The Devil on Her Tongue Read online

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I was trembling as I lay down on his pallet, the light of the fire and the candles on the table flickering over the ceiling. My breath was ragged with excitement, but there was also a drumming of panic in my throat. It was not only anxiety for the physical act, but a great fear for how my life was about to change. How I was going to be changed.

  My teeth chattered as Abílio lay beside me and stroked my face. “It will be all right, Diamantina,” he said softly, then slowly pulled up my skirt, running his hands over my knees, my thighs. In the flickering light I saw his pupils pulse as he pushed my skirt to my waist. I fought not to cover myself with my hands, and my legs instinctively closed. He gently pushed them apart.

  He leaned down then, as if to kiss me, and I waited, but his lips did not graze mine. His breath smelled of the sweet wine we had drunk before we lay together, but there was more. His body gave off another odour, a quick, dancing smell of excitement, something musky and unfamiliar.

  As he outlined my lips with his index finger, he murmured, “You smell wild, of the salty sea and the clean wind. And of … what is it? What is your sweetness?”

  He was taking in my scent as I took in his.

  I didn’t answer, but when I saw his hands work at the lacing of his breeches, I turned my head away, too shy to look at him. Then he was again pushing apart my knees, which strained against his hands as if with a spirit of their own. “It’s all right, Diamantina,” he whispered again, and I willed my knees to fall open as he lay on top of me. I put my hands around his back. And then his flesh burned against mine and there was a sudden stabbing pain. I sucked in my breath with the shock of it, my hands tightening on his back. I kept my eyes closed the entire time, waiting for the rhythmic waves of discomfort to be over. I listened to the quiet sounds Abílio made, almost like praying, and felt his cross swing against my ear with each of his slow thrusts. Suddenly he stopped with a quiet, almost helpless cry, and then his chest dropped against mine, although he didn’t allow his full weight to fall on me. I felt the scrape of his cheek, soft skin under sharp stubble.

  I opened my eyes and he moved beside me, shifting so that his head lay on my breast. His eyes were closed, and I saw the length of his eyelashes against his cheeks. I put my hand into his hair and finally felt its soft thickness. I wanted him to tell me something, needed to know what he thought at this moment. What he thought of me. That he allowed me to see him so vulnerable filled me with a delicious sense of power. He breathed slowly and heavily, as if falling asleep. I waited.

  He opened his eyes. “You were as sweet as you smell. I love a sweet new fruit.”

  It wasn’t what I wanted to hear.

  “What’s this?” he asked, lifting the silver amulet and studying it.

  “My father was born with the birth casing over his face,” I told him. “His mother kept it. Inside the silver is a piece of that caul, good fortune for sailors. It saved him from drowning.”

  “If you believe that story,” he said. As he laced his breeches, I sat up, pulling down my skirt and straightening my blouse. The candles had burned low, and the fire was only glowing embers. He urged me down beside him again. “Don’t go. Stay the night.”

  “I can’t. My mother …”

  He sat up as I stood, trying to ignore the sudden weakness in my legs. He caught my hand and kissed the palm, and I again put my fingers through his hair. Then I left. He didn’t accompany me.

  As I walked down the beach, fully lit by the moon, I was glad it was too late for anyone from the other huts to see me leave Abílio’s. In front of my own hut I tucked my skirt up around my waist and waded into the sea to my knees, pulling out the slimy sponge and tossing it as far as I could into the waves. In the moonlight I saw, on my inner thighs, lines of dried blood, thin as if painted with grass strokes.

  I let the cool water wash me, wanting to smell only of the sea when I went inside. But my mother lifted her head, studying me as I crossed the room to my pallet. I had to look away from her sharp gaze.

  Later, as we lay in the darkness, she said, “Men do not always do what they promise, Diamantina.”

  I said nothing, for I had no answer. I did not feel shame, but somehow I was sorry that she knew what I’d done.

  It was raining heavily again the next morning as I ran up the beach on my way to the church. I had slept longer than usual, and Sister Amélia would be wondering where I was. But my steps slowed as I drew closer to Abílio’s hut. As if pushed by the stinging rain, I stopped in front of his door. Of course, I’d known I would stop. Otherwise why had I put in the sponge?

