  The church appeared empty, but I heard the murmur of prayer. After a moment the prayer stopped, and low weeping echoed faintly against the high walls. I edged along the back of the church. And then I saw him: a man, dressed in dark breeches and a white linen shirt, prostrate on the floor, arms outstretched, his forehead pressed against the hard stone as he prayed and wept. It wasn’t an islander; none of the men dressed like this. I first thought it must be the man from the inn, but realized that this man’s hair was shorn closely to his head.

  He got to his knees then, and I stepped back into the shadows. Facing the altar, the man struck his own forehead with his fists. I was shocked at the violence of his blows and the involuntary grunts he made as he beat himself.

  I left, no longer wanting to wait for Father da Chagos.

  I bought a skinned rabbit and some carrots at the market, planning to make one of my mother’s favourite meals to tempt her to eat. As I started home, the air was damp and soft on my skin. It had rained the night before, a steady, warm downpour, and the streets were sticky with red mud.

  As I turned a corner, the wheels of a cart pulled by a shaggy-haired donkey slid in the mud and came towards me. I tried to jump out of the way as the driver pulled hard on the reins, but the wheels churned and kept sliding, and I fell, my basket flying. The cart stopped just short of hitting me. Stunned, I pushed myself to my knees.

  The driver leapt out of the cart. He took me by the elbow and helped me up, brushing a clot of damp dung from my sleeve. By his shorn head and the angry welts on his forehead, I knew it was the man from the church. He had an asymmetrical face, his right eye just slightly larger than his left, and a long nose. The skin under his eyes was dark, as though he hadn’t slept well for a long time.

  “Senhora,” he said. “Please. Forgive me. I’m sorry to have upset you.”

  I was rarely treated with such respect. Unexpectedly, my throat grew tight.

  “And here … your basket.” He retrieved it from the mud. As he handed me the woven basket, the feathery tops of the carrots and the rabbit’s head hanging from it, he said, “I trust you haven’t injured yourself.” He glanced at my skirt, wet and muddy at the knees. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I was unable to keep the donkey from sliding in the mud.”

  “I’m fine,” I told him. “Thank you, senhor.” I cleared my throat, wanting to swallow the sudden hot lump, fearing I might weep from his unexpected courtesy. I took a step, and grimaced at the throbbing pain in my ankle.

  “You are hurt.”

  “It’s nothing.” I shook my head, trying not to show my discomfort.

  “Is your home close?” He glanced around.

  “I live at Ponta da Calheta, the far end of the beach.”

  “Then allow me to drive you.”

  “It’s a long way on the rough cart track above the beach,” I said.

  “You would do me an honour by allowing me to see you safely home to your husband, senhora.” We were the same height, but there was a slightness to him that made him seem smaller. “I am Bonifacio Rivaldo of Madeira.”

  I thought of his odd behaviour in the church. When I breathed in, I detected perspiration and incense and something darker coming off his skin. “I don’t need your help,” I said, and started to hobble away.

  “Please. I ask nothing in return. I feel responsible.”

  I turned back and studied him for another moment. None of the island men would ever treat me with such consi
deration. I imagined painfully making my way home.

  “All right,” I said. “I will put my trust in your generosity, senhor.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  He drove in silence, urging the plodding donkey along the winding, sandy path humped with patches of rough seagrass. When we arrived at the end, where a slope led down to our isolated hut on the edge of the sea, Senhor Rivaldo stepped from the cart and held up his hand to help me down.

  “Thank you,” I said, taking his hand. His knuckles were like a row of pebbles.

  My mother came to the doorway, shading her eyes.

  “Mama, this is Senhor Rivaldo. I hurt my ankle, and he brought me home,” I said, as my mother stood before us in her layers of rags, circles of charms tied on seaweed about her neck.

  Senhor Rivaldo appeared undaunted by her appearance. “Good day, senhora,” he said, removing his hat and bowing to my mother. Then he turned and looked at the sea. “You have a wonderful view of the ocean. And you’re so close to Ilhéu de Baixo,” he said, pointing across the channel to the islet. “I’ve heard the old mines are still there.” He looked at me. “Does your husband go over to collect lime for your fire?”

