The Devil on Her Tongue (37 page)

The whole parish noticed that Bonifacio was not at his father’s Mass and burial the next morning. And yet, as people came to us to offer their condolences, nobody mentioned him.

As soon as we were back at the house, Olívia turned to Espirito. “Please go and summon the men to bring my sling.”

“It’s too late to start back now. And I want to stay for a few days, until Bonifacio returns. There are issues to settle now that Papa is gone.” He glanced at me. “If you’re agreeable with us staying.”

“Of course,” I told him, although I couldn’t imagine coping with Olívia.

“But Espirito, I have my appointment with Dr. McManus tomorrow. I can’t miss it. You know how important the appointments are.”

“I’m sure he’ll see you another day,” he said.

“What is your condition, Olívia?” I asked. It wasn’t the bloody cough, as there was no telltale flush of the cheeks, no salty tang of blood on her breath. But she was so thin, her chest almost concave as she took shallow, rattling breaths, her complexion now verging on bluish-grey.

She looked away for a moment, then back at me. “It’s a bronchial obstruction.”

“What are the symptoms?”

Olívia looked either annoyed or upset by my questions.

“I’m a
curandeira
, Olívia. I’ve seen many illnesses.”

At that, she gave a twisted smile. “A country healer can’t help with this. I’ve had attention from the best English physician in Funchal.”

“She has very laboured breathing and wheezing. She sometimes gasps for air,” Espirito said, and Olívia’s lips tightened. “The breathing difficulties ease during dry periods. When the rains come, they grow worse.”

I remembered a little girl on the beach who had died when only eight years old. She had wheezed and gasped for many months, her lips blue at the end.

“Do you inhale eucalyptus oil? And drink a tea made of sage and camomile? I’m sure sleeping propped up helps, and burning certain herbs—I can give you some—on bricks in the bedroom can be beneficial.”

Olívia blinked. “Well, yes. That’s what Dr. McManus has recommended.”

“Also that she avoid physical strain of any kind. That’s why it’s so difficult for her to travel all the way here,” Espirito added.

Was this the reason they had no children, then? She was so frail; I couldn’t imagine her sustaining a pregnancy and birth. Perhaps Espirito and Olívia lived in the same way as Bonifacio and I, except Espirito stayed away from his wife’s bed to protect her while Bonifacio stayed away from mine to protect himself.

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Olívia said. “We’ll leave first thing tomorrow, then,” she said, as if Espirito hadn’t just said he wanted to stay a few days. “I’m going to rest. Can you make flan, Diamantina?”

“Yes.”

“I’d like flan for dessert,” she said, and went into Papa’s bedroom.

A
fter dinner, Espirito went to the church to say more prayers for Papa. I sent Cristiano to bed. Olívia was sitting in front of the fire reading while I went to the wash house to do the dishes. When I came back, her bedroom door was closed.

I sat at the table, mending a rent in the knee of Cristiano’s breeches. When Espirito returned, I put down my sewing and stood. “I know that the
senhorio
will soon take back the house and land, and that we can’t live here any longer. What will happen? Will we come to Funchal with you and Olívia?”

He looked at the fire. “I have to speak to Bonifacio.”

“It’s difficult to be around him, as you’ve seen,” I said. “And he’s growing worse. He’s so unpredictable. Cristiano is afraid of him.” I was too, but wouldn’t admit this to Espirito. “He’s deeply angry, and frustrated.”

“Frustrated?”

“I just mean that he … I know he wishes he were still a priest. He doesn’t really want to fit back into the ordinary world. He isn’t interested in friendships, or … or anything. Cristiano is a burden to him. He had hoped …” I stopped, knowing I couldn’t divulge Bonifacio’s story. “He married me for the wrong reasons. And I him.”

As my mother had predicted, I had been able to leave Porto Santo because of the flaming sun—because of Bonifacio—but she hadn’t known what would happen once I left. “I only wanted to get away from Porto Santo. I want to go to Brazil, to my father.”

Espirito sat at the table. “As I said, I’ll have to speak to Bonifacio.”

I sat down across from him. “But when my father replies to the letter I gave you to send to him, there will be enough réis for passage for Cristiano and me. And we’ll leave. Bonifacio cares nothing for us—he’ll probably be glad to see the last of us. It will be less than a year, Espirito.” In my need for him to understand how desperate I was for his help, I reached across the table and took his hands. “We just need a place to live until I hear from my father. Is it possible we could stay with you? I know Olívia doesn’t like me, and I know that will make things even more difficult, but …”

“You will not come with us,” Olívia said from the bedroom door, and I jumped, lifting my hands from Espirito’s. She came towards the table. “I heard what you said. But you’re married to Bonifacio. You can’t run off to the New World without him. A marriage is a lifetime commitment, as any woman knows. No matter what transpires between you, you are tied to your husband until you die.” She looked at Espirito. “Isn’t that so?”