  He opened it immediately, as though he’d been waiting. I stepped inside and he put his hand on the curve of my hip, brushing my wet hair from my cheeks.

  “I shouldn’t have come,” I said, my words unconvincing even to me, my voice breathless from running, from the pleasure of being so near him, lust filling me with a surprising strength.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” he said, and pressed against me.

  “It isn’t right, what we did. We shouldn’t do it again, Abílio,” I said, feeling him already hard. I don’t know why I felt the need to say such words. Perhaps I wanted him to convince me there was nothing forbidden in being together.

  His smile was easy, apparently boyish. But there was something behind it, something not boyish at all. Not easy. Rain drummed on the roof. He poured me a cup of warm water sweetened with honey. I drank a mouthful, and then touched my mouth to his. He licked his lips, staring at me. He dipped his thumb into the cup and made the sign of the cross on my forehead with the warm, sweet water.

  “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen. Now you are baptized,” he said, with that same, slightly strange smile.

  I slapped lightly at his hand, smiling back. “I don’t need to be baptized.”

  “But now I can marry you,” he said, and I drew a sharp breath, my smile falling away. “Even without a dowry.” He took the cup from my hand and we moved together to his pallet.

  Later, I pulled down my skirt, still damp from the rain, and searched on the pallet for the twine he’d pulled from the end of my braid. Now I can marry you, he’d said. “I’m so late for the kitchen. Sister Amélia will think I’m not coming.”

  “Don’t go.”

  “I have to.”

  “Will you come to me when you’re done?”

  Now I can marry you. “Of course,” I said.

  A few mornings later, after Abílio and I had spent an hour on his pallet, I sat combing my hair with my fingers. He stretched, yawning contentedly.

  “I bought you some green ribbon. There, on the shelf.” He gestured to a length of shiny satin. “I thought it would be pretty with your hair,” he said, stopping my busy fingers. “I’ll walk into Vila Baleira with you. I’m expecting a letter from my uncle with news about a better position with him in Funchal. After a few months I’ll have made enough money for the passage to Brazil,” he said. As he spoke, he absently stroked my arm, running his fingers up and down my skin under my loose sleeve. “I can’t wait to leave this island for good. I’m not made for island life. I need more.”

  I had waited, each day, for him to talk again about us marrying. I hadn’t told my mother, although I wanted to. I wanted her to know that she had no reason to be suspicious of Abílio.

  “Your skin is so fine, Diamantina,” he said. “Portuguese women don’t have such fine skin.” He moved closer to the wall, making room for me, and I lay beside him again, pressing the full length of my body to his, my face against his neck.

  “When will we marry, Abílio?” I whispered, needing to hear him speak to me of it as I pulled him on top of me. I wrapped my thighs around his hips, my feet over his lower back. As he unlaced his breeches, I arched to meet him and pressed my lips against his neck. His skin, under my tongue, tasted of salt.

  Afterwards, we lay beside each other in silence. He hadn’t answered my question. But he held my hand, winding his fingers th
rough mine, and pulled my head onto his shoulder. He would take me to Brazil. I would find my father. I didn’t know what I would do about my mother; she seemed weaker every day, and I couldn’t leave her like this. But I wouldn’t think about that right now. I wanted to savour my joy. I wanted to hold on to this feeling.

  I hadn’t felt such comfort since my father left.

  I thought of Abílio as I fell asleep, and he was in my thoughts when I awoke. Slowly, fine weather returned, and I was able to coax the garden to life, and once again caught rabbits and birds and scooped living creatures from the sea.

  I went to work at the church, but could hardly wait to run back along the beach to Alílio’s hut. Sometimes we didn’t speak, and we never undressed, simply pushing our clothing out of the way. He never even took off his boots.

  Each time I came to him, Abílio had some of his day’s catch waiting, as well as something for me: a small bolt of cloth and embroidery floss, or two or three candles, a painted dish and once a bracelet of hammered copper. I loved thinking of him in the shops in Vila Baleira, picking out what he would give me.

