The Country of Ice Cream Star (40 page)

‘Washington?’

‘Yes. Marianos call this Quantico. Be same as Washington city.’

‘Shee.’ I frown in closer, skeering somehow in my heart. ‘You saying, roos fight Quanticos next? This meaning, roos will lose?’

‘Ain’t that.’

‘Foo, admit these Quanticos can win.’ I sit back disappointing. ‘You only being contradictory.’

‘Nay, Quanticos ain’t win.’ Pasha smile.
‘You
can win.’

I distract to Pasha’s hand, tensen on the map. Notice how it cover in gentle hair, is yellow strewn. Got a deepish scar across the back, sort made from burning injury. ‘If we live, you saying, you want to make war on your roos?’

‘Yes,’ say Pasha in impressing voice. ‘Two cities fight. If Marianos fight by Quanticos, can win against the roos.’

‘Ho, Marianos do this? Quantico be their enemy, ya.’

‘You be Maria then.’ He make impatient face. ‘Can figure this. Roos ain’t come till January. Be all time to do.’

I frown to the map. ‘I thought we never can beat your roos.’

‘Can here. Roos bring only enough of soldats, guns, for Washington. You join, they ain’t expect. Is chance you win.’

‘Chance? You saying, we can lose?’

‘Yes.’ Pasha wave his hand dismissing. ‘But if you losing, still can parley. Can get cure from this.’

‘Parley? Roos will parley?’

‘Yes. In war, is parleys. For … trade prisoners. Be different parleys.’

‘Trade prisoners for cure. See this.’ I narrow on his face, considering. ‘But if we lose, Marias City all be taken, ya?’

He make obvious face. ‘You fleeing then. Take cure and flee.’

I laugh surprise. ‘Foo, you got colder morals. Thought your roos was worser death.’

‘Can win also.’ Pasha shrug, get foolish smile himself.

‘Marias children ain’t no wonderful themself. Choice of awfuls, can see this.’

Then we smiling to. I look at Pasha with good townie feeling. Seek his chappen lip, but it ain’t showing in this light. His beard begun to grow in these two nights, cheeks look doggish. Face soften in relief, his bigness arms is loose and spent.

Then my conscience whisper soft,
Stab Jesus in the heart
.

I shiver and sit back. Say low, ‘Can figure this tomorrow. If it be tomorrow. Got only hours, ain’t spend it all on futures we ain’t see.’

His eyes go uncertain. Look to the map, and touch a finger wisty onto Quantico.

I say, ‘Wish we can go outside somehow. Hate this indoors, feel like I breathing my own breath.’

A moment he sit closen on his thought. But then he rouse himself, look up. ‘Be an outside room.’

‘Foo, how no room can be outside? Is contradictions.’

‘Nay, I show.’

Pasha stand up nervy. Go to some longish curtains, pull them open to glass doors. Through, can see a dimmish porch. Cannot see no ground from here, is only paven tiles. Doily sort of metal chairs with flattish pillows to.

I feel some disappointments. Had a yearning for the woods. Wish it been some elevator, can step to forest from this room. But I make preciating face. ‘Is right.’

‘Be cold for this,’ say Pasha low. ‘I telephone you coat.’

‘Ya,’ I say, with forcen lightness. ‘Ask for Patagonia. They roaches robbing me.’

Pass some waiting minutes before the ermanos bring my coat. We try to make some gladder conversation, memories that been. But every talk stray into death. Soon we guessing if it be no afterworld to see. Even hell come liking to our fear, but neither can believe.

I tell him how our Popsicle return from death one time. Say he seen a hell, where he met all the dead he ever known. Dead live in this hell like normal. They told him that the fire accustom, and when they hunt a turkey, it be ready cooked. Pasha laughing to this silly, when the knock come at the door.

Coat ain’t Patagonia. Be a bushy furren item, white and longness to the floor. Is clumsy, scarce can move your arms. But I settle to this, will not spend my final time frustrating. Clad it on, and we go out into the friendly cold.

Porch ain’t glorieuse for nothing, but got healthy air. I step to the raily edge, my bare feet aching glad with cold. Lean out, spying for the trees, and Pasha lean beside. Forest still be tiny strange, but look more real without the glass. Branches blowing backen forth, is restless with good life.

