The Devil on Her Tongue (21 page)

I went back into the hut and looked around at the few belongings that were the sum of my life. The lovebirds twittered, their heads to one side as they watched me with their tiny bright eyes. I sat on my pallet and stared at my mother’s bed.

There are moments when one thing ends and another begins. My life here was finished.

That night, I burned wormwood and looked deeply into the smoke. I wanted to see my future, as my mother had.

Nothing appeared.

T
he next day, when the sun was overhead, I went to the square. Senhor Rivaldo, as promised, sat on a bench in the shade of a dragon tree. When he saw me, he stood, his hat in his hands.

“
Bom dia
, Senhor Rivaldo,” I said.

He nodded. “I trust you slept well, Senhorita Diamantina.”

“No. I didn’t sleep. I had too much to think about.”

“Of course.”

“I’m sure you also had a great deal on your mind.”

He looked at me for a long moment.

I tried to look agreeable, even a little pleased, but couldn’t. “My answer is yes, Senhor Rivaldo. I agree to your terms.”

“Fine,” he said, with no more expression than me. “Shall we say I will return for you in a month’s time?”

I shook my head. “No. I would like to go with you now.”

His eyes widened. “But you will need to prepare for your baptism with Father da Chagos. And surely you wish to have time to say goodbye to friends. Or … or plan the wedding? I know ours is not a traditional situation, and yet … don’t you want a wedding celebration?” His uncertainty was somehow comforting.

At that moment a local fisherman walked past. He looked pointedly at us, and behind Senhor Rivaldo’s back gave me a knowing wink. I was suddenly overwhelmed with panic. It was my one chance to escape this life, and I couldn’t lose it.

“I don’t care about wedding festivities,” I said. Did he not realize the actual situation: that there would be no guests, no well-wishers,
no celebrations? How exactly did this man see me? “I want to leave as soon as possible, Senhor Rivaldo.”

He sat down again. I remained standing.

“This seems unconventional,” he said after a few moments. “But I understand that you are not a conventional woman. Had you been, I doubt you would have agreed to my proposition.”

I nodded.

“And so I will do as you ask this time.” I noticed the stress on the words
this time
. He appeared to be calculating something, and I waited.

“I suppose we can sail back tomorrow,” he finally said. “This means that Father da Chagos will have to baptize you today—in spite of you having no preparation—and perform the marriage rites first thing tomorrow.”

“Fine.”

“I’ll go and tell Father da Chagos you will come to see him for the baptism soon. I’ll fetch you and your belongings in a cart at sunrise tomorrow.”

“I don’t have much. I’ll meet you at the church tomorrow morning.”

“As you wish,” he said, and we parted awkwardly.

As it was early afternoon, the inn was closed, but I went around the back. Rooi was sitting on a crate, smoking his pipe, a large tankard of wine in his hand.

“Rooi,” I said, “I’ve come to say goodbye.”

“Goodbye?”

“You said it wasn’t good for me here, and you’re right. I’m leaving Porto Santo.”

He stood in surprise, squinting at me in the sunlight. His jowls were stubbled in bristly white. “Where are you going?”

“To Madeira. I’m marrying a Senhor Rivaldo from Funchal.”

Rooi’s unruly white eyebrows rose, and he took his pipe from between his teeth. “Will this man treat you right?”

I shrugged. “I’m getting away from here. Father da Chagos is
baptizing me later today so we can be legally married.” I smiled. “Can you believe that?”

Rooi gave a hoarse laugh. “Well, I shouldn’t be surprised at anything the Dutchman’s daughter does.”

“We’re marrying tomorrow morning, and leaving on the packet immediately after.”

“This calls for a drink,” he said, and drained his tankard. “Come inside and sit with me.”

I followed him into the darkened inn. His white hair was flattened and matted at the back. His breeches were stained. He needed a woman to care for him. “Are you hungry?” he asked, and I shook my head.

He walked across the room and pulled open the front door. Sunlight spilled in, throwing a long rectangle of light over the floor. Benches were overturned and empty tin cups lay on the counter and the sticky tables.

“What a mess, Rooi.” I thought of all the nights I’d spent here. All the sailors I’d laughed with. All the games of dominoes.

“I know,” he said, chewing on a cold, greasy slab of fried pork fat. “But as I once told you, the sailors take no notice.”

I sat down at one of the tables, and he brought over a big flagon and a cup for me. He wiped the rim on his sleeve, and when we had touched our full cups, I said, “I’m going to get to Brazil and find my father.”

He looked at me, then probed his cheek with his tongue, chewing and swallowing whatever he’d dislodged.

“I won’t believe he’s dead, Rooi. I won’t.”

He swirled his cup, staring into the deep burgundy liquid. “I used to see Arie standing on the end of the wharf, studying the caravels and brigantines anchored out in the deeper water. I know he wanted to leave, but he stayed, at first because of Estra, and the sweet breezes and the warm water that gave up its food with so little effort. And then because of you.” He shook his head. “It’s hard for a father to leave a child,” he said, his voice faltering, his bleary eyes suddenly wet. I wondered how many children he had abandoned, and where. I realized he hadn’t been back to the Canary Islands since my father had gone.

