The Country of Ice Cream Star (41 page)

See him there, my heart go black. It rage without no mind. I try to look away, but my eyes need to him. Will see and see.

And I walk forward. Yo the rifle children fall behind, stay guarding by the doors. Be thinking how I run, if I can make them shoot me somehow. Be the death I will prefer, but still be chance no cup will
poison. If I do this killing, be good chance. And I go forward, remembering these gaga sacraments. Feel the sweat bright on my face. Pasha watch me come with dazen eyes. Pedro step aside.

I go and stand to Pasha, heart gone scrambling. Be almost blind without no thought, I only see one detail. Neat on his chest, there be a blooden mark. Show where my spear should go, is cut into his whiten skin. One shivering breath, it freak in me, they stabben him already. Kill him with some knife, left me no choice. But then my mind clear cold, can see this cut be scarcely bleeding. And it notice, roo got any scars along his chest – long nicks and dimples, purple and white. I get another madness, how he live beyond these every wounds. Sure, he surviving any stab I do.

Then Pasha swallow at his throat. I look up to his frosten eyes. They terrify in strangeness, like he fear me now, too late.

Yo we stare together, two small terrors in this giant room. Behind us, children watching from their benches, and the rifles watching, as the moaning song close to its finish. All come silent.

I crouch down to my knees. Gather the skirt around myself. Look up to Pasha again, and mouth his name, but he be looking by. His bluish fright gone to the watching room.

Then apostle Pedro come toward me, stepping careful. I watch to his face, and feel all hatred I can find. Hate his melancholy looks, I hate his gracile hands. Silvern cloth got broidery upon, in complicating flowers, and I hate these flowers, all my bitter living hate him.

He speak. Be Panish, chanten long, his voice be like complaining water. Yo he coming to a pause. And I remember, and say, ‘See.’

Then he put his hand soft to my head, and speak again. I be almost longing to his gentle touch, his haten touch. He pause again, and I say, ‘See.’ Rise to my feet, with trembling gone all through me. Hold out a trembling hand. Pedro catch it still. He fit a ring onto my finger.

Ring be carven gold, fit loose. I want to shake it free – but I close fingers on it. Nor I brave to look at Pasha. I stare frighten into nothing.

Speech begin again, and now a blackdress child come up, is carrying an actual spear.

Spear ain’t prettieuse like every object here, is plain for use. Shaft be oaken, blade is longer than no knife. Its edges perfect sharp. Any girlish arm can kill with this. My hands guess how this hold, what force it take.

Then Pedro take the spear, step graciose to me, and hold it out. I take it with some sudden greed, and hold it well in both my hands. Pedro’s face change warm. His eyes skit up to Pasha, wanting. Suffer how he want. I stare on Pedro, and my breath come faster, hands grip well.

Be only a lurking moment that I look to Pedro’s throat. See how this throat can stab. My arms join, brighten in their hate. Then my madness pass to chilling sweat, but all my heart be simple.

Yo when I look to Pedro’s eyes, he seen. He frozen blank, got superstitions in his pressen mouth. I be gratty for this alone. I hand the spear back smiling and say clear, ‘No puedo. No.’

Pedro take the spear with wisty blinking of his eyes. My arms go trembling down again, while behind, is muttering in the benches, children sighing somehow. I look back to Pasha. He still ware on me with frighten blankness. Rain-color eyes look almost white.

Pedro step away, and with no feeling sense, I go to knees again, work at my Pasha’s bounden feet. Behind, the children muttern, and I feel hotness in my face. Begin to hurry, fear that someone stop me. I stand to work his handen knots, and feel my Pasha’s frighten breath, hot at my nape. Rope chafe my fingers, and my belly pinching deep again as I free his last knots. Pasha never look to me. He only step down, stumble on bare feet. Stop with some different fright, and I turn perilous.

Apostles stand behind. All wearing garb like Pedro’s, washing silvern to the floor. Cups is gold, with reddish stones. A moment, I expect that Pasha fight through these, we run. But nothing be. We stand the same, and when I look at him, he stare to nothing. One hand press his chesten wound.

Then I tell myself,
I drink some wine. All I must do. If it be death, this dying do itself. I only drink
. And the apostles all step forward, as the music start again, its moaning wind and voice.

