Over the next few months, Bonifacio spoke more and more about returning to Brazil. In July, he told me he’d written the letter and sent it to Rio de Janeiro and would wait patiently for the ship that would bring his message from God.
I was not as patient, for as soon as he had announced his plan to leave, I felt a growing anticipation. As I had promised Cristiano, Bonifacio would not take him. He could not bully Cristiano into going with him.
Thinking of my life without Bonifacio felt like a gift. I would be free of his suspicions and increasingly troubling conduct. I was often on edge, as he had acquired a habit of silently appearing where and when I didn’t expect him. When we were in the presence of others, he now kept a hand on me—on my shoulder or forearm or the back of my neck, as if claiming his ownership of me.
He began praying at the foot of Candelária’s bed as she fell asleep every night. I asked him to stop, but he wouldn’t, and Candelária was confused by his presence and whispered prayers. I would lie beside her, holding her until she was asleep, anxious about Bonifacio’s concern with what he saw as my daughter’s inborn evil.
Quinta Isabella’s harvest of Malvasia Babosa had been successful. The day the grapes were pressed, Candelária and I watched the pickers hired by Espirito carry huge baskets of grapes to the lagar.
There was room for four men to work in the rectangular wooden trough raised above the ground. In the centre was a huge hinged crossbeam balanced by a stone so heavy it must have been transported there by dozens of oxen. As the first group of four men climbed into the trough, two more strummed a slow, steady melody on small cítaras, and the workers, knee-deep in the grapes, lifted their legs high to step in rhythm. The mosto began flowing along a gutter, through a strainer and into a wide, low barrel. It was then dumped back into the lagar for the second treading. When the workers had extracted all they could with their feet, the stalks, skins and remaining pulp were raked into the centre of the trough and bound by thick rope. By the turning of the massive stone wheel, the crossbeam was slowly lowered onto the coiled rope of grape leavings, forcing out the liquid known as “wine of the rope.” By now the workers were covered in sweat and breathing heavily.
The remaining grape skins and residue were put into clean water and strained, and the resulting refreshing drink was given to the pressers. One of them brought a hornful to Cristiano. He tasted it and licked his lips, and Candelária jumped up and down and said, “Me, me too,” and was also given a sip of the sweet grape juice.
Then the pulpy debris still left in the lagar was cleaned out to be mixed into manure for fertilizer. Another quantity of grapes was dumped into the lagar, and the second group of men began the next pressing, giving the first men time to rest. The pressing went on through the day.
That night, as I lay in bed, the music and rhythm of the treading remained a steady beat in my head. When I brought my hand to my face, I still smelled the sweetness of the pressed grapes. I thought of Espirito’s long, slender fingers on the baskets as he helped dump the grapes into the lagar in the pressing house with the ease of someone who seemed at home in every room he entered. As he worked, his face lost the stiffness that had been there since Olívia’s death, and he had, for a short while, looked like the old Espirito, full of life.
The day after the last of our mosto had been transported to the lodge, we again held a Festa do Vinho on the quinta for the workers. Espirito, Eduardo and Luzia agreed to come to the small festa—one of their first social outings since Olívia’s death almost eight months earlier.
There was a small replica of a lagar built long ago, Espirito said, for Martyn Kipling’s own daughters when they were children. He had Bonifacio help him carry it into the yard for Cristiano and Tiago and Candelária to tread a basket of less superior grapes we’d kept for them. They stomped and squashed and danced upon the grapes, laughing and splattering the juice, Candelária frequently falling into the pulpy mush.
As we sat at the long table set up in the shady yard, eating and drinking wine and smiling at the children’s frolicking, a lone man walked up from the gates.
It was Abílio.
I tried to swallow my mouthful of food, but it caught in my throat.
“That looks like Senhor Perez,” Bonifacio said, standing. “Espirito? Did you know he was coming to Madeira?”
“No,” Espirito said, rising and walking to meet Abílio. I watched the two men shake hands, and then they came to the table.
Abílio greeted us all, and then said, smiling, “It’s been too long since I’ve been back.” He wore fine leather breeches and a long frock coat. “Luckily,” he said, waving his hand at Espirito and Bonifacio, “I have reliable people to ensure that the business runs smoothly. And, of course,” he said, looking at me, “Senhora Rivaldo keeps my wife assured that all is well on the quinta.”