“Arie and I were alike: the call of the sea is in our blood,” he said. “Even when on land, we dream of the snap and tug of the sail, the smell of the tar, the creak of timbers, and the wind burning our faces. Sometimes, Diamantina, we miss the sea as one misses a woman we know was a true love but will never see again.”

I finished my wine and we sat in silence. Outside, a canary sang to its mate, and there were the sudden shrills of the cicadas as the sun warmed them.

Rooi stood unsteadily. “
Ja
, that’s the way it is, my girl.” He lifted the flagon, tipping it to his mouth, but only one brilliant ruby drop ran from its lip. He banged it onto the table. “So you get married. I wish you a long and happy life, Diamantina. I will come to your wedding?”

I made a face. “No. It will be a sham. Father da Chagos is only doing it to get me out of his parish.”

“The old hypocrite,” Rooi said, and that was our goodbye.

After I left Rooi’s, I went to find the priest, walking through the front doors and standing in the warm, dim church. From the confessional came the murmur of a higher voice, followed by Father da Chagos’s response. A few women lifted their heads from their hands as I walked to the confessional and waited.

When Father da Chagos came out and saw me, he nodded once. As the final woman finished her prayers and left, he put a heavy bar across the door. “It’s time for the midday meal. Few will come at this hour,” he said, an annoyed expression on his face. “It’s my mealtime as well. Come.”

I followed him to the font.

“Diamantina,” he said, looking over my head, “do you, with a contrite heart, express a true desire for baptism?”

I did not have desire of any kind for baptism. Was my heart sorry? Remorseful for what? For the deception that both the Father and I were committing?

He looked at me. His stomach rumbled, and I knew he was
thinking of his meal. “Say yes. Just say yes to everything I ask you.”

I nodded.

“You have to say the word,” he demanded.

“Yes,” I lied.

“Do you wish to be given the seven gifts of the Holy Spirit: wisdom, understanding, counsel, fortitude, knowledge, piety, and fear of the Lord?” He spoke quickly, by rote, and his words flew over my head and up, high into the dusty rafters. They were only words, meaning nothing.

“Yes,” I lied again.

He held back his sleeve and dipped his hand into the font, cupping water in his palm.

“Ego te baptizo in nomine Patri”
—he dripped water on my forehead—
“et Filii”
—more drops—
“et Spiritus Sancti,”
he finished, trickling the last of the water onto my forehead.

I thought of Abílio and his mock baptism.

Father da Chagos stepped away, wiping his hands on a small cloth.

I blotted my wet face with my sleeve.

“You can go now.”

“That’s all?” Even though I cared nothing about the baptism, somehow I had expected more.

“That’s enough,” he said, and walked to the door and took away the bar.

I went into the afternoon sunshine, and as I walked home along the beach I thought that as the wedding tomorrow would not be a true joining of man and woman, so the baptism had been a deception. I was doing what I had to do to leave Porto Santo, taking charge of my own fate, the one my mother had told me was mine.

“Be proud of me, Mama,” I said, looking at the wide, bright sky. “Nothing can diminish the power you gave me.” The whole sea shone silver. “And certainly not words.”

I
opened my eyes into the darkness with a startled sense of dread. Today, Senhor Rivaldo was taking me to Madeira, that green island rising out of the ocean only a day’s journey across the water. Into the wonders of Funchal Town. I should be feeling relieved, but maybe in this respect I was like every bride who felt anxiety on the night before her wedding day.

When the sky was grey with approaching dawn, I dressed in my best skirt and covered my snowy white blouse with a finely embroidered bodice. As always, I wore my father’s talisman beneath my blouse, and I layered the last of my mother’s necklaces around my neck. My wedding would not be like the weddings I had watched from the edges of the square, the brides in their traditional Portuguese family gowns and white lace mantillas. But I was not a traditional Portuguese bride. I was the daughter of the Dutch sailor and the slave witch from Algeria. I smeared my eyelids with purple dye I made from the lichens that grew in the crevices of the rocks along the north coast, and perfumed my neck and arms with rosemary. I combed my hair until it shone, falling to my waist in a flowing, bright cascade, and then settled a small circlet of delicate shells on my head.

Taking the lovebirds from their spot near the window, I set their cage and my packed shawl of belongings a short distance from the hut. I went back inside and piled driftwood around the base of the four walls. I struck my flint and went to stand beside the lovebirds. Within a few moments there was the bitter reek of smoke, sparks swirling in the air, and the murmur of the eagerly lapping flames.

I walked down the grey, misted beach with my knife in my waistband, my shawl slung over my shoulder, the shoes my father had left stuck into the opening at the top. I had lived my life without shoes, but I would not be a barefoot bride. I carried the cage my mother had loved, and the birds flapped and screeched, excited to be out in the sea air. I glanced back once to make sure the hut, dry as tinder, was ablaze, sending up pale swirls of smoke. Satisfied, I turned my face to Vila Baleira, and the packet boat beyond the wharf.