First apostle coming be Simón Zelote, tearful soldier. Hold his cup out, and his handsome jawbone face show nothing. I reach and take the cup. When he release, its weight surprise my hands. It take some strength to hold this, and I look defiance to the gold, the darken wash within. Ain’t look like wine, is almost black. But I raise it, tense with spite. Gold chill my lips, I tip it clumsy. Then it taste too sweet for wine. Be squinting at this wrongness. All my throat join to reject it, but I swallow harsh. Wait for the pain, the wasting feeling. What it be.

Simon Zelote reach his hand. I be blind in wondering as he grasp the cup. My hands come loose away, and nothing been. I stand the same. I look, alive, up to the next apostle. Got better courage, and be comfort that I ain’t recognize his face. Be some apostle who never asken questions, got no care. Wine be the same, a sweetish gulp and nothing. He take the cup, and I be feeling gratitudes when I see the next apostle be Juan, young child who favor me. I drink his wine with almost greed, gladden in its safety. Then come posy Bartolomeo, child who ask about the clause. Feel worse to this, been something maudy in him, but I take his wine, drink hard. I almost drop this cup. He must catch it hasty from my loosing hand.

Then my fears begin to waste, be tired of this fright. I only force my strength to meet these coming faces, take their cups and drink, and drink again. Be wishing only for the end. Be gratty now to die, ain’t bear to agony more in fear. And it go on, some unlikely stretching time, repeating and repeating. Music moan, disturbing in my ears. The crowd stare cold. I begin to notice the apostles’ expressions, who be nervy, who be calm. Girlish apostle frown at me so hard, she rumple her chin. Yo, prettieuse Santiago wink, like this be littlish game. Only after I drink his cup, I guess he want to reassure. Was hinting, this ain’t poison. I look after him in wish, long to his sympathy. Then I look back and see Felipe.

Child looking maladies of fright. Face be bright with sweat, jaw clench. Hands grip knuckly to the cup. Is like he try to crush it gone.

And I know, in evil calm, be now. I look back to the rifle children at the farther door, but got no strength to think of running. It wonder, how they doing, if I yell that this be poison. Spill it like an accident. Behind, be thought of burning – and how, when I be draggen out, all children see my cowardesse.

Then I reach to the cup from simple habit. Felipe flinch, but ease himself and leave it to my hands. I take its sickening weight, and glance around the watching children, how they waring on this sight. Be like they know, they spitely curiose. Then all my fear be gone. Is only the metal weight in my two hands, the dream bellesse around. Felipe’s face be cringing dread, and I feel scorn against this weakness.

I raise the cup in simple strength. Find the cold edge with my lips.

Taste duller than the other wine, but I swallow without thought. And I look back to weak Felipe, thinking how he watch me die. My mind say,
Now I die, see what it be. If it be anything
. I look to the painten windows, the complicating reds and blues of drown sunlight, wait for this mystery. My heart beat skitty, like a hand-caught bird his frighten heart.

But nothing be. I breathe, and feel my scary hands tight on the cup. Nothing be. Felipe watching to me, never move to take the cup. Look only changing fear. Yo, my own fear start again. Keep waiting for the pain, until is hope and panic and every struggling need inside myself. Then sudden, Felipe reaching out, his face gone sick. I give the cup to him with almost guilt. He look inside, check that I drank.

Then his eyes widen to me. Grown shiny now with tears. He whisper something helpless, be a prayer or beggary.

And he turn and stagger by, a silvery change in my blur sight. I stand empty-hand and sick. Feel dizzy through my body, like it poison with its life.

Then Pedro coming last, is looking tired in relief. He hand his
cup like normal guesting. This I drink thankful for its wine. Wish there been more. And Pedro take his cup and I be cold with sweat and living weak. Some madness smile come on my face. Pedro make a two-stick sign into the air before me. Speak some louder words, and all the people in the benches say up, sudden and bold, ‘Amen.’

And Pasha take my hand in his cold sweaten hand, and we walk back. Go between these benches, all the children standing to their feet. Guards gather to us at the door, but no one touching us. No tardy poison work in me. It be no harm.

So we walk out to the street, its sunlight and its ravish voice. Walk into the shouting city, city that I rule.

41

OF ANSELM WEASEL

Scarce remember how we starting back, get only scraps of knowledge. My elbow caught by Pedro, he whispern gratulations in my ear. Then he gone. We in the road, among the redcoat guards, the thousand strangers screaming wild against the gray and sunlit buildings. Pasha by me looking ghosty weird. Somewhere we stopping, caught, where children run into the road before. Get some skirmish there, and all red soldiers gather to me–Pasha, ware their guns around.

