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:Daryll Delgado
A man died singing. He had sung a total of three songs before he
heaved his last breath and collaps"d o.r u chair. It happened at the
Municipal Hall. The time was three in the afternoon-. The sun was
high. Heat seeped into people's bones. Tuba warned their blood
even more. Someone's ninth death anniversary was being
celebrated. Another man's life in that party ended. It ended on a
high note. At that very moment, Nenita the wife, was at home,
picking leaves for a medicinal brew. Earlier that day, Nenita had
been lying on the sofa, slipping in and out of an afternoon sleep she
should not have heeded, embracing Willy Revillame in her dreams.
She had had no plans of taking a nap. She had just wanted to catch
a glimpse of Willy after she sent off her grandson for the city, just
before she resumed her cooking. At the sala, she opened the
window to let some breeze in. But the air was so dry. Outside it was
very quiet. Everyone was at the Hall, to attend the ninth death
anniversary of the juez. Most of them bore the judge a grudge, but
they were all there anyway, eager to see what kind of feast his
children had prepared. The children had all come home from
America and Europe for this very important occasion in the dead
man's journey. Nenita herself did not mind the judge really, even if
she had always found him rather severe. It was the wife whom
Nenita did not feel very comfortable with. There had been some
very persistent rumors involving the judge's wife that Nenita did not
care so much for. As soon as Nenita was certain that her grandson
had left, she positioned the electric fan in front of her, sat on the sof4
and turned on the TV to catch the last segment of her favorite show.
The next thing she knew, Willy Revillame was pulling her into his arms,
soothing her with words of condolences, before handing her some
cash and offering his left cheek for a kiss. There was a huge applause
from the studio audience, even if they were all weeping with Willie,
 shaking their heads in amazement. Nenita forced herself out of the
dream and the motion brought her entire body up and out of the
sofa. She found herself standing in the middle of the sala, face-to-
face with a teary-eyed Willy. Her heart was beating wildly. Her
armpits were soaked in sweat. Her hair bun had come undone. She
looked around guiltily, she thought she heard her husband swear at
her. She felt her husband's presence in the living room with her, even
if she knew he was at the death anniversary parry. She quickly
turned off the TV and made her way to the kitchen. She should not
have taken that nap, Nenita berated herself. There was an urgent
order for ten dozens of suman she had to deliver the next day, for
the judge's daughters who were leaving right after the anniversary.
There was already a pile of pandan leaves on the kitchen table,
waiting to be washed and warmed, for wrapping the sweet sticky
rice rolls with. She had spent all night until early morning boiling the
sticky rice and mixing it with anise, caramel and coconut milk, until
her hands trembled and the veins swelled. By the time she was
almost done, she had to prepare breakfast and brew a special tea
concoction for her grandson who had spent all night drinking. Her
grandson had very barely made it home-drunk as a fish, crying out a
woman's name like a fool—early that morning.