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Authors: Linda Holeman
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allowed to speak to him, except when he hears my confession.”
She was beating eggs, her habit tied out of the way by a piece of twine. I tried to imagine never seeing or speaking to anyone. I said, after a moment, my hands in a tub of water as I scrubbed the dirt off whiskery carrots, “But you can see and speak to me.”
She looked at me for a long moment. “It’s because … Father da Chagos thought … as you are …”
“An unholy bastard?” I offered helpfully.
Her face flushed. “It’s very sad that you’re not a child of God. But I sense that Father da Chagos, in spite of his gruff demeanour, has allowed you in the kitchen to help me as well as you.” She stopped beating and took a deep breath. “I miss the cloisters in Funchal,” she said, “and the other Sisters. Once a year I was allowed to see my family through the grille.” She stared down at the eggs. “But I will never see them again. I have been affected by sadness, and my work suffers. I think the Father saw your presence as a way to … to perhaps encourage me. To remind me of my purpose.”
The carrots were clean, but I kept my hands in the cool water. I tried to think of a potion my mother used to treat melancholia. “Why are you here, if you were expected to remain cloistered for life?”
“I was sent to Porto Santo as punishment.” She set aside the bowl and untied the twine from her waist. As had become her custom, she put a few
pastels de nata
in the charity basket she gave me each week. They were special convent pastries, filled with heavy cream, sugar and egg yolks, with more sugar caramelized on top. She had told me the pastries originated when nuns searched for a way to make use of all the egg yolks left after the whites were used to starch their wimples. I could smell the warm, fragrant pastry with its rich filling. The tarts were kept only for Father da Chagos and any special guests he might have—definitely not for the charity baskets. She also put a few altar candles in the basket today. From the furtive way she always hid the small extras, I knew she did not want the priest to find out.
“What did you do?” I thought of broken plates and burned bread, perhaps falling asleep during prayers.
“I used to have a daily struggle with obedience and humility. I found it difficult not to question,” she replied, still looking down into the basket. “Perhaps in that way—needing to question what we hear, and see—we are a little alike, Diamantina.” She finally looked up at me. “I tried to help a novice escape from the convent to run away to the man she loved.”
I didn’t move.
“I knew what she felt like. I wasn’t brave enough to do it myself, but I helped her. She was caught, as was I.”
“You were in love with someone?”
She waited a moment before speaking. “I was much younger when I imagined myself in love. I didn’t fully understand what was best for me. I wasn’t able to see the dangers, and wasn’t ready, then, to accept the path God had chosen for me.”
“And now you do?”
“And now I do,” she said firmly, once more busying herself with arranging the contents of the basket. “And I will be here, serving out my penance, for the rest of my life.”
CHAPTER NINE
M arco Perez died just after harvest that year.
It was said that Abílio had witnessed his father falling from his boat and cracking open his head on a rock. Few cared for Marco while he was alive, and even fewer mourned his death. I watched from under a dragon tree as his coffin was taken from the church to the graveyard. Abílio and his uncle, Marco’s brother Rodrigo, walked behind the coffin, and I followed the handful of mourners. I had never been told I wasn’t allowed in the graveyard.
On my way to work at the church the next day, I saw Abílio sitting on the bench outside his hut. He just sat with his hands on his knees. I had rarely seen him so still. He looked up at me as I passed, and I went to him.
She was beating eggs, her habit tied out of the way by a piece of twine. I tried to imagine never seeing or speaking to anyone. I said, after a moment, my hands in a tub of water as I scrubbed the dirt off whiskery carrots, “But you can see and speak to me.”
She looked at me for a long moment. “It’s because … Father da Chagos thought … as you are …”
“An unholy bastard?” I offered helpfully.
Her face flushed. “It’s very sad that you’re not a child of God. But I sense that Father da Chagos, in spite of his gruff demeanour, has allowed you in the kitchen to help me as well as you.” She stopped beating and took a deep breath. “I miss the cloisters in Funchal,” she said, “and the other Sisters. Once a year I was allowed to see my family through the grille.” She stared down at the eggs. “But I will never see them again. I have been affected by sadness, and my work suffers. I think the Father saw your presence as a way to … to perhaps encourage me. To remind me of my purpose.”
The carrots were clean, but I kept my hands in the cool water. I tried to think of a potion my mother used to treat melancholia. “Why are you here, if you were expected to remain cloistered for life?”
“I was sent to Porto Santo as punishment.” She set aside the bowl and untied the twine from her waist. As had become her custom, she put a few
pastels de nata
in the charity basket she gave me each week. They were special convent pastries, filled with heavy cream, sugar and egg yolks, with more sugar caramelized on top. She had told me the pastries originated when nuns searched for a way to make use of all the egg yolks left after the whites were used to starch their wimples. I could smell the warm, fragrant pastry with its rich filling. The tarts were kept only for Father da Chagos and any special guests he might have—definitely not for the charity baskets. She also put a few altar candles in the basket today. From the furtive way she always hid the small extras, I knew she did not want the priest to find out.
“What did you do?” I thought of broken plates and burned bread, perhaps falling asleep during prayers.
“I used to have a daily struggle with obedience and humility. I found it difficult not to question,” she replied, still looking down into the basket. “Perhaps in that way—needing to question what we hear, and see—we are a little alike, Diamantina.” She finally looked up at me. “I tried to help a novice escape from the convent to run away to the man she loved.”
I didn’t move.
“I knew what she felt like. I wasn’t brave enough to do it myself, but I helped her. She was caught, as was I.”
“You were in love with someone?”
She waited a moment before speaking. “I was much younger when I imagined myself in love. I didn’t fully understand what was best for me. I wasn’t able to see the dangers, and wasn’t ready, then, to accept the path God had chosen for me.”
“And now you do?”
“And now I do,” she said firmly, once more busying herself with arranging the contents of the basket. “And I will be here, serving out my penance, for the rest of my life.”
CHAPTER NINE
M arco Perez died just after harvest that year.
It was said that Abílio had witnessed his father falling from his boat and cracking open his head on a rock. Few cared for Marco while he was alive, and even fewer mourned his death. I watched from under a dragon tree as his coffin was taken from the church to the graveyard. Abílio and his uncle, Marco’s brother Rodrigo, walked behind the coffin, and I followed the handful of mourners. I had never been told I wasn’t allowed in the graveyard.
On my way to work at the church the next day, I saw Abílio sitting on the bench outside his hut. He just sat with his hands on his knees. I had rarely seen him so still. He looked up at me as I passed, and I went to him.
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