The Country of Ice Cream Star (29 page)

First fight be my insistence that we keep our love in secret. Never my heart accept that every Lowell–Sengle know. Truth is, my love be skitty beasts. Will vanish, then come back alive, then turn to mean dislike. Ever I magine telling every child, it feel like shameful lies. In walking hours, I often think of leaving him for honesty – but when I see him in his tent, I change in weak regret. Will only beg for secrecy again, with pale excuses.

El Mayor resent this awful. He crave to wake with me in arms, to name Ice Cream in happy boast. And he start in jalousie, what ears I keep this secret from. For this, he asking tireless, who done love with me before. Will name all children he can think – Jermaine and Popsicle and Crow; ya any Lowell who show eyes to me, or give me friendly gift. Sometimes, from drowsing quietness, he say in sudden pain, ‘Nay, who?’

Answer is Mamadou and Mamadou, crime that love its darkness.
And something inkle to me, El Mayor ain’t going to bear this news.

Yo in sneaking thought, I wishing on the NewKing still. Ever I scold my nonsense heart, it beat its same direction. Be even times my skin resenting El Mayor for only this, that he ain’t Mamadou and cannot be and never be.

So from the drowsy end of love, I often slip in need away. In sudden change, ain’t want him grabbing me, requiring me with questions. Leave El Mayor with jalousie and come back to his hurt.

Our other fight be on my plan to go to Washington.

How it is, the Lowells never trust me with the cure’s importance. I be a girl fifteen, a Sengle ignorant, and all it is. So they plan to go themself – all their older males, and El Mayor in leadership. Ain’t fret them nothing, when my Pasha say they all be murdern. Nor they ask his help. They can find Washington with maps, is all their project need.

Truth, been gratty to me, if they take me in their company. But El Mayor’s insistence be, that I keep safe behind. This give me contradictory moods, and I start thinking reasons, why the Lowells sure to perish hopeless.

I chew all this to scraps with El Mayor, any a night.

‘Some fightless diggers,’ I will say. ‘What you doing there? You lay some carpet for these roos?’

‘And you? Look at yourself. You small as foals. Is like a ten.’

‘I be with Pasha safe.’

‘You trust that yellow cannibal? He lie more than he speak. Goddamn, ain’t
let
you go with him.’

And so we skirmish long and long – who be foolish worse, and who preventing who from going. How roos be risky for a female, but be safe for males; or safe for warry Sengles, but will kill a Lowell quick as sneezing. How Pasha self ain’t be no kitten, sensible to trust.

Times, these nighten conversations mingle in my tired day. I start to think like El Mayor, doubt Pasha’s every kindness. Get memories
of Army camp, the feather that he kilt for nothing. Ya, worst and fresh in conscience be my Pasha’s photographs.

I seen all these photographs now, except the one of Pasha self – object he ain’t never mention, nor I brave to ask. Even without this, they be nefasty ornaments.

Is some where roos walk past dead children like they nothing bushes; or stand in laughing talk with some child torn in pieces at their feet. Be children without noses, ya, which never figure in my eyes – keep thinking that the picture torn somehow on its thin cloth. And be one photograph of only cut-off hands, a bloody dozen. Look like uncanny spiders, heap in sunlight on young grass.

Is calmer pictures, show their helicopter planes and long-nose tanks; show a city burning, hazy in enormous smoke. But even when these photographs show only lazing roos, one roo will hold a weirdo rifle, bigger than no normal gun. Pasha’s explanations of these weapons be unhappy hearing. Yo he name the roos, and mostly add to this: ‘He dead.’

Photograph that linger with me worst be of an inside room. Can see this been a lucky place, with tilen floors and window glass. Walls painten perfect blue. Got a sofa made of shining leather.

On the sofa lie two girlish jones, look like they dress for church. Both is bloody dead. A tennish boy lie dead the same, beside them on the floor. Wall scribble in their blood. Is bloody pools and drops upon the tiles.

Among this horror stand a yellow roo. He point a pistol to his own head, like to shoot himself. But he grinning, is some joke that happen in this camera moment.

Every time I see it, I keep staring minutes at this picture. Feel like something that happen to me in another life.

All Pasha say, this killing was mistake. Roo be Seryozha, was a yeary friend he had in soldat days. This Seryozha living, best he know.

When I ask him what mistake this been, and if he worry for it, Pasha only say, ‘Be war. Is normal.’

And truth, what Pasha tell me of his histories be a shorter list. Can learn, he joining to soldats when he been fourteen years. Can learn the places where he war – some dozen fights in Africa, with city names that ain’t pronounce; Venezuela, place of spotten panthers, where he learning Panish. Ya, been one war against Yevropa – rooish word for Europe – where the roos must leave in bad defeat.

