Lengua Para Diablo home and sat in the darkest corner of the house,
(The Devil Ate My Words) and stared at his hands. It took him two days of
[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 had always been 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 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
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.