LENGUA PARA DIABLO (THE DEVIL ATE MY WORDS) By: Merlinda Merlinda Bobis Bobis
I suspected that my father sold his tongue to the devil. He had little say in our house. Whenever he felt like disagreeing with my mother, he murmured, ‘The devil ate my words.’ This meant he forgot what he was about to say and other was often appeased. There was more need for appeasement after he lost his !ob. The devil ate his words, the devil dev il ate his capacity for words, the devil ate his tongue. "ut perhaps only after prior negotiation with its owner, owner, what with other always complaining, ‘I’m already taking a peek at hell#’ when it got too hot and stuffy in our tiny house. $he seemed to sweat more that summer, and miserably. miserably. $he made it sound like %ather’ %ather ’s fault, so he ca!oled her he r with kisses and promises of an electric fan, bigger windows, a bigger house, but she pushed him away, saying, ‘&et off me, I’m hot, ay, this hellish life#’ 'gain he was ready to pledge relief, but something in my mother’s eyes made him mutter only the usual e(cuse, ‘The devil ate my words,’ before he shut his mouth. Then he ran to the tap to get her more water. Lengua para diablo) diablo) tongue for the devil. $urely he sold his tongue in e(change for those promises to my mother) comfort, a full stomach, life without our wretched want . . . "ut the devil never n ever delivered his side of the bargain. The devil was alien to want. He lived in a $panish house and owned several stores in the city. city. This $panish mesti*o was my father’s employer, but only for a very short while. He sacked him and our neighbour Tiyo 'nding, also a mason, after he found a cheaper hand for the e(tension of his house. We never knew the devil’ devil’ss name. %ather was incapable of o f speaking it, more so after he came home and sat in the darkest corner of the house, and stared at his hands. It took him two days da ys of silent staring before he told my mother about his fate. I wondered how the devil ate a te my father’s tongue. +erhaps he cooked it in mushroom sauce, in that special $panish way that they do o( tongue. %irst, it was scrupulously cleaned, rubbed with salt and vinegar, blanched in boiling water, then scraped of its white coating now, imagine words scraped off the tongue, and even taste, our capacity for pleasure. In all those two days of silent staring, %ather hardly ate. He said h e had lost his taste for food, he was not hungry. -unior and ilo were more than happy to demolish his share of gruel with fish sauce. ow after the thorough clean, the tongue was pricked with a fork to allow the flavours of all the spices and condiments to penetrate the flesh. Then it was browned in olive oil. How I wished we could prick my father’s tongue back to speech and even hunger, but of course we couldn’t, because it had disappeared. It had been served on the devil’s platter with garlic, onion, tomatoes, bay leaf, clove, peppercorns, soy sauce, even sherry, butter, and grated edam cheese, with that aroma of something something rich and foreign. His silent tongue was already lu(uriating in a multitude of essences, pampered into a pi/uant delight. +erhaps, ne(t he should sell his oesophagus, then his stomach. I would if I had the chance to be that pampered. To know for once what w hat I would never taste. I would be soaked, steamed, saut0ed, basted, baked, boiled, fried and feted with only the perfect seasonings. I would become an epicure. 1n a rich man’s plate, I would be initiated to flavours of only the finest /uality. In his stomach, I would be inducted to secrets. I would be ‘the inside girl’, and I could tell you the true nature of sated affluence.