But he never tell particulars of his selfen life. Ask if he miss his townie home, he say he ain’t remember this. Ask who his mother been, he say, ‘A girl.’ Will tell peculiarities sometimes of his Russian Federation – on their driving cars, and how they buy their goods with money paper. Tell of yonder countries – wettish Anglia and hot Brazilia; countries that be islands, tiny in gigantic ocean. But he name no person of his life, ain’t mention no event.

Ask how he live for sixteen years of war, my Pasha answer nothings. Mostly be, ‘Ain’t kilt.’ Ya, once it been, ‘Ain’t live, the others die.’ Will name the places where he fight, but ain’t say what he doing there. Always be, ‘Is war,’ and shrugging. Only thing a child can tell, is something make him want to smoke.

One time I ask him, ‘What you done so foul, I cannot hear?’ He smoke in silence then, think separate in his furry head. At last, he say, ‘I told some lies.’ When I repeat my question stubborn, he say, ‘You want to hear my lies?’

But worse beyond no other silence be his manners on the cure. Vember passing long, and still he tell no plan for Washington. Will only say, ‘Be thinking.’ No attack can get another answer. He thinking and he thinking, but he never tell these thoughts.

Our journey lasting its third week before this strife conclude. Be on a morning when I go for deer and Pasha follow after. He say he like to hunt again – but from his worry looks, can know he got some word to say. So I agree with beggar hope.

This day, the morning risen thick. Snow waiting heavy in the clouds, the light be shabby gray. We stalking through some wither fern, scarce past the campen noise, when Pasha speak behind.

‘Ice? On Washington.’

I flinch immediate to him. He standing clumsy somehow, fidget hands upon his gun. And he say soft, ‘How, if I go alone?’

First, I ain’t comprehend. Say dumb, ‘Alone without myself?’

He shrug. ‘Be most a week, two weeks. Can get cure easier so.’

Then I narrow on him careful. Yo, like I expect, his bluish gaze gone stupid blank.

‘Shee.’ I huff my breath. ‘You clear as nothing. Got your lying face.’

‘How? Ain’t lie.’

‘Be easier, right. Because you never go to roos. You go sleep in some evac and come back with sorry explanations. If you coming back.’

‘Bone,’ he say with stubborn mouth. ‘I take some Lowell. What can do.’

‘Lowell?’

‘Take some male. Be better.’

I stop on this and narrow eyes. ‘You mean, this Lowell watch you there.’

‘I done without. But you ain’t trust.’

‘Is clever thought,’ I say unpleasant. ‘Which Lowell you prefer to kill?’

To this, he frown disgusting, drop his gun loose on its strap. ‘Kill no one.’

‘So, this Lowell coming back? I guess.’

‘Come back if I come back.’

‘So you ain’t coming back? Gratty for telling.’

For a breath, we stare against each other in our different upsets. The snow begun around, in seldom flakes like pointy air.

Then he say hard, ‘You ain’t safe with me. More than Lowell.’

‘Ho, because I female?’ I huff an angry laugh. ‘Ain’t try this, Pasha.’

‘Yes. Is truth.’

‘Damn, you terrifying. How I live by you these weeks? Heed, you bring me, or I go alone. I go without yourself! Ain’t waiting on your goddamn nonsense!’

Pasha raise a fist in temper. Yo, quick without no thought, I spit on it. The roo flinch back and grab his gun. I grab my gun.

We both hold, unnerve. Roo clutch his rifle against himself, face pinking in distress. A snowflake drift between us, tumbling. Then he swallow strange, his hands go softer on his gun. ‘Ain’t kill no Lowells,’ he say underbreath. ‘I never thought this.’

And he turn himself away. Sit down into the messy ferns. Crouch to his gun, like curling to an injury its hurt.

I stare a moment to his furry head. Then I crouch by, say hot, ‘You heed, this nonsense finish now. I taking Money south tomorrow. I learn whatever you hide, can die without no painful curiosity.’

‘Nay, Ice.’

‘Yes, Ice! Be watching Driver die. Your moron lies and “I be thinking”. Cannot bear this!’

Can hear him breathing fast, his body clench in hot reaction. Then he say low, ‘You think, they keep the cure in camp? Where it can steal?’

‘Ain’t going to know. You never told.’

‘It be in boats. Far in water.’

First, I only get a dumb relief, he telling facts. Then this news settle in me. I say, ‘They grandy boats you speaking of? Is there?’

‘Ya, is there.’

‘But … ain’t impossible, we steal this. Swim somehow?’

He reach to a fern and tear some fronds away, crush these in hand. ‘Nay. Be nothing worth. These boats, ain’t get inside from swimming.’

