The Devil on Her Tongue (56 page)

D
uring the spring and summer following Candelária’s birth, I sometimes went into Funchal, to the house on São Rua Batista, mainly at Luzia’s request. While Cristiano played happily with the growing collection of wooden toys kept in a chest in the salon for our visits, Olívia and Luzia and I made a fuss over Candelária. In spite of Olívia’s own grief at her childlessness, she grew slightly warmer to me through the baby.

We celebrated when Candelária first reached for a plaything, when she rolled over, and clapped at her comical attempts to sit up unaided. At times I left the children with Olívia and Luzia while I ran errands.

And on my way back with my baskets, I often crossed the courtyard behind the Counting House. Sometimes I stopped in the
adega
and looked at the huge kegs of wines made from Madeira’s grapes: the large, pale green Verdelho and sweet Terrantez, the heavy Boal and smaller, compact Sercial, the sturdy red
tinta
used mainly for blending. I breathed in the aromas of wines so full-bodied and sweet they were fantasized about by the English on their own damp, cool island, according to what Henry Duncan had once told me. I tried to imagine the statesmen in the American colonies recently enamoured of our wines, and those in the West Indies who had long known of Madeira’s elixirs. I thought of the dark, broiling hold of a caravel with its casks of Kipling’s wine pitching and tossing below deck, the heat turning the wines sweeter by the day.

I talked to old Jorge as he made the bungs for the casks, and watched the coopers at their work. During that year’s September harvest I often saw the
borracheiros
arrive in the courtyard, exhausted and filthy and sometimes slightly intoxicated from drinking from the goatskins of
mosto
they carried from the terraces to Funchal. I watched as Espirito weighed the contents of their goatskins as they emptied them into vats. The aroma of the pressed grapes was so heady that I felt as though I, along with those hard-working carriers, had been quenching my thirst.

After harvest that year, I found two round stones approximately the same size in the field of wildflowers on the quinta. I asked Raimundo to bring them back in a cart, and whitewashed them and wrote
Arie
on one and
Shada
on the other. I chose not to purchase headstones with one of the gems my father had sent, as I had no wish to have to explain anything to Bonifacio.

I chose a small sunny patch a distance from the graves of Beatriz’s parents, and Raimundo helped me work the stones into place. I dug up wild myrtle and lupines, and took cuttings from the cultivated hydrangea and heliotrope in the big estate garden, and created a tiny but beautiful garden around the stones.

But that evening, when Bonifacio came into the cottage, his face was dark with anger. “How dare you desecrate the graveyard with the names of non-believers?”

I stood and faced him. “Dona Beatriz allowed me to put markers to honour my parents in the cemetery. Besides, my father was a believer of his own faith.”

“It’s blasphemy.” His look made me glad that Candelária was asleep and Cristiano reading on the veranda. “You will remove them tomorrow.”

I stared into his face. “I won’t. I have permission, as I told you. The graveyard is not yours. You hold no authority over what is placed there.”

He took a sudden step towards me, and I drew in my breath but
didn’t move. He was close enough for me to see his pupils contract. “I have authority as your husband to tell you what you may and may not do.”

“I will not remove them,” I said quietly, and at that, he closed his eyes for a moment, and then turned and walked into his bedroom.

That night, a huge storm blew up, the trees contorted black shapes thrashing as though caught in a maelstrom.

We had all slept poorly because of the thunder and lightning, and Bonifacio was later than usual rising that morning, so we left together to walk down to the kitchen for breakfast. The yard outside our cottage was littered with fallen branches, and my herb garden flooded. As we turned the curve of the path and saw the chapel, both Bonifacio and I stopped in shock. The roof had been crushed by a huge limb. Tiles lay scattered on the path, and there was an ominous feel in the heavy grey air, water dripping from the leaves through the ruined roof. I put Candelária into Cristiano’s arms and followed Bonifacio inside the chapel, stepping over more roof tiles and chunks of plaster from the destroyed wall. Shattered glass candle holders were scattered over the floor. Our Lady was tilted in her niche, her hand broken off along the repaired seam.

“I’ll have to arrange to have a new roof built,” I said. “I’ll write to Dona Beatriz about this today.”

Bonifacio didn’t appear to hear me. He straightened the small statue and picked up her hand, holding it as gently as though it were human. “It is a sign of God’s displeasure,” he said, but before I could open my mouth to argue, he looked from the statue’s hand to me. “God’s displeasure,” he repeated. “I tried once to repair the damage, but He has shown me I haven’t worked hard enough.” He laid down the hand and went into Funchal without breakfast.

Dona Beatriz came for a visit in mid-November. Espirito drove her up from Funchal, and as he helped her out of the cart, I realized I had forgotten the warmth of her smile. Jacinta followed her, with Leandro struggling in her arms.

At Dona Beatriz’s nod, Jacinta put Leandro down. He was a sturdy, red-cheeked boy, who gazed at us all with open curiosity. He immediately toddled towards Cristiano and Tiago. Cristiano was holding a small wooden cart Raimundo had carved, and Leandro held his hands out for it. Apart from the dark hair and eyes, I realized he bore no resemblance to Candelária. I had been holding my breath and now I let it out.

Dona Beatriz had no reason to suspect that Leandro and Candelária were brother and sister. And she never could.

At that moment, Leandro fell to his hands and knees on the soft dirt in front of Cristiano, and Jacinta sprang forward to help him up. But Cristiano put his hands under Leandro’s arms and set him on his feet again. When Leandro pulled at the little cart, Cristiano graciously relinquished it. Jacinta bent down to brush the dust from the knees of Leandro’s velvet breeches and polished the toes of his little boots with the edge of her apron.

Dona Beatriz greeted Binta and Nini and Raimundo, then turned to me. “This is your little one,” she stated, studying Candelária.

“Not quite ten months,” I said.

I could see Espirito out of the corner of my eye, standing beside the cart.

“Please come to the house in an hour,” she said to me.

“Certainly, Dona Beatriz,” I said, and she left, Jacinta slowly walking behind her, holding Leandro’s hand.

I asked Binta to look after Candelária and went to the cottage, where I took the deed from my travel bag and waited until the hands of the clock struck the appointed hour.

Dona Beatriz opened the scroll and ran her eyes over it.

When she’d finished reading, she rolled it up and set it on the
desk. “Thank you again for keeping this this for me, and for your discretion.” She went to the sideboard. “Would you care for a glass of sweet lemon?”

I accepted the glass, noticing the tick at the corner of her mouth.

She saw me looking at it. “Something I’ve developed from living with Abílio,” she said, putting her fingers to it as if to hold the frenzied ticking in place.

“I’m sorry, Dona Beatriz, I didn’t mean to—”

She waved her hand in the air. “It comes and goes. When he’s not around, it stills, and as soon as he’s in my presence for more than a few days, my nerves put on a display. It should disappear now that I’m here.” She smiled. “The quinta appears to be in excellent order. I’m pleased how you’ve kept an eye on everything.”

“Binta and Nini and Raimundo do all the work.”

“Yes, and I’m very grateful to them as well. But it’s a comfort to have someone here who can read and write and converse in both Portuguese and English. I’ll go down to the wine lodge tomorrow to talk to Espirito. How is his wife? Is she still suffering badly from her asthma?”

“Asthma.” I repeated the strange English word. “I didn’t know its name, but have seen the disease before.”

“It’s how the English refer to it. From the Greek word for panting.”

“Olívia is never truly well, although at times a little stronger.” Dona Beatriz touched the tick again. “It makes my small condition of the nerves seem trivial.”