  My mother didn’t ask about the food or gifts I brought home, although she looked pointedly at what I held each time. Her silence annoyed me, and I stared back at her.

  It wasn’t just my mother who was aware of Abílio’s gifts. The people of the beach watched me go to Abílio’s hut and watched me leave it. They saw us walking together. And the women of the island came less and less to our hut. At first I didn’t care; I would rather be at Abílio’s than working with them.

  The busy tongues of the shopkeepers wagged of Abílio’s purchases. Soon the townspeople whispered about me as I passed.

  Did I care? I had always been the subject of gossip. Soon I would marry Abílio and leave this place.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  As I walked towards Abílio’s on my way home from work one late afternoon, my bare feet soundless on the sand, I heard his uncle’s voice. When had Rodrigo come from Funchal?

  I stopped. I didn’t plan to listen, but Rodrigo’s voice was loud as he said my name. “You have no place for her in your life.”

  I couldn’t hear Abílio’s response.

  “Make your decision, Abílio. Choose a woman, or choose your own success. We’re speaking of your life, and your life here is done, with both Lía and Marco gone. There are women everywhere, both ladies and whores. You don’t need to bring one with you. Find one—or as many as you like—once you have the money and power. They will always be there.”

  I wanted to march into the hut and tell Rodrigo Perez I was not that kind of woman. Why didn’t I? I waited, hoping to hear Abílio defend me. But I heard only Rodrigo.

  “Don’t throw your life away for a woman. Look at me. I’m successful because I didn’t let anyone hold me back. The garum business is thriving—fish sauce is highly sought after. Think about what I’m offering you: you have the ability to become one of my top men.” His voice was loud and commanding, and reminded me of his brother. “You know I have no room for both of you in my house—and before long there’ll be a child to contend with, and you’ll be even more trapped. Don’t do it, nephew. A chance like this doesn’t come along often, but girls like the witch’s daughter can be found in any alley of any town.”

  I backed away. I didn’t want Abílio to know I had heard the deeply shaming words.

  I waited all evening for Abílio to come to me. I was sure he cared for me as I did for him. The feelings that brought me to his bed time after time were unlike anything I’d ever imagined. He was going to marry me. We were going to Brazil together. He wouldn’t let his uncle dictate his actions; he was stronger than that. I pressed the satiny surface of the cowrie shell to my lips and willed him to come.

  That night I slept in small, fitful snatches, thinking I heard him tapping on the door. Twice I got up and went outside and looked up the dark beach. I blamed Rodrigo. Surely he’d taken Abílio to Rooi’s to drink wine. The third time I opened the door, my mother spoke softly.

  “He’s not coming, Diamantina.”

  I slammed the door, angry with her for knowing too much.

  The next morning, as I ran up the beach, I said hello to Rosa, who lived a few huts from Abílio’s. She had often come to me for powders for her daughter’s troublesome stomach. She turned her head and didn’t greet me, but I was so relieved to see Abílio on the bench in front of his hut that I didn’t think anything of Rosa’s response.

  I glanced through the open door; the hut was empty. “Where’s Rodrigo?”

  “How do you know he was here?”

  I swallowed. “Someone in town mentioned seeing him yesterday.”

  “He left on the packet this morning.”

  My spirits soared with relief and joy. I sat beside Abílio, our arms touching. I couldn’t let him know I’d overheard the conversation the day before; it was too humiliating. But now everything was all right. He took my hand and we went into the hut. He made love to me slowly, and afterwards, as we lay together, he reached up and untied the twine at the end of my braid. He ran his fingers through my hair, bringing it to his face. “You always smell so sweet and wild, Diamantina.”

  I sat up and put my hand on his cheek. “Abílio. I could go to Funchal with you and we could be married there, where nobody knows my … my circumstances. Then I’ll come back here to care for my mother. By the time you’ve earned the money for your passage to Brazil, I’ll have the money for mine from my father.” He needed to work for his uncle, and yet his uncle wouldn’t accept me. I wanted him to know I would wait for him. I wanted to bring him the comfort that he had brought me.

