On All Souls’ Day, the four of us walked down the slope to Nossa Senhora do Livramento. I carried a basket of flowers Cristiano and I had collected, at Papa’s request, for Telma’s grave.
After the Mass, we joined others in the cemetery as they celebrated their departed loved ones. We decorated Telma’s grave with the flowers, and Bonifacio closed his eyes. “Réquiem ætérnam dona ei Dómine,” he prayed for the soul of his mother. His face was so calm, his expression so pious, that I knew he was again in his old life. Every time he attended Mass, he must long to be the one performing the sacred rites. He longed for the holy life as I longed for the ocean.
But he was no longer a priest, and I was no longer part of the rhythms of the sea. I thought of my own mother, sinking under the waves, and sent a message of love to her.
After we ate dinner that night, Papa held out a delicate gold chain adorned with a small medallion of the Holy Mother. “It was my Telma’s,” he said, putting it into my hand. “I wish you to wear it always, and as you wear it, you will be reminded to honour my son. Our son, Telma’s and mine.”
I looked down at the medallion.
“Put it on,” Papa urged, and I slipped it over my head. It rested on the front of my blouse, its slight weight touching the silver talisman underneath. I glanced at Bonifacio. His jaw was tight and his face dark.
“Should it not have been Olívia’s? She was your first daughter-in-law,” he said to Papa.
“Don’t spoil it for your wife,” Papa said. “It’s not her fault.”
I wanted to ask Papa what he meant, but the air was thick with Bonifacio’s anger.
Apart from the daily early Mass, Bonifacio rarely left the yard. There was no work to be done on the vines during the cool months, and so apart from the daily chores of chopping wood or hauling water to the wash house or making minor repairs to the house and outbuildings, he sat on the step and read his Bible. Sometimes I felt him watching me as I crossed the yard or hung clothes on the bushes, but each time I glanced at him, his head was lowered over the page.
I heard him in the sitting room some nights, whispering the same prayer as he had in Funchal on the night we married, begging for help to be holy and chaste. I found the cat-o’-nine-tails in a sack under his bed the first time I washed the bedroom floor. Also in the sack was a shirt with strips of stiff goat hair sewn into it, and a belt with sharp metal studs on the inside of the leather.
During the fourth week I was in Curral das Freiras, I found Bonifacio’s shirt soaking, the water pink, in a tub behind the wash house. I knew then that he’d been wearing the belt with the studs, cinching it so tightly around his waist under his shirt that the sharp metal bit into his flesh and made it bleed, wanting to concentrate on the pain instead of the needs of his body.
I didn’t mention the bloodstained shirt, disturbed by the idea of Bonifacio’s fight against his vow of chastity. And yet again, I was glad for this vow. I couldn’t bear to think of him touching me.
To pass the time until I could leave, I learned to use the abundant chestnuts to make soup and pudding and cake, delighting Papa. I helped him in the garden, touching his arm when I heard birdsong. Although he could no longer hear their voices, as I pointed to each bird, Papa told me its name. I realized I waited for him to smile at me and pat my arm or shoulder after each meal, saying, “Thank you, daughter.”
There was abundant plant life in the cool dampness of the valley. I visited Rafaela one morning, and she showed me her herb garden and described the use of the root and flower and seed of each plant I hadn’t known on Porto Santo. She was bringing up her granddaughter, close in age to Cristiano. I watched the little girl stand in front of Cristiano and hop on one leg. After a while he solemnly mimicked her, his tongue caught between his front teeth in concentration. Then they caught grasshoppers in their cupped hands, the little girl squealing, Cristiano silent.
He was usually at my side, helping me as best he could. I spoke to him as we worked, telling him whatever I was thinking about. I talked to him as I had once talked to my missing father. I worried about his desire to climb the steep cliffs, but there seemed no way to stop him; he refused to listen to my admonishments. I often climbed up to fetch him from a dangerous perch. And yet I understood his need to get closer to the sky. I also felt closed in, especially when the mountains caught the clouds and mist covered the valley.
One day, I found a safer path to climb, where the incline was firmer and there were roots and small trees to hold, and showed it to him. As we went upwards together, we came upon a wide, flat shelf of rock and sat there. I tried to whistle and call back the birds’ tunes: the rich, melodious song of the blackbird, the high-pitched call of the shy little firecrest, and the pleasant chattering of the blackcap. The first time Cristiano tried to mimic the firecrest, I laughed and clapped my hands, and he laughed with me.
I knew how clever he was. He learned anything I showed him almost immediately. Some evenings after dinner, I read aloud from one of my books. He sat closer and closer to me on the bench, and then let me put his finger under the words as I read them. Eventually I suspected he was beginning to understand the letters on the page.
His soft curls were growing back. At times, as I read to him, I ran my fingers over his hair, and he let me.
Every night, at the first tiny whimpers that signalled his nightmare, I went to him before he was on his feet. I whispered or sang in Dutch or Portuguese as I held him tightly, anything to wake him enough to release him from the terror before it took a firm hold on him.
His hot little body, pressed against mine each night as I soothed him, was the only human contact I had. I hadn’t known I’d feel so much for him. Each time I imagined leaving here, leaving him—and Papa—I was overcome with queasiness.
Espirito came back to Curral das Freiras a few weeks after his first visit. Anxiety arose in me when I saw him come into the yard.