I grip Kalash. Feel her angry substance, crush this till it feeling in my bones. ‘And if I fight for roos? You fight for them. Live fifteen years in this.’

‘Is differences.’

‘Is lies.’

He turn to me. Fist tense around the fern, his eyes be shaming misery. ‘Ice Cream. You be a girl.’

‘You saying, going to be like Army camp. Something like.’

A hopeless pain go through his face. ‘You ain’t live long there. Yourself, be nothing you can live.’

‘I live … I can live. But you saying, ain’t no use.’ Can feel my sorrow, hard behind my eyes. ‘They take me on no boat, ain’t going to be. Is right?’

His face relieve. ‘You comprehend. Ain’t use.’

‘So we dying anyhow. You saying, all this been for nothing?’

He drop his crushen fern, look down. Then his voice come whispern, feary. ‘Nay. I thought a plan.’

I catch on this. ‘Plan with myself?’

‘Ya.’ He shrug annoying. ‘You ain’t heed, so.’

I find my cigarettes and take one out. Light it gratty, feeling aftersorrows in my heart. Then suspicion bite in me. ‘Hold – can know this plan?’

He laugh some choken way. ‘Can know.’

‘Yo tell. Can tell me now?’ I suck my cigarette, keeping my eyes apart. Get fears he change his notions if I even watch him wrong.

‘What I think,’ he say in careful voice, ‘you come with me like wife.’

‘Ho, roos keep wives like Christings?’

‘Ain’t like Christings,’ Pasha say unhappy. ‘Some soldats keep girls.’

‘Yo sho. They going to do.’

‘They comprehend this. I ask for cure, for you. For favors, or can pay. Physicians take pay sometime.’

‘Sure.’ I sigh my smoke out glad. ‘I thought of this myself.’

I glance at him, and find him clenchen down around his gun. Face turn away, but still can see, the child embarrass mean.

‘Foo.’ I laugh. ‘You touchy something. Ain’t fret myself if roos believe we wive. This why you kept it all these weeks?’

‘Nay, ain’t this.’

‘So why? Ain’t science plans. Can think of this before a month.’

He shrug misliking. ‘Cannot be always by you there.’

‘Your risks again, I guess.’

‘Yes. Ain’t jokes.’

‘Foo, is raping problems.’ I laugh nervy. ‘What you meaning.’

‘Someone hurt you, ain’t know how it be.’ He shake his head resenting.

‘They rape me, how it be. Ain’t mysteries.’

‘Nay,’ he say harsh. ‘Ain’t know how I be.’

This notion stop me queery. Remind how Pasha done at Army camp. Yo, he hunch to his gun again. Hand tearing ferns, and drop them by. A snowflake float in wind above, then dart onto his hair.

‘Better we living, Pasha,’ I say soft. ‘Sure I known. Some Deema rape me, be my mally luck. It need no acts from you.’

He hold, fern dangling from his hand. ‘Ain’t easy like you think.’

‘So it be crafty. How you got to do.’

‘Ya.’ Then Pasha look toward me, like he check some fact. Think a moment, and grit unhappy. ‘Nay, I think some way. Be some soldats can trust.’

‘Bony to hear.’ I laugh, and Pasha make uncertain smile.

‘Is truth,’ he say. ‘Some soldats bone.’

‘Sure I believe. Is only funny.’

I shake my head, look to the farther woods. Can see the seldom snow against the sun, like tiny dust. I try to think some circumstance where I will kill for Pasha. Sure, if it been his life, ain’t questions. Think arguments to tell him this, but all my thoughts be puttering moths. I suck my cigarette.

At last I say, discomfort, ‘I never thanken you. How you come for me at Army camp.’

He laugh soft. ‘Is truth.’

‘Felt two contradictions in this. How … they people shot. Ain’t thought to thank.’

‘Is normal, ya. You only be a small.’

When I look, he lighting up a cigarette. Smile show on his face. I say, ‘Can insult how you like. I going to love you for this real.’

His face go soft embarrass, but he keep eyes on his hands. Say quiet, ‘Ya. I going to love you also.’

33

THE SIMPER, OF HER PEOPLE

Day behind this argument, we pass into Connecticut. Ain’t no line to show – must figure this from roadsigns, where they left. Now be petty days before we reach our safer home. Ya, woods continue solitary bell. Be even questions sometimes, why we never roam before, like this been pleasure escapades.

Myself, be readying my fear to go to Washington. Now it being real, all apprehensions change in me. My walking hours become long maginations of my rape. How Pasha kilt in my protection; what resulting after. Roos cut off my nose, my hands. Hounds eat my dying flesh. I start to figure days till January, wish it being farther. These days can be my only life.