  He looked at me with an odd, unreadable expression, then closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, his lips twisted into something between a smile and a sneer. “Do you really think I would take you with me to Brazil?”

  My mouth went dry.

  He got up and stood with his back to me, lacing his breeches. “I’m leaving for Funchal tomorrow. On my own. And for good this time.” His voice was rough. Surely he was teasing me in the worst of ways. “You should leave now. I have a lot to do.”

  I couldn’t move.

  “Diamantina? I told you. Go.” Finally he looked back at me, his face dark, perhaps ashamed, or perhaps it was just shadowed by the ugliness of this moment.

  “What are you talking about? You said … you said we would marry and go to Brazil together. You said we would marry, Abílio.”

  “All women are the same. At the first hint of marriage they’re willing to open their legs.”

  The words were so unexpected that I couldn’t speak for a moment. “Stop!” I finally said. “Stop talking this way.” When he didn’t respond, I said, “This is your uncle, not you. You don’t mean what you’re saying, Abílio.”

  He sat heavily, staring at his hands spread in front of him on the table. “It’s just part of the game,” he said, his voice emotionless. “I can’t help it if you’re too naive to see the world as it really is.”

  Tears came to my eyes, tears of confusion, of horror and disbelief. I stumbled from the pallet, my skirt still caught up at one side, my blouse slipping off one shoulder. I knelt beside him and put my arms around him. “Abílio. Why are you being so cruel? What’s come over you?” I knew that Rodrigo had convinced him, but I couldn’t believe Abílio would hurt me in this way, with such ruthlessness.

  “Do you really think I would sail away with a whore from Porto Santo?” he asked, seemingly unable to stop the terrible words. He looked away from his hands and at me. “You’ll stay here all your life, on your back, while I’ll discover new worlds and make my fortune.”

  I looked into his eyes. They were brown and dull; why had I thought them so bright? There was nothing there. Nothing. He had called me a whore.

  I rose and stepped away, wiping at my cheeks and straightening my skirt. I wouldn’t let him see me like this, crying and begging. Such shock and anger filled me that my legs wobbled. “Discoverin
g new worlds? You call me a whore, and imagine yourself sailing off as an adventurer? You say you aren’t like your father, but you are. You’re every bit as cruel and vicious as him. And worse. You need your uncle to hold your hand and tell you what to do. You follow his demands like a sheep.” I attempted a laugh, but the look on Abílio’s face frightened me.

  “Don’t ever laugh at me,” he said, his eyes strangely focused. “But you—you dare to compare me to my father? You’re definitely like your mother: a witch and a whore who slept with a heathen sailor. And look at you, the bastard of that union.”

  “I know what I am.” My own smell rose from under my clothes, the rosemary fragrance I now wore, like my mother, and the remains of damp lust and of Abílio’s seed. The smell filled the air, threatening to choke me. I wouldn’t cry again.

  “A girl like you will always find a man to give her what she needs,” he went on. He wore a slightly quizzical air, as if challenging me. “Or perhaps just what she wants.”

  “I put a curse on you,” I said when I could finally speak again, when I could trust my voice to be strong. I found enough saliva to spit on the floor in front of him, needing to get the taste of hurt and rage out of my mouth. “A curse for pox, for boils, for blindness. For a life of misery.”

  His face was pale. “I’m not one of your superstitious island women, Diamantina. Your hex won’t work on me.” He gestured towards the door. “I’m finished with you. But I’ll remember you—you were made for a man’s pleasure.” He rose and took a small cloth bag, tied with a leather strip, from a nearby shelf. I heard the clink of coins. “Here.” He held it towards me.

  His words, and the offer of money, hurt more than I thought possible. “I’m glad you’re going, and glad that I’ll never again see you, Abílio Perez.” I stepped close and slapped him, one hard blow with my open hand, my fingernails scratching his cheek. The bag of réis flew from his hand to the floor. “Burn in hell,” I said.