“Dona Beatriz didn’t come with you?” Espirito asked.
“She prefers to stay in Belém with our son, spending money on her grand new house,” Abílio said, his eyes still on me. “My wife tells me you and your husband have also been blessed.”
My blood thrummed in my ears, and I looked at Bonifacio. When he remained silent, I pointed at Candelária, laughing with Cristiano and Tiago in the little lagar. “Our daughter,” I said flatly.
Abílio glanced at her but was clearly uninterested in the children, and I took a deep breath.
“May we offer you some wine?” Espirito asked.
“I hope you’re not drinking too much of Kipling’s profits,” Abílio answered. Nobody knew what to say. In the awkward silence, he smiled again, the smile I knew so well, the one that attempted to disarm and beguile. “But no, thank you. Please. Continue to enjoy your festivities.”
Espirito and Bonifacio sat down again.
“I wish to check on the state of the house,” Abílio said. “When I start to bring prospective buyers to look at it sometime in the next year, I want it to fetch the highest price possible. I bid you all adieu,” he added, and bowed to us with an exaggerated flourish.
As he walked towards the house, I asked, “Do you know anything about this, Espirito? Why is he talking of selling the house?”
“According to Henry,” Espirito said, “Perez is still determined to sell the business—and he’s including the quinta. But Henry doesn’t think it will actually happen.”
We sat in silence. Then Eduardo said, “It looks to me like you’re all glad his visits are infrequent.”
For me, the afternoon was ruined, and I could no longer concentrate on the conversation.
When Eduardo and Luzia and Espirito left, Bonifacio went to the cottage. I was still at the table, watching Candelária. The boys had gone to the stables, and Candelária was alone, content to squish about in the trough.
I jumped as Abílio put his hand on my shoulder. He had come up behind me soundlessly, as Bonifacio often did now. I glanced towards the kitchen, and pulled away from his touch.
“You’re quite the fine lady now, Diamantina,” he said. “Nothing left of that ragged young wife who trudged down from the mountains a few years ago.”
I didn’t respond.
“Do you enjoy living off my riches?”
“It was you who invited me to live here, and your wife who asked me to stay. I believe I work for what I receive.”
“My wife speaks highly of you. If she only knew, Diamantina. If she only knew,” he repeated, smiling as though we shared a joke. “But who am I to turn down good fortune and argue with my wife’s choices? She spends money as though it will always be there. But I’m speaking to Duncan about him buying the whole operation. And I’ve come back to ready the house in order to get the highest profit.”
Obviously, Abílio still didn’t know about the deed. Candelária climbed out of the lagar and ran to me, her dress wet and purple with grape juice, her bare feet stuck with bits of grape skin and seeds. She stopped, looking up at Abílio.
“This is Senhor Perez, Candelária,” I said briskly. “Here, let me wipe off your feet.” I picked up a large napkin.
Abílio looked down at Candelária. “Ah yes, the child. Well, you’re a pretty little girl. You remind me of your grandmother.”
I looked at him sharply, glad no one else was around to hear such a casual remark, then lifted Candelária to my lap so I could clean her feet. “How long are you planning to be here?” I asked him. When he didn’t answer, I glanced up at him. He was staring at Candelária’s feet. “There,” I told her. “But your dress is so wet and dirty. I’ll take you home to change in a few minutes.”
Candelária smiled at Abílio, and then turned and ran towards the kitchen.
“How old is she?” Abílio asked. His face had coloured slightly. I had never seen quite this look.
Before I answered his question, he said, pouring a glass of wine, “Have a glass with me.”
“I have to go to the kitchen and talk to Nini about the dinner, and I need to change Candelária’s clothes,” I said, wanting to be away from him. I stood.
“Stay. Only for a moment,” he said, gripping my wrist. I sat again, not wanting anyone to witness the intimate way he touched me. He let go of my wrist and poured wine into a second glass and pushed it towards me.
I lifted it. He touched his glass to it. “What are we drinking to?” I asked him.
“Old friends,” he said. “And vida. Life, and its unpredictability. Look at us, you and I, Diamantina, sitting here at Quinta Isabella, sharing a glass of Kipling’s wine. Do you not think that quite remarkable, given where we’ve come from?”
I drank, but the wine held no sweetness.