  “No,” I said, not correcting his assumption.

  “I’m sure there is a profound peace in this lonely spot. Communication with God in a place such as this would come so much more easily than amidst the chaos of town.”

  At the mention of God, I turned from him and went to my mother, handing her the basket. She had been staring intently at Senhor Rivaldo, but now went into the hut with the food. “Thank you again for bringing me home.” I stood in the doorway, waiting for him to leave.

  “You’re welcome. I hope your ankle heals, senhora …” He waited.

  “I am Diamantina,” I said. “Senhorita.”

  He nodded. “I’m staying with Father da Chagos for the festival of Our Lady of Grace. He’s an old friend. I brought him a supply of wine for the festival.”

  “You’re a wine merchant.” Perhaps he had come with the other man.

  He didn’t answer, climbing into the cart. “I’m sure I’ll see you at the festival tomorrow, Senhorita Diamantina.”

  “I won’t be there,” I said.

  “You won’t be attending the Mass, or the procession?”

  “No.”

  “Not even the festivities afterwards?”

  I was tired of his questions, and now wanted him to leave. “Excuse me, but I must get back to my mother.” I went inside, glad to hear the creak of the wooden wheels as Senhor Rivaldo pulled away.

  Two days later, I limped up from the sea with a small catch of sardines to see the cart with the same shaggy donkey in the traces on the dune track. Senhor Rivaldo stood outside our hut. He was again studying Ilhéu de Baixo.

  “Senhor Rivaldo,” I said, and he turned, removing his hat. There was new bruising on his forehead.

  “I trust your ankle is healing, Senhorita Diamantina,” he said, looking at my bare feet covered in wet sand. I had wrapped my sore ankle in seaweed smeared with a paste of honey and figs.

  “It’s better,” I told him, although it still ached.

  We stood in silence.

  “Father da Chagos spoke about you,” he finally said.

  So now he knew I was not one of the priest’s flock but a bastard of an unholy union, a fallen woman despised by the town. I crossed my arms over my chest. “And, senhor? What do you think of what he told you?”

  He didn’t answer, but went back to the cart and returned with an intricately carved basket of willow branches. “I noticed that your basket was close to wearing through.”

  I looked from the basket to his face.

  “Please.” He held it closer. “Since you weren’t able to enjoy the festival’s specialties, I brought you a few samples.”

  A cloth covered the top, but I smelled pork sausage and sweet potato bread. I thought of Abílio, bringing us that first basket of food when we were so hungry. But I was not that hungry girl any longer.

  “How is your mother?” he asked.

  “She is as before.” I didn’t take the basket, and gave him no invitation to speak further.

  “I understand from Father da Chagos your father is no longer on the island.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Will you not accept the basket?” he asked. “I only brought it as a further gesture of apology, for your turned ankle.” He leaned forward just the tiniest bit as he spoke, inclining his head as if encouraging me to speak towards his ear. Perhaps he was slightly deaf. Today the smell of incense was stronger, the skin under his eyes darker. He set the basket on the ground between us, then went back to the cart.

  “I will return to Madeira on the afternoon boat tomorrow,” he said, climbing in. “May I pay you another visit before I leave?”

  “Why?” I asked, frowning.

  His throat flexed as he swallowed.

  There was no wind, and the sky was blue and clear. Gulls hung low, gliding soundlessly as they watched the water for movement.

  “I don’t know what you think of me, Senhor Rivaldo, but I want you to know I am a respectable woman. I thank you for the gift, but to suggest you would wish to come back again is … There is nothing for you here. Nothing. Do you understand?”

  His narrow face darkened, and his hands went to his waist in a practised gesture, as if searching for something that wasn’t there. “I’m sorry, senhorita. I meant no offence.” But his expression didn’t indicate that he was sorry, and his tone verged on anger.

