The Devil on Her Tongue (34 page)

“No,” I said, facing him and speaking slowly. “He lives in São Paulo. In Brazil. I’m asking Bonifacio for money to send him a letter. Bonifacio? Please give me the few réis.”

“The money is not here,” he said.

Papa looked at him, then slowly rose and went into his bedroom. He came back with a small tin container, and dumped its contents on the table. “It’s all I have,” he said. “But you are welcome to take what you need.” Again he glanced at Bonifacio, who ate as though we weren’t in the room.

I picked up three coins. “Thank you, Papa. I don’t know how much it will be, but surely this is enough.”

“Take the rest,” he said, “to buy yourself something when you go to Funchal. I have no need for money.”

I looked at the pitiful smattering of coins still on the table, then put my arm around him and kissed his grizzled cheek. I was alarmed
at the bony stoop of his back. He was even gaunter than when I’d arrived less than four months earlier. I put the rest of the coins back into the container. “If I ever need any more, I’ll ask, Papa.”

He nodded, and I had to swallow the sudden lump in my throat.

The next morning, I went to Father Monteiro and asked how I could have a letter taken into Funchal to be posted. “I have money for it,” I said, opening my palm to show him the coins.

“If I know of anyone leaving the valley, I’ll ask that they take it for you,” he said. “But during the winter months, there are few who make the journey. The trails are particularly difficult because of all the rain.”

“Maybe Espirito will come soon. I can give him the letter,” I told the priest. I took the letter back home and waited.

Each day of January passed. Nobody left the valley. Espirito didn’t come.

“Is it the weather keeping Espirito away?” I asked Papa.

“The weather doesn’t bother Espirito. It’s probably Olívia. He doesn’t like to leave her when she’s at her worst.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

He shrugged, patting his chest. “She has trouble breathing sometimes. She’s very weak.”

“Is it the bloody cough?”

“No. Not that. I don’t know what it is.”

“Do you think he’ll come soon?”

Again he shrugged.

As February approached, my patience stretched thin. I wanted so badly to have the letter sent. And I worried daily over Papa’s worsening condition.

I could barely stand to look at Bonifacio. He grew increasingly sullen, but watched me more and more closely, even when I sat reading or sewing. At times his cheeks flushed, and he got up and went outdoors. I chose not to think about his battle; I suspected he either walked among the higher rocks, shouting his anger into
the wind, or gave in to his human needs in a frustrated, solitary way. I knew which it was by his behaviour when he returned. When he deprived himself, he came home more anxious, sometimes short-tempered with Cristiano if the child got underfoot. When he had given in to temptation, he returned chastened and visibly distraught. These times he would punish himself even more severely with his whip in the sitting room at night, and the whispered praying would go on far longer than usual.

One evening, as I reached for the bread across the table, my arm hit his full soup bowl. As the hot liquid sloshed onto his breeches, he jumped up. “Watch what you’re doing!” he said angrily. “How can you be so clumsy?”

I stared at him. “It was an accident. I’m sorry,” I said loudly, and threw a dishcloth at him. “Here.”

He caught it, but instead of wiping his trousers, he flung it back at me. “If you are so unhappy here, then I release you from the marriage, and will send you back to Porto Santo. You obviously have no interest in learning to control yourself through prayer and confession and penance. I cannot allow you to stay if you’re going to show me so little respect, and think you can speak to me in this manner.”

His words about me returning to Porto Santo chilled me. I wrapped my arms around myself. Even once I managed to send the letter to my father, I had to wait to hear back from him. I would have to be a little more careful.

When Espirito walked through the yard, I was so happy to see him I beamed. “It’s been so long, Espirito. Over six weeks, since Christmas.”

“How is Papa?” He put his hand on Cristiano’s head. The boy had, as usual, run to him.

My smile faded. “I’m sorry,” I said, glancing behind me, through the open door into the house. “He can barely eat now, and spends most of his time in bed. He has a few hours of relief when I give him the poppy.”

“I’ve thought of hiring men to carry him out on a litter and bring him to our home, although I doubt he’ll agree. But perhaps one of the English physicians in Funchal could help him.”

I knew Papa was dying, and I doubted there was anything anyone could do. “I think it’s just his time, Espirito.” Instinctively I put my hand on his arm, and he looked down and covered my hand with his. His fingers were long and slender, so warm on mine in spite of the chill in the air.

“Thank you, Diamantina. I know Papa is grateful for your help. As am I.”

After dinner, I put my letter and the coins on the table, asking Espirito to send it on the next ship to Brazil.

He looked at the name on it. “Arie ten Brink,” he said.