Then come a cry below, and all the bosky darkness stirring forward – like someone tip the ground toward us, and all loose objects sliding to the edge. Be the children of these woods, come running toward the Ministerio. They sift through trees and crowd against some obstacle line I cannot see. Hundred voices raise and join into a storming larm. Yo, all these children lift their arms, reach toward us from their plummet depths.

I flinch from the railing feary. Pasha muttern rooish, wave me back. We prowl to hidden space. Breathe scary while the skree
discourage slow, like sinking from its weight. Soon it only be one voice. Can hear how this child weaken hoarse and palter into silence. Only then we ease and settle in the doily chairs.

Clouds part above, and show a blanket of good stars. We both fix on this, and I expect our usual silence, but somehow I start to talk. First be talking sad of Driver, how I learn his sickness on the day that we found Pasha self. How I swearing Pasha ain’t a roo, for his protection. We both remember, talking, how I took his gun away. Talk about Karim, and how he die for nothing wrong – and we agree all murder be for nothing. Ain’t no reason worth a death. But we contradict this for the death of Deema Roo, and then we argue if we be deserving our soon death. Argue if we dying real, or if we save somehow. And we agree this death be funny, if it ain’t been us. Jesus self will laugh.

And Pasha tell me of his wars, and how he done all worst things you can do, more times than he remember, when he been dumb with pharmacies and murderous with fears, and then he need to just forget. He tell me stories of this, but he ask me that I never tell, if we both live beyond. I promise honesty to this, and so I never done. Then he say about the times he try to kill himself, but always he was found and made to live. Ya, he argue, like I known he will, that I can kill him also. Ain’t need him for the cure now – and it be like killing Deema, justice for his evil life. And I say again that I ain’t kill him, and Pasha say he thought I maybe changing, if I known his crimes – but any blindness known was something like, and I say nothing to this. Then Pasha take my hand, and I cry somewhat, but he never seeing in the dark. And we sit in hunting silence, smoke with our free hands, and coldness settle feroce on our bare faces, as the dawn begin to sneak its faintness into this black city crawling with unknowing children, and our mouths begin to taste of terrify and animosen love. Until the sun be risen dull, and knocking come, our death come knock impatient in the room. Yo we ignore this hatred detail – until they come for us without no pity, soldiers and ermanos, talking disapproval, talking meaningless, and pulling me,
and I loose Pasha’s hand, and he look shame as I be led away, and I call back that I will find him. Ever hell be big, will find him there. And if it ain’t no hell, it been a bony night, was bone as any, and if we live, yo if we live.

40

OF PROOFING

This death morning spent in grooming. Be exasperation, how I live these final hours with strangers tugging at my hair and pinning cloth against my frighten skin. Everything is fingers. Start to flinch whenever I feel a touch.

Two girls who pester most be callen Altagracia and Mercedes. They nasty prettieuse, chub females with all paints upon. Both is skunking with perfume, and all their helping children skunk. Is only Altagracia–Mercedes speaking English any, and it be Panish in its sort, pronounce in noses and confusions. But they keep pronouncing on, with scarcely taken breath.

Mostly they talk grooming yappit, until I hating my own ears, be angry that no child be born with ears. And while their voices pippet round, is always fear within. Any comfort I can think, I terrify the same, and my mind slip to needless maginations. I think of snake Felipe, apostle of Metropolitano. How he will smile like honey as he hand his murder cup. How this poison act, if it be painful. If I refuse to drink, how I be draggen out to burn. How it can be, that Ice Cream ain’t existing anywhere. Will be no me to know that I ain’t there.

And I must stand and raise my arms. Murder dresses clad on me, and strip away, flung off like grandy swans. Mercedes work with pins around my waist. Then must lean back with hair in faucet water, feeling devil miseries.

In this, I think to draw their talk to something that distract. So I ask if Marianos ever can bear with whitish children. Be dreaming how I save my Pasha, and he live among. So I ask, if be some white with kindly manners, how this been.

Then Altagracia make some pittering talk, how whites be Satan’s get, was made in person shape for our confusion. In their old America, whites had a bad religion, where they worship paper money. Was mally churches callen banks, deciding all their laws. These whites live like diseases, all was homosexual selfish. Good black children was kept as slaves, or capture into gloomy prisons. She keep on with this blablabla, while she pluck at my face, until it be a nagging madness.

At last I speak up breathless, say, ‘Your people ain’t no differences. You worse. Be farts that blame the cheese.’

She startle back. ‘Senyora?’

