ST. NICHOLAS ACADEMY OF CASTILLEJOS, INC.

(Formerly Saint Nicholas Academy & Castillejos Academy)

San Juan, Castillejos, Zambales
TELEFAX (047) 602-2261, Email: st_nicholas_academy@hotmail.com

21st Century Literature

Supplementary Lessons / Handout
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L E N G U A P A R A D I A B L O…
Author: 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.

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