One turn to me and call above the noise, ‘They clear soon. No have frighten.’

Comprehend this poory, but I say, ‘I be Maria now?’

Child look like he scary from no answer, but he nod.

My heart clear sweet. I say, ‘My brother, can I get that rifle?’

He startle in his eyes. Be a skinny male, look mostly fifteen like myself. And he look troubling round, like someone rescue him from this confusion. Then he try, ‘No need. We rifle for you.’

‘Want your rifle,’ I say. ‘Damn, I asking this.’

Ain’t expect result, but he go meek. Reach his gun. I take its weight, its loving coldness. Try to nod my friendship to him, but he turn away. Then I look to Pasha with some pride, but he watch forward at the altercation. So I hold the rifle different ways in privy joy. Ain’t right as my Kalash, but still is bold in heaviness. Its trigger loop fit to my finger sweet.

Then the skirmish clearing, we walk on. I hold the rifle to my waist, walk glad in weapon bravery. When we catch again into some fool commotion, I crouch down. Reach beneath my fluffet skirt, unhook my heely shoes. Twist these off, and sigh joyeuse. Crouching there, the yells be dull among all standing bodies. I catch a trodden flower in my hand, and remember how I going to live. Ain’t be my last flower, and I laugh toward the dirty street and feel my bony rifle and my flower and my life.

In this gratty moment, I dream how I can escape. But Sengles catch in mind – must wait until they bringing safe. And, strange behind this, come a ravish memory of our war. Truth, we want this city and its thousands. They fight for the cure. Then all my blood exhilarate, is like careening light within.

I look up dizzy and find Pasha narrowing on me. He shout through the noise, ‘They give you gun?’

‘Nay, I ruling here,’ I shout. ‘Take what I like.’

‘Give me.’

I stand up glad on naked feet and hand the rifle easy. Then my loot be by. We moving forward, Pasha got my rifle at his other side. Keep it ready, like he done in all our Massa journey. Redcoat guards squint at the roo disliking, muttern Panish. But I ain’t minding this. Ain’t even scarcely miss my gun. I watch on Pasha, how his naked chest look chickenish in the cold, and feel some vasty love. Love the frosten air and love my bare feet on the gritten road, yo this whole moron city shout my love in millions, ring the sky.

When we come to the Ministerio steps, guards start to filter back, and all relief be thankful. I hitch my dress and scramble up the steps like eight joyeuse. Pasha running after, gun caught easy like he do. Another range of guards be there, they open doors to us, and then we be inside, like falling in a bed of silence. No one even there. My feet come smooth onto the tilen floor.

Then I grab Pasha’s arm. He turn to me, his face uncanny soft. I say, ‘We living, roo. You even guess that this can happen?’

‘Yes.’

I laugh up wild and grab him round his chest. Crush him hard, and he begin to laugh, a beagling sound. He arm me round and heft me in the air, until I kick his leg. Then he loose me, and I stand with hands up to his shoulders, saying, ‘Shoo, I save your life. We fair now, one for one.’

Pasha laugh and touch my cheek, his face go drunk with feeling. Eyes be lit and starry, grin confuse with my same love.

Then behind, a glassen door come open. I look round, still grinning, feeling happy to all children made. But then I see, is Anselm.

Only in this moment, I recall my robben enfant. Pasha stiffen hostile by, his face gone strange feroce. As Anselm come up smiling, I touch conscious to my belly. All my various temperaments gone dizzying, joy and rage and grief.

‘Santa Maria,’ Anselm say, and stoop himself somehow.

I grit my breath and say, ‘Should call me Ice Cream like a person.’

Anselm straighten up, touch fingers to his hearten chest. ‘A first point of etiquette. When people greet Maria, they expect to kiss her ring. That’s the routine.’

‘Ain’t interesting what you expect. Yo, where my Sengles be?’

‘Your people, yes.’ Anselm make mischief smile. ‘Your apostles are in your rooms, although they’ve scattered into hiding. They don’t seem to like each other much.’

‘Yo sho, they hide. You capture them with guns, what else they done? And where my other Sengles?’

‘Everyone you want will come. Please trust that, santa reina. Now I was wondering – it’s very selfish of me, but I was hoping I could speak to you alone. Is that possible?’

‘Ain’t going to kill us now?’