The Country of Ice Cream Star (48 page)

Child look besleepen messy. His churching suit all muddle in its shape, his hair be flat and skew. Worst be his pinchen face. Is like a picture drawn of how he suffer his murdern children, ya the wreck of Lowell mill.

Before I think no words, he say, ‘Ice, why you slept with me?’

Take me a breath to comprehend. Then I say, ‘Thought you liking this.’

‘But – Ice, you knowing how it is? These people kill you if we do so.’

I shrug nerviose. ‘Been only sleeping, with all clothes.’

He take a shivern breath. ‘Ice, ain’t like robbing eggs. Is death.’ His voice catch thin and he look anxy to the glassen doors. Say lower, ‘Yo, how we going to leave this place? Be any miles of guns to pass. The roos and then these madden children. Why this got to be?’

‘But heed,’ I say, low cautieuse. ‘I thought … we stay some time. Place can be useful to ourself.’

He cross his arms, clutch to himself like freezing. Ain’t look at me, he only clench, frown awful to the floor. ‘Nay, you want to stay? Because you ruling here?’

‘Shee, ain’t for that! What Pasha thought, we war upon these roos. Got this whole city now, be chance we getting all their cure.’

He give a snorting breath. ‘Pasha.’

‘Heed, be a city in Washington. We join with them against the roos. Be two cities fighting, Pasha say we winning so.’

‘Ain’t care what Pasha say.’ Now he look up with grieven rage. ‘I need to leave this place. War can be years.’

‘Ain’t going to be no years.’ I say, surprise. ‘How it be years?’

‘Is war, they lasting years. Guess Pasha never saying this?’

‘I know, I know, but this be petty wars. It only be one place.’

‘Ice, I cannot wait no years nor months. I be eighteen. You get this cure some years behind, I never live to … Ice, you never think of this? Of me?’

‘Sure I think of you. Of Driver also. Why I want this war.’

Then all himself seize vicious. ‘Nay, you want this war because
your roo told you to want.’

Now I be only staring to his face, sans thought nor breath. Porch come familiar now, and in my corner-eye a doily chair seem townie like a friend. The sofa room shine warm behind the glass, and be familiar. Is El Mayor gone strange, with twisten face and churching suit. And he narrow on my dress, say harsh, ‘Heard how you marry with him.’

First, this ain’t even comprehend. Then I shake my head, say dull, ‘Ain’t marrying real.’

‘And you want to die for him? This ain’t been real?’

Here my patience lose its grip. ‘Should kill him? Sure I dare my life. Think I ain’t done the same for any Sengle? For yourself?’

‘Ain’t try this. Think I cannot see?’

‘What? You seeing what?’

‘You never want to tell me of your loves before myself. I figuring why.’

I laugh in stagger breath. ‘Now I be doing sex with roos? You ain’t believe this self.’

‘Yes, I believe. What else I can believe? You dying for him why?’

‘Heed, this be Ice Cream Star, I going to do some bellicose nonsense. I be a fool to die. But I ain’t false to you. Ain’t false with any roo nor beast nor person. Damn, ain’t been!’

Can see he catch on this. His painful face go soft, want to trust.

‘Shoo.’ I shake my head. ‘Come hold me. No one even there to see ya, the last Maria, she done sex, and no one bother.’

Can see his body tempt, his eyes be yearning in their shame. But he reach to the door. ‘You ain’t the last Maria. You my Ice Cream. If you kilt for me … been worse enough, my children dead at Lowell. Be too much.’ And he slip out, go fleeing hasty to the farther rooms.

Behind this, he be wrong to life and difficult to friendship. His children kilt be like a blame he wear, a hatred to himself. Some days entire, he only sit in bed and gloom at reveries. Talk to him of war, his only answers be despair. Will say in choken voice, ‘I fight them. Got no wants to live myself. But you wasting misery to plan. Ain’t be no goddamn plans.’ Ya, with every word, he looking painful through his skin entire.

His Lowells keeping in a neighbor edifice, call the Bergdorf Goodman. They settle easy to this change – disapprove the building
for its lack of perfect baths, but love the city’s smart richesse. But El Mayor soon quit to visit. Some Lowell always asking mean, why he left any child at Massa; say everyone been living still, if El Mayor insist they come. Be brats who even spit at El Mayor for their resentment.

In this malaise, his jalousie to me grow past no sense. Be mostly Pasha he suspect, but also be Jermaine and Anselm, any living male. Worst evolution, he start questioning children on my loves. He even bother Driver on this, and he quiz my small Tamara. Soon any blindness guess that he got histories with me himself. But El Mayor cannot resist his mouth. Must ask and ask.

