LENGUA PARA DIABLO (THE DEVIL ATE MY WORDS)
By: Merlinda 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 Mother was often appeased. There was more need for appeasement after he lost his job.
The devil ate his words, the devil ate his capacity for words, the devil ate his tongue. But perhaps only after
prior negotiation with its owner, what with Mother always complaining, ‘I’m already taking a peek at hell!’
when it got too hot and stuffy in our tiny house. She seemed to sweat more that summer, and miserably. She
made it sound like Father’s fault, so he cajoled her with kisses and promises of an electric fan, bigger windows,
a bigger house, but she pushed him away, saying, ‘Get off me, I’m hot, ay, this hellish life!’ Again he was ready
to pledge relief, but something in my mother’s eyes made him mutter only the usual excuse, ‘The devil ate my
words,’ before he shut his mouth. Then he ran to the tap to get her more water.
Lengua para diablo: tongue for the devil. Surely he sold his tongue in exchange for those promises to my
mother: comfort, a full stomach, life without our wretched want . . . But the devil never delivered his side of the
bargain. The devil was alien to want. He lived in a Spanish house and owned several stores in the city. This
Spanish mestizo was my father’s employer, but only for a very short while. He sacked him and our neighbour
Tiyo Anding, also a mason, after he found a cheaper hand for the extension of his house.
We never knew the devil’s name. Father was incapable of 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 of silent staring before he told my
mother about his fate.
I wondered how the devil ate my father’s tongue. Perhaps he cooked it in mushroom sauce, in that special
Spanish way that they do ox tongue. First, 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, Father hardly ate. He said he had lost his
taste for food, he was not hungry. Junior and Nilo were more than happy to demolish his share of gruel with fish
sauce.
Now 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 rich and foreign.
His silent tongue was already luxuriating in a multitude of essences, pampered into a piquant delight.
Perhaps, next he should sell his oesophagus, then his stomach. I would if I had the chance to be that pampered.
To know for once what I would never taste. I would be soaked, steamed, sautéed, basted, baked, boiled, fried
and feted with only the perfect seasonings. I would become an epicure. On a rich man’s plate, I would be
initiated to flavours of only the finest quality. 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.