Again Cristiano was delighted. He sat beside Espirito on the step as Espirito and Papa talked and drank licor de castanha while Bonifacio stayed in the bedroom with his Bible.
While preparing dinner, I heard Espirito’s laughter a number of times. He was drying his hands in the wash house as I carried a pot of soup across the yard.
“Diamantina,” he said, coming towards me, and I stopped, steam rising from the pot. He looked at his mother’s chain around my neck.
“Your father gave it to me,” I said, my chin lifted.
He nodded. “It’s good to see my mother’s Blessed Virgin. How is my father doing? He says he’s well, but he doesn’t look any better than the last time I was here.”
I waited a moment. “He’s not. Every day I give him what I can to take away the pain, but … but it’s not going to go away.” I shook my head. “He’s growing weaker all the time.”
“Thank you,” he said, and took the pot from me. “For caring for him.”
I followed him into the house. I wondered about his wife, Olívia, and tried to imagine her.
During dinner, Espirito spoke of his work at Kipling’s, and how he and Olívia had attended the wedding of Martyn Kipling’s younger daughter. He talked about wine sales and of a problem in the blending room. He said a shipment going to Brazil had been delayed because of storms at sea, and at that I made an involuntary sound of dismay.
He looked at me, and I asked, “How often do ships leave Funchal for Brazil?”
“Once a week for much of the year. But within the next month, December, the storms are at their worst, so fewer ships depart until at least the end of February. Why?”
I shook my head as if it wasn’t of great importance. But it was. I would have to get to Funchal soon, if I was to leave. Not only did I fear Bonifacio coming after me and preventing me from leaving, but I wouldn’t have enough money to stay anywhere for longer than a few nights if the passage cost as much as Abílio had once told me.
After dinner, Espirito again drank licor de castanha with Papa for a few hours, then went to stay the night with his friend Felipe. “I’ll see you in a few weeks, Papa,” he said. “I’ll come two days before Christmas to celebrate with you, so I can be back in Funchal for Christmas Eve.”
As I lay in bed that night, I thought of him. It was almost unbelievable he and Bonifacio were brothers. Espirito was full of life, laughing easily, telling endless stories. Bonifacio was silent and distant, as if not really present much of the time.
I knew I couldn’t wait any longer to leave. On Saturday, I made a large jug of Papa’s special tonic of powdered thistle and wormwood, covering it with a cloth and setting it in the middle of the table. It would last him a few days at least.
Sunday morning, I remained in bed, telling Bonifacio I was ill and wouldn’t go to church with him and Papa and Cristiano.
He nodded and left the bedroom. I looked at Cristiano, sitting on his pallet.
“Cristiano,” I said, and he raised his eyebrows at me. “Come here.” He came to me, and I took his hand. “You’re a good boy,” I said. “And a big boy. You are a big boy.”
He was staring at me, his fingers tightening on mine.
“Go to church with Bonifacio and Papa,” I said, and then put my arms around him and held him for a moment. “Go now,” I said, looking away, tears filling my eyes.
He stood there.
“I’m just ill,” I said, putting my arm over my eyes.
I didn’t hear him leave the room. Once the house was quiet, I sprang from bed and tied everything I owned into my shawl, along with a piece of bread and cheese wrapped in a cloth. I slung my medicine bag across my chest and filled a skin with water and looped it over my shoulder. I took the bag of money from Bonifacio’s chest and hid it inside my bodice. I put my gutting knife into my waistband.
Cautiously going outside, I saw a number of small figures far down the hill, heading towards the church. I ran onto the road.
I was panting long before I expected to, and the ankle I’d sprained in Porto Santo twinged as I climbed with my heavy load. I went behind a tree and took a long drink from the water skin. As I started again, I heard a faint voice, and froze.
It was Cristiano, running up the path. I closed my eyes.
“Irmã,” he called, over and over, and I opened my eyes. Sister. He was calling me sister. It was the first time he had spoken aloud in daylight hours. I hesitated, but then kept climbing. His voice grew louder and closer. Finally I stopped again. I looked back at him and shook my head.
“No! Go back, Cristiano,” I called, but he wouldn’t stop, and in moments he had caught me. His face was contorted, wet with tears.
“No, Sister,” he cried, his face against my waist, gripping my skirt. “No.”
I put my arms around him. “I have to go, Cristiano. And I can’t take you. I can’t,” I said, crying as well. “It’s so far, and I don’t have enough money for us both, and …”
He lifted his face to me, and his look was so stricken I dropped to my knees and held him.
“Don’t go away, sister,” he said, and his new little voice, high and sweet, was a knife in my heart. He buried his face against my neck.
We stayed like that for a long time. Then I stood and wiped his face with the hem of my skirt. I took his hand, and we walked back down the hill.
By the time Bonifacio and Papa returned, I was in the kitchen making bread, and Cristiano sat on the stool watching me. My belongings were back in place, as was Bonifacio’s bag of coins.
“You are better, daughter?” Papa asked, and I nodded.
I continued kneading, my movements slow and strong as I thought about Rafaela and her granddaughter. Cristiano would surely be happier with them than here, in this house with a dying old man and a bitter former priest disappointed in himself and with the world.
But I knew that Bonifacio would never agree to Rafaela taking Cristiano once I was gone. I would have to try to work something else out for the boy. I had to.