The Devil on Her Tongue (16 page)

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 consideration. I imagined painfully making my way home.

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

H
e 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.