She wore a beautiful green silk sleeping cloak, incongruous with the walls, the floor. The whole house.

When Espirito didn’t answer, she said, “Come to bed now, Espirito. We will have an early start back to Funchal tomorrow. And you will stay here and wait for your husband to return, Diamantina. It’s him you should be discussing your future with. Not
my
husband.”

Espirito rose and followed Olívia into the bedroom, closing the door quietly.

I slept poorly, Olívia’s words resonating in my head. Before anyone else was up, I rose and made breakfast, and packed a bag of bread and boiled eggs and cooked chicken for their journey. Every movement was an effort.

We didn’t speak during breakfast. The young men were summoned and waited at the end of the yard with the sling to carry Olívia back to Funchal. But as we all stood on the step, Espirito told his wife, “I’m waiting here for Bonifacio, as I said yesterday.”

She stared at him in disbelief. “What? You can’t.”

“He should be back at the end of Lent—four or five days from now. You’ll go to see Dr. McManus, and have your mother come and stay with you until I get back.”

“Why do you have to wait for him?”

“I want to talk about something that might help him look after his family.”

Olívia’s face grew tight. “You refuse to come with me?”

Espirito didn’t answer, and Olívia threw up her hands. “I’ll expect you home for Easter Sunday.”

“I’ll try.”

The men hoisted the pole over their shoulders, and Espirito walked her to the sling and helped her in. I followed with the bag of food, but when I held it out to her, she waved it away, and lay back so that I couldn’t see her face. The men looked at Espirito, and at his nod they started up the path.

We watched them wind upwards for a few moments. I turned to Espirito. “Thank you for staying.”

He was still watching the trail. “You shouldn’t have to suffer because my brother can’t act like a proper husband.” He looked at me then.

I knew he referred to Bonifacio going off for Lent, leaving us—me, alone, to care for Papa—but I also remembered Espirito’s face when he saw our separate sleeping arrangements.

There seemed nothing more to say, and yet he didn’t look away from me. I knew he felt it as well, whatever it was that hung, unspoken, between us.

Espirito chopped enough wood to last a month, and brought too much water from the stream every day. He fixed a broken rail in the fence and replaced the weakened front step.

“I’ve forgotten how good it feels to work outside,” he said, coming in from the wash house on the second day, his hair wet, not yet caught back in its usual way. He combed through it with his fingers
as he sat at the table. “I hate to think of telling Bonifacio about our father when he returns.” He shook his head. “Will he forgive himself for leaving at such a time?”

“He’s already tortured.” I set the food on the table.

“Do you know what happened in Brazil to make him like this? He’s always had problems with his temper, but—” He stopped as Cristiano ran in from outside.

“Did you wash your hands?” I asked him, and he held them out proudly. “All right, sit down,” I said.

Espirito prayed in gratitude for the food, and added a special prayer for Papa. As he reached for his bowl, I saw blisters on his fingers from the axe. “I have a salve that will help those,” I said, nodding at his hands.

“Sister knows how to make things better,” Cristiano said, his mouth full of bread.

“Sister?” Espirito said, and Cristiano nodded, smiling.

As we ate, Cristiano told a tale of a mother hen chasing him across the yard, and we all laughed. I could not help thinking of the silent, tense meals with Bonifacio.

Holy Thursday was sunny and bright. All day I waited for Bonifacio to appear, jumping at every noise and frequently looking up and down the road. But as we prepared to go to church for the evening Mass of the Lord’s Supper, I told myself that Bonifacio would not return until the next day, Good Friday. Cristiano lingered over his dinner, and so we were among the last to arrive at the church. The only place left was at the back of the nave.

After the Mass and the singing of the Gloria accompanied by the bells, the twelve men from the parish representing the Apostles stepped forward, one by one, to have Father Monteiro wash their feet. The twelfth of them was Bonifacio.

I drew in a deep breath. Even from the back of the church I could see that he was emaciated and haggard, his clothing hanging from his frame and his cheekbones sharp under tautly stretched
skin. I looked at Espirito and saw him staring at Bonifacio as well.

But later, as we stood outside, Bonifacio wasn’t among the crowd. We went to Father Monteiro. “Did you speak to my brother?” Espirito asked.

“I was surprised to see him when he came before Mass and asked that he be allowed to be an Apostle. I had hoped he had been home first, and that you had told him about his father. But it was quite clear that he didn’t know, and I was forced to inform him. I’m sorry. And yet he still wanted to be part of the Mass.”

“How did he take the news?” Espirito asked.

Father Monteiro shook his head. “He’s ill from his penance in the mountains. I don’t know that he actually absorbed everything I said. Please, take care of him when he comes home.”

“Where is he?” I asked.

“He’s at Vitorino’s grave. But …” He stopped. “I think you should leave him alone. He’ll come home when he’s ready.”