“My father.”

“I thought you were the daughter of the Dutch innkeeper at—” He stopped, glancing at me and then at Bonifacio. But I didn’t care now what he said about my past, or what Bonifacio thought of me. “Your father lives in São Paulo,” he stated.

“Yes. He left Porto Santo five years ago. I just … I only recently found out how to reach him.”

“Of course I’ll send it for you,” he said. He took the letter, but left the réis.

“Diamantina.” Bonifacio spoke through the sheets that divided us, waking me before dawn a week after Espirito’s visit. “Lent is almost here, and I want you to start preparing for Easter. I know you’ve never had to deny yourself anything, but you’re a Catholic now, and as a believer you must prepare for this, the holiest of times, through prayer, penance, repentance and self-denial.”

I threw back my blanket and made a sound in my throat, annoyed by his condescending tone. “What would you suggest I repent,
Bonifacio?” I cleared my throat, scratchy from sleep. “And what, besides some of our food, do I have to give up? Exactly what will I deny myself?” My voice was mocking.

I heard a rustle, and unexpectedly Bonifacio pulled the sheets apart. He was fully dressed. When he stared at me, I looked down at his mother’s medallion, its chain tangled with the thin thong of my father’s talisman, which lay between my exposed breasts.

I clutched the front of my nightdress, covering my nakedness.

“Is that a heathen icon you wear with the Blessed Virgin? You desecrate my sainted mother’s memory,” he said in a loud voice.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Cristiano sit up on his pallet. And then Bonifacio came towards me, breathing heavily, and I scrambled off my bed. Although at first I thought it was lust I saw on his face, I almost immediately realized it was rage. Rage at me, and surely at himself, for I had seen that he was tempted.

“Get away from me,” I said, and at that he lifted his hand and hit me with his open palm, hard enough to make me lose my balance. I fell back onto the bed.

And then Cristiano was between us, striking Bonifacio with his fists, kicking him, screaming with a high, desperate sound. “No! No no no no!” he shrieked, trying to protect me.

Bonifacio stepped back.

“Stop, Cristiano,” I said, standing again, pulling him away from Bonifacio. “I’m all right.”

Cristiano was rigid, staring into Bonifacio’s face.

“Do you see yourself as Delilah, scheming to bring me down?” Bonifacio asked then, his voice low.

“I’ve done nothing wrong,” I said, but quietly, not wanting to incite his wrath again.

“I’ve seen how you look at my brother,” he said. “You are a temptress as evil as Jezebel.”

“Your brother? What are you talking about?”

“I’ll teach you to repent,” he said with that same flushed, angry look, and then left, slamming the door behind him.

My cheek smarting, I looked at Cristiano. His face was so bleak my heart lurched.

“We’re not staying here with him anymore,” I told him, caught in my fury at Bonifacio’s treatment. I couldn’t think clearly.

I put on my skirt and blouse and boots and looped my medicine bag across my chest. I wrapped my shawl around my shoulders, then spread my extra shawl on the bed and laid everything I’d brought with me on it as Cristiano watched.

“Bring me your things,” I said, and he handed me his few pieces of clothing and the torn cloth that had been his mother’s dress and the little box of wooden animals. I added them to my shawl and tied it firmly.

“Come on.” He followed me into the sitting room, and I stopped only long enough for him to put on his jacket and hat. I looked at Papa’s closed door. He would be all right for a few days.

I was going to Espirito. He would do as he had said, and have Papa brought out of the valley and into Funchal. Olívia and I would care for him.

I didn’t know what had caused the rift between the brothers, but I had to believe that Espirito and Olívia would understand how impossible it was for me to live with Bonifacio when I told them about my father and the letters and money. Surely they would allow Cristiano and me to stay until more money came from my father. Maybe they would even buy us our passage, and Cristiano and I could leave right away. I would repay them once I was with my father.

It was raining as we left. I didn’t see Bonifacio, and didn’t care if he saw me leaving. He couldn’t stop me. My brain was racing, and I felt strong and full of energy in spite of my heavy shawl slung over one shoulder. Cristiano and I started up the steep incline. The rain had made the mud trail slick, and more than once we both slid, or fell to one knee. I looked behind me at Cristiano, and his face was now resolute. “Good boy,” I said, encouraging him, and he nodded.

And then, when we were perhaps halfway up the steepest trail, I half jumped over a root in the path. My boot slipped and I went over on the side of my right foot, and I heard a crack, and the pain was so sharp and unexpected that I cried out as I fell. I lay stunned for a moment, then sat up. I held my leg just above the ankle, grimacing.