The Devil on Her Tongue (7 page)

I didn’t want to go to a festival by myself, so on those nights I stayed in the hut, helping my mother with her pounding and grinding. We didn’t comment on the muted music and laughter carrying down the beach. Surely I couldn’t really smell the beef slowly cooking on lava stones over a fire of sweet laurel, and yet just imagining that meat, dusted heavily with salt and accompanied with fragrant, doughy rounds of fresh
bolo do caco
, filled my mouth with saliva.

I glanced often at my mother as we worked. I wished I could be more like her, wanting nothing more than what I had.

T
hat first summer of my father’s absence was long and hot. Even though the rains were sparse in the hottest months, we could usually count on sudden showers blowing in from the ocean, causing the parched hills to turn into carpets of green. But that year the sky paled with heat of an unusual intensity, and the stones were too hot to step on. Leaves on the trees withered and curled and the birds seemed to hang, motionless, in the white sky, and then they disappeared. Even my wracking brought little of worth. We needed supplies: oil and candles, flour and grain, and a new cooking pot. My mother told me to go to Father da Chagos, as my father had instructed.

Father da Chagos had regularly hired my father to climb to the top of the bell tower and clean out the birds’ nests and scrub the bells of the sea mist that threatened to tarnish them green. My father’s years spent climbing the rigging had made him quick and unafraid as he scrambled up the rickety, narrow steps of the high bell tower. He would sit on the ledge of each of the four openings, his legs dangling, and work on the bells, whistling. Sometimes I sat in the square and watched him, so high in the air, fearless and capable. The daily pealing from Nossa Senhora da Piedade reminded me of him.

Father da Chagos had also called upon my mother for aid. He had come to our hut in the dark of night the year before my father left. Refusing to come inside, he spoke in a whisper to my father.

My father closed the door and grinned at my mother. “He wants something for stomach discomfort,” he said.

“What kind of discomfort?”

“For the last few weeks he’s been suffering with an undue amount of wind. He can’t control it, even when he’s performing the Mass.”

I put my hand over my mouth so Father da Chagos couldn’t hear my laugh through the shuttered window. My father winked at me, but my mother only lifted her eyebrows as she went to her table of herbs and medicines and picked up a small pot of ground wormwood.

“He asks that you don’t speak of this to anyone,” my father added.

My mother’s hands stopped tapping the powder onto a small square of cotton. It was clear she was annoyed by the Father’s insinuation. Porto Santo’s
curandeira
, Teresa Trovão, was not called a witch, even though she performed the same duties as my mother in providing healing cures and delivering babies. She was a stalwart member of the parish, faithfully attending Mass and putting more coins into the collection box than most of the islanders. But she had a loose tongue, and those who came to her for help could never be sure their ailments wouldn’t become the latest gossip. We all knew Father da Chagos had come to my mother because he was worried that Teresa would speak freely of his flatulence.

My mother finished filling the cotton and twisted it closed, holding it out to my father. “Tell him to mix the wormwood into a bit of warm liquid before meals. He can come back for more if he needs it.”

Now I waited outside the chapel until an old woman slowly hobbled past me on her way inside. I asked her to please fetch Father da Chagos for me.

The priest soon came to the doorway. He was stout in his heavy black robe, his face and bald head glistening with sweat. Pearly beads ran down from his temples, settling into the creases of his broad cheeks. His eyes went to my blouse, and I looked down at my father’s silver amulet strung on its leather thong, and the other necklaces I had made with shell and bone. I had also caught four dragonflies, which still clung to the fabric of my blouse with their tiny feet, their translucent wings trembling. They would stay there, resting, before flying off.

“What do you want, Diamantina?”

“Father da Chagos,” I said, “my father said that you would help
my mother and me. I know there will be no letter and money from him for a long time yet, but … we are in need.” I was ashamed to say the words aloud.

“In need? What do you mean?” he asked. There was a sesame seed caught in the priest’s front teeth, and I knew he had just finished his noon meal. I smelled the strong odour of octopus, and the buttery sweetness of olive oil, and I had to swallow the saliva that rushed to my mouth.

In the next instant a flash of discomfort crossed the priest’s face, and an unpleasant odour wafted towards me. The richness of the octopus was already giving him wind; he hadn’t come back to my mother for more wormwood, although it was clear it was a chronic problem. The priest frowned at me, as if I were the one guilty of the odour.

“I fish, and we have a goat. I find seabird eggs and use whatever the island offers. But we have no more money to buy flour for bread. We have no more oil, and no candles. I need réis to go to the shops.”

“So you can feed yourself, yet you’ve come asking for charity?”

I stood straight. I knew the church gave bread and cast-off clothing donated by the wealthier families to the most destitute of the island, but I did not like to think this included my mother and me. “I am here for a job,” I said. “My father worked for you. Now I will.”

“Cleaning the bells is a man’s job.”

“I didn’t mean the bells. Anything else.”

I waited as he appeared to be thinking. Another bead of sweat ran to the end of his nose, and he swiped at it. He looked at me intently, leaning a bit closer. “Let me see your hands.”

I wouldn’t hold out my hands like a wayward child. I clenched them at my sides, angry, and yet at the same time afraid they might be dirty.

He studied my face, then said, “All right. The women of the parish volunteer their time to clean the church. But no one comes on Monday mornings—the women are too concerned with their weekly washing—and after Sunday’s three Masses the church is in need of a thorough cleaning. I cannot always rely on the Sister who is my housekeeper to keep up with all her duties. You can have the holy
task of cleaning the church on Mondays, and helping the Sister in the kitchen a few times a week, as she needs you. For this I will pay you a few réis, and give you anything left from my meals.”

“I’m sure we will not need your leftovers, Father da Chagos, but I will accept the job of cleaning and kitchen work.”

