LENGUA PARA DIABLO

(THE DEVIL ATE MY WORDS)

[EXCERPT FROM BANANA HEART SUMMER]
By :Merlinda Bobis

I suspected that my father sold his tongue to the devil. He had little to 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 far; bigger windows, a bigger
house, but she pushed him away, saying, ‘Get off me, I’m hot, at 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 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 neighbor 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 his 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 flavors 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 piquant delight.

Perhaps, next he should sell his esophagus, 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 flavors 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.