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 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 we were about to say and mother was often appeased. There was more need of
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 out 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. The he ran to the tap to get
more water.

We never knew the devil’s name. Father was incapable of saying 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 satring
before 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 of pleasure. In all those two days of silent starring, 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 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
pricked 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, friend 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.