  Before he had climbed into the cart, I was inside my hut, the door firmly shut. I set the basket on the table and unpacked it. As well as the food, there was a paper with a verse written in a tight, careful hand: The name of the Lord is a strong tower; the righteous run to it and are safe. Proverbs 18:10. Underneath it, Senhor Rivaldo had drawn a small circle with rays being emitted from it. Inside the circle was a cross, and the letters IHS. In the name of the Jesuit Brotherhood, he had written underneath. I took out a candle; it too was marked with the Jesuit symbol.

  My mother got up from her pallet to stare at the symbol. “You see?” she said.

  “What?”

  “The flaming sun.”

  I frowned and turned from her. “Just misplaced religious fervour. It appears he thinks we need saving.”

  Late the next day, after the packet had left the wharf, I was washing the stoop of the inn.

  I looked up to see Father da Chagos walking purposefully towards me. He held out a square of paper. I dropped my dripping rag and scrambled to my feet, running to him.

  “At last,” I said, my eyes filling with tears. I took the paper from him, my hands trembling, and stood in the hot afternoon sunshine as he walked away.

  I went into the inn and sat on a bench, pressing the letter from my father to my chest, savouring this moment. My hands shook so badly I tore the thin paper as I broke the wax seal.

  My dear Senhorita Diamantina,

  Father da Chagos informed me you were literate, and so I took it upon myself to leave this letter for you.

  You were correct in that I did have a reason to seek out your company. I had hoped to make this reason clear by speaking further with you, but it proved difficult for me to convey such a complicated situation in our brief conversation.

  I am in need of a woman to care for a child recently come into my custody. Father da Chagos suggested you might be amenable.

  Should you wish, you may send correspondence to me through Kipling’s Wine Merchants in Funchal.

  Bonifacio Rivaldo

  Under his signature he had drawn the same Jesuit symbol, and written, What if some did not have faith? Will their lack of faith nullify God’s faithfulness? Not at all! Romans 3:3–4.

  I dropped the paper. It lay open at my feet, the crabbed copperplate mocking me.

  I stepped on it, pushing it back and forth with my foot until it was torn through. Then I picked it up and crumpled it. I took it back outside to the
stoop and threw it towards the wharf, as hard and as far as I could, too disappointed and angry to cry.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  It had been three days since my mother had eaten. I made a rich fragateria, filled with pieces of fish, tomato, onion and potato. I sat down at the table across from her and picked up my spoon.

  “Mama, why won’t you eat? You keep saying you aren’t ill, and yet you look ill.”

  “I am changing into my old form, readying myself. That’s what you’re seeing.”

  I put down my spoon. “Readying yourself for what?” I asked, although I knew.

  “It’s almost time for me to leave you. It will be a time of great peace for us both.”

  “Mama,” I said, swallowing. “Don’t talk like that. And don’t say I will be peaceful when—”

  “There’s no reason for fear,” she interrupted. “It’s as the fates determine. It’s as it should be.” She rose then and lay on her bed, smiling at me as though I were a small girl and had done something to please her. “It’s a time for celebration, and for truths,” she said, and then turned on her side. In a few moments she was asleep.

  “Mama,” I whispered, and then I put my face into my hands and wept.

  The next morning, my mother was awake when I arose and uncovered Zarco and Blanca, and as usual they immediately called joyously of their love, preening each other’s feathers with enthusiasm. I filled their little bowls with seeds and bits of fruit and fresh water. My mother watched me, sitting on the edge of her pallet. “Is there any honey? I would like a hot drink,” she said.

  “Yes, we have honey,” I said, pleased she wanted something.

  When I brought her the cup, she said, “Sit beside me.” After she had taken a few sips, she said, “You know how your father came to me from the sea.”

  I nodded.

  “His hair was dulled by the salt water, but I knew that when it dried it would be as golden as the sand. Like yours.” Her voice was stronger than it had been in some while, and a tiny flush had come to her cheeks and lips. “I touched him with my pole, and he opened his eyes. Do you know what he thought of me, Diamantina?” She smiled.