Padre Faura Witnesses The Execution of Rizaldanton Remoto: (For Beni Santos)

Padre Faura Witnesses the Execution of RizalDanton Remoto
(for Beni Santos)

I stand on the roof
of the Ateneo Municipal,
shivering
on this December morning.
Months ago,
Pepe came to mein the Observatory.
I thought we could talk
about the stars
that do not collide
in the sky.
Instead, he asked me about purgatory.
his cheeks still ruddy
from the sudden sun
after the bitter winters
in Europe.
And on this day
with the year beginning to turn
salt stings my eyes.
I see Pepe,
a blur
between the soldiers
with their Mausers raised
and the early mornings
stars:
still shimmering
even if millions of miles away,
the star itself
is already dead.
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 other was often appeased. There was
more need for appeasement after he lost his !ob.The devil ate his
words, the devil ate his capacity for words, the devil ate his tongue.
"ut perhaps only after prior negotiation with its owner, what with
other 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 ca!oled 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#’ 'gain he was ready to
pledge relief, but something in my mother’s eyes made him mutter
only the usual e(cuse, ‘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 e(change
for those promises to my mother) comfort, a full stomach, life without
our wretched want . . . "ut 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 mesti*o was my father’s
employer, but only for a very short while. He sacked him and our
neighbour Tiyo 'nding, also a mason, after he found a cheaper hand
for the e(tension 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 thedarkest 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 o( 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. -unior and ilo were more than happy to demolish his share
of gruel with fish sauce. ow 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 lu(uriating in
a multitude of essences, pampered into a pi/uant delight.perhaps,
ne(t 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, saut0ed, basted, baked,
boiled, fried and feted with only the perfect seasonings. I would
become an epicure. 1n a rich man’s plate, I would be initiated to
flavours of only the finest /uality. 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.
Preludes
BY T. S. ELIOT
I
The winter evening settles down
With smell of steaks in passageways.
Six o’clock.
The burnt-out ends of smoky days.
And now a gusty shower wraps
The grimy scraps
Of withered leaves about your feet
And newspapers from vacant lots;
The showers beat
On broken blinds and chimney-pots,
And at the corner of the street
A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.
And then the lighting of the lamps.
II
The morning comes to consciousness
Of faint stale smells of beer
From the sawdust-trampled street
With all its muddy feet that press
To early coffee-stands.
With the other masquerades
That time resumes,
One thinks of all the hands
That are raising dingy shades
In a thousand furnished rooms.
III
You tossed a blanket from the bed,
You lay upon your back, and waited;
You dozed, and watched the night revealing
The thousand sordid images
Of which your soul was constituted;
They flickered against the ceiling.
And when all the world came back
And the light crept up between the shutters
And you heard the sparrows in the gutters,
You had such a vision of the street
As the street hardly understands;
Sitting along the bed’s edge, where
You curled the papers from your hair,
Or clasped the yellow soles of feet
In the palms of both soiled hands.
IV
His soul stretched tight across the skies
That fade behind a city block,
Or trampled by insistent feet
At four and five and six o’clock;
And short square fingers stuffing pipes,
And evening newspapers, and eyes
Assured of certain certainties,
The conscience of a blackened street
Impatient to assume the world.
I am moved by fancies that are curled

Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.
Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;

The worlds revolve like ancient women
Gathering fuel in vacant lots.

Padre Faura Witnesses The Execution of Rizaldanton Remoto: (For Beni Santos)

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Padre Faura Witnesses The Execution of Rizaldanton Remoto: (For Beni Santos)

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Padre Faura Witnesses the Execution of RizalDanton Remoto

(for Beni Santos)

(THE DEVIL ATE MY WORDS)

By: Merlinda Bobis

And then the lighting of the lamps.

I am moved by fancies that are curled

Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;

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