I hush myself. Can guess that I look peevish as a boring mule. Only I muttern, ‘Get your own white people, kill them gratty. Pasha mine. Is townie children.’

‘I not kill anyone, senyora.’

‘Nay, you ain’t kill no one. I feed you to him first. Be right.’ Here I begin to cry, and Altagracia–Mercedes cluck around me like two picking hens. Pat my face with serviettes and stroke me till I swat them.

When they finish me, I wear a dress like all the others. Top be covern in some pearls, the bottom feathery big. Hair braid with diamond jewleries, and Altagracia fix a band of pearlen beads atop, with straggling gauzen cloth loose down my back. Clip diamonds painful to my ears, string diamonds cold around my throat.

Then Altagracia say she teach me through the sacraments. She take me to a grandy room, is empty of no furnitures. Here we go through any witless actions. I must say ‘See’ for ‘Yes’, and kneel and handle golden rings. This be the wedding sacrament. Then she giving me a wooden object like a boaten oar. I hold this embarrass, till she say, ‘When the wedding over, apostle Pedro give the spear.’ Then I
throw it angry to the floor, gone hot through all my skin. Altagracia cry, with scary looks, ‘I must to teach both ways. Is not my choice, senyora.’

So I stand trembling while she take the oar up in her hands. Show me how this murder done, explaining spears their use, like any fifteen child ain’t know. And here my coward heart begin to muttern its temptations. Truth, I cannot cause no wars to Washington if I be dead. Pasha only be one life – I win this cure, and every children save. Ya, Pasha thirty years, is like he living twice already. And I see Driver’s face in mind, his eyes gone furiose with pain. For all the murders Pasha done, one life. Roo ask for this himself.

And Altagracia tell how I must find my place, and use my weight. How I must force this spear until he die. Then all my body feel this thrusting blow. My muscles gather bright. Is even pride, how I be strong. Can do this work correct.

‘When he dead, you kneel,’ say Altagracia. ‘On the blood, is good. Spear clean with dress. You try, senyora?’

To this, I cannot bear no more. Say hoarsen furiose, ‘I seen. Now show the other way.’

So we do this action, I repeat its queery words, and go until we come to drinking cups. Then I be weak from every fear, and ask if I can have some wine. Or booze be better. But this ain’t allow.

They pick at me some more, and tell me cigarettes ain’t allow, and seeing Pasha ain’t allow, and pick at me. Try to pull me to a mirror, but I lie nasty that, among my people, mirrors ain’t allow. They take this with surprisen admiration. Yo, now ermanos gather in. Some rifle children coming, wearing different clothes, is reddish color, but their guns the same. All glance nerviose to me, ain’t nod or greet or nothing. Altagracia pull me to a middy place among these children. Give me last instructions, pick my hair a final time.

Then we all walking down some broaden stairs, go lower lower, any wearing time, until I feel they take me clear to hell. Wish I dying so without no proof indignity. But we come into the room of dandelion lights, the statue of the girlish cannibal. Walk out to the
bluish street. And gathern to the streeten edge is all the normal people of Marias City, the littles and the jones, with dirty coats and needing faces, roaring in their thousand voice. All madden as I come along, is pointing fingers, grinning strange, and we walk through their skree that swell against the buildings’ rocky flanks. On the street be scattern flowers, whitish petals shivering and drifting in the wind. My ankles feel like angry water, but I walk correct. Concentrate upon the cutting bother of the heely shoes, and go with feary upright step, longing that I been a rifle child, ain’t got this pinching dress and freezing arms and death and death.

Rifles halt before an edifice savage in bellesse. Is towers and likenesses and curls, and all been carven out of stone. Ain’t believe in gods before, but cannot see how any person children make this edifice. A different fear become in me, that this real god exist. But my heart insist its hatred to any god who kill my Pasha for some fool performance, and I get some better valor, walking small into this vasty place.

Inside, be worse bellesse. A music come from loften height, some moaning instrument. Be thousand people sitting in benches, wearing churching clothes. All about is carven – flowers and curls and stony children. Be tall painten windows showing long-nose sleepers acting scenes. Forward is a stage with golden canopy upon. On steps before this, apostle Pedro standing. Wear a silvern dress, wash shiny to the floor.

Beneath the canopy be Pasha. He bounden to a stony cross with both his arms. Ain’t hanging, but he stand upon a granite step, feet bound the same. Look like normal rope they use, done up in fisher knots. He wearing brownish pants, is simple made, but all his chest be bare.