“Pride is not becoming, Diamantina.” When I didn’t respond, he added, “Don’t come to the church with insects on your clothes, or that heathen frippery.”

I nodded, guessing by his glance at my neck and wrists that frippery meant my necklaces and bracelets.

“Start this Monday.”

“What day is today?”

He shook his head and made an annoyed sound. “Friday.” He turned then, walking back into the dark fragrance of the chapel.

“Father da Chagos,” I called, and he stopped, although he didn’t turn around. “We’ve had no bread for many weeks now.” I hadn’t planned to say anything more, but he had angered me. “I will take some today, please.”

He turned to me. I couldn’t see his features in the shadows, but a ray of sunlight fell from the open door onto his feet. He wore straw sandals; his toenails were thick and yellow, the big toes scattered with wiry black hairs. He came back towards me, his hands kneading his stomach. He stared at me, and then said, “Come.” I followed him around the church to a back door with a heavy grille over its top half. “Never again come to the front of the church. This is the door you will enter,” he said, then called, “Sister Amélia.”

A shadow immediately darkened the grille.

“This young woman will be helping you starting on Monday. Please give her a charity basket today.”

The shadow moved from the grille, and in a moment the door opened a crack and a slim white hand held out a little basket, a cross woven into each side. I peered in at the round loaf of bread with a cross baked into the top, the piece of dried cod, the small vial of oil. The pomegranate. “Thank you,” I said, taking it, and the hand began to retreat.

“She’s Diamantina, the Dutchman’s daughter,” Father da Chagos
said, and the hand stopped for a second, and then pulled the door closed. At the clang, one of the dragonflies flew from my blouse, fluttering high into the air.

“Return the basket when you come on Monday,” the priest said, and walked away.

I called, “I’ll bring you more powdered wormwood as well.”

By the stiffness of his back I knew he was angry at my forwardness, and I was glad I had let him know his smell offended me.

“I don’t want you going into the church,” my mother said when I told her how I would earn the réis we needed.

“It’s just a building, Mama. It can’t hurt me. Besides, I’ll stay only until we get the money from
Vader
.”

She turned away. “I’ll make a potion to protect you.”

E
arly Monday morning, I stood outside the kitchen door of the church, in a plain skirt and blouse. I had tightly braided my hair and tied a scarf around my head. I wore no jewellery except the fragment of caul encased in silver, hidden inside my blouse.

As I peered through the grille, I could discern a slight movement, dark and light. I knocked, and the door opened.

Sister Amélia wore the same heavy robe as Father da Chagos, although hers was brown, and a long black rosary was tied around her waist. Her head was covered in two layers: a tight white wrap that formed a band across her forehead and was caught up under her chin then fell in folds onto her shoulders, as well as a looser black veil that obscured her vision on either side. Her feet were bare, like mine.

Sister Amélia’s hands were covered in flour; a thin gold band glinted on one finger. There was a round of dough in a deep wooden oblong bowl on the table behind her.

I stepped in and handed her the empty charity basket. I was immediately too hot in the small kitchen, with the fire roaring and steam rising from a big pot.

“Are you useful with a knife?” Sister Amélia asked. Her voice was soft.

I put my hand on my waistband, where my blouse covered my gutting knife. I suddenly wondered if I should have brought it into the church kitchen. “Yes.”

“Good,” she said, and smiled. I realized she was young, much
younger than my mother. “You can chop those onions and peel the sweet potatoes.” She pointed to a thick board and a big knife, and returned to kneading the dough.

We worked in silence. My stomach rumbled, and I slipped a piece of sweet potato into my mouth and tried to chew it without making a sound, glancing sideways at Sister Amélia. She was watching me. I stopped chewing, but she said nothing.

By the time she had set the dough to rise, I had finished with the vegetables. She filled a wooden bucket with boiling water from the pot over the fire and took a basket with rags and some small jars with stoppers from a cupboard. She held out a long white garment with loose sleeves. “Please wear this surplice.”

I put it on over my blouse and skirt. Sister Amélia then handed me the bucket of hot water and led me down a narrow, dim hallway to the church. The bucket was heavy, and I didn’t want to slop water onto the floor, so I walked carefully and slowly. Sister Amélia stopped at a wooden door, richly carved. “You enter the church through here. You’re to wash the floor, especially in the nave, all the way to the apse. Then, with a cloth dampened with a little olive oil,” she said, pointing to one of the jars, “wipe all the woodwork of the sanctuary and the sacristy. You must be careful when you polish the silver candle holders and chalices—use this.” She opened another jar and held it towards me. I smelled soda ash and salt. “Rub gently, to avoid scoring the silver. And you’re never to touch the monstrance or tabernacle.”

I set down the bucket before the closed door. “I don’t know what any of those things you talk about are, except for the candle holders.”

She looked at me for a long moment as I felt the steam from the bucket soft against my bare leg. Finally she said, “Is anyone in the church?”

I pulled open the heavy door and looked in. “No.”

“All right. I’ll come in with you and show you what you need to do. But I can’t be seen.”

I wanted to ask her why, but the hush of the empty church stopped me. For the next half-hour the nun explained it all. Then, as we stood looking up at the statues of the saints in their niches, the church was
flooded with light as the front door opened to admit a parishioner.

In a whisper of cloth, Sister Amélia was gone.

I stood looking around me after she left, the bucket and mop at my feet. Ignoring the woman kneeling in prayer, I walked around the church, staring at the ceiling, which I now knew symbolized charity. The floor, Sister Amélia had said, represented the foundation of faith and the humility of the poor. I ran my hands over the columns, representing the Apostles. I studied the saints, imagining them whispering to each other from their niches in the empty church as I whispered to my absent father on the beach or on the cliffs.