This bring me into tempers for my selfen loneliness. Gratty to his fears, I be Maria Virgin, gone from flesh. Never can feel his hands, nor any person’s wanting hands. And all this feary time, my body grieve its missing life. Be all my days indoors, I never freezing in the difficult air. Ever I stretch my arms, be Anselm chiding me for rudeness. Life got no dirt nor washing rain; no love nor pounding war. Be like the world feel nothing for myself.

Yo, come a day, me–Pasha coming back from church, and Pasha walk before me sleepy in the Ministerio hall. Then some wildness catch in me. I leap upon him from behind, in murder dress and heely shoes. Kick his ankle loose and topple him back upon myself. We land thudden, Pasha crushing me painful at my ribs. First he only brace, surprise. But I reach up to his face, and catch a finger in his nose, my favorite nastiness from Army wars. Then he tear and hit me honest angry with his elbow. I grab his hair, jab him in armpit, but we both start laughing silly, tumblen like we be. Look up, and all our guards be staring terrify, ain’t know who they must help or fight.

Then Pasha pulling free, he go on hands and knees beside me. All his furry hair dishevel. He say, laughing breathless, ‘Fighting like a girl. Pull hair.’

‘What you think I being, foolish? Fight more, this girl go teach you cowardesse.’

Then I punch him smart into the eye, but he cannot quit laughing. He say gaspen, ‘Useless. Got no arm.’

‘Foo, you asking me to hurt you real?’

Then Pasha shake his head, complain injustice. Say he cannot hit me, I be hurt. Our soldiers start to laugh themself – be our funny manners of barbarian, can see. Pasha rise up to his feet, and I get up with perilous grinning, feel some starting life.

He say, gone seriosen shy, ‘Want to fight, you need some learning. Cannot fight like that.’

‘Ho, you bragging air. You fight so special, how you lose they teeth?’

He make a face. ‘Nay. I teach you. Seriose, you miserable.’

So we start our fighting games, that become a Mariano gossip for dismaying morals. Can comprehend, Maria and Jesus boxing, be ungodly sights. One moron padre tell us we must pray against temptation. More practical ermanos tell us explanations, how this seem. Even my Tamara Ten go nerviose. Tell me privy it will harm my brains.

But our vally guards will find us fighting mats and so. Bring us to the Ministerio ballroom, when night be gone in quiet. There we scrap joyeuse, and Pasha teach me pranks of war, with killing grips and gouges that be useful even against the roos. Truth, cannot war angry much. Pasha twice my weighing size. He knock me into dreams, if he ain’t careful. But we sometimes come to church with vally bruises, neverless.

One night, this fighting broil into an honest argument. We resting from our scraps, akimbo on a fighting mat. Pasha sitting frogleg while I lain with spraddle arms. Both wearing soldier clothes for ease; my murder dress be waiting on a doily chair beside. Ya, Pasha got a cigarette – roo cannot live an hour without this comfort in his mouth. Guards smoke also, by the farther wall, in muttern conversation.

And Pasha say, from nothing, ‘Ice? When war begin … you leaving here?’

When I look to him, he got peculiar cautions in his face.

‘How?’ I say. ‘To Quantico?’

‘Nay, Quantico,’ he say misliking. ‘Woods somewhere. Apart.’

I rummage myself up to sit. Ain’t nervy yet, be only puzzling, what he want to mean. Ya, Pasha watch with sharp attention, like he heeding some event, beware its wrong result.

I say, ‘What woods? Foo, how you meaning?’

‘Is better,’ he say cautieuse, ‘when war begin, you hide apart. Can take all Sengles, what you should.’

‘Shoo, been coward gods. I make this war, then hide myself?’

‘Be normal that Maria hide. I talk to guards on this.’

‘To guards? Foo nosy. Need no guards’ opinions, what I do.’

Pasha pinch his mouth, look to the guards in differences of thought. I look to them myself, see how they smoke in boring mood. Guard Lopez tell some braggeries, while the others grim their face.

And Pasha say low-voice, ‘If we lose, roos come here. To Marias.’

I look to him annoying. ‘Need no losing talk, goddamn.’

He nay his hand. ‘You need. Must think.’

‘So they come here, and every child be kilt, while I hide cowardly? You bitten by the evil insect, roo. Ain’t to believe.’

‘Help nothing, if you kilt.’

‘Nay, is your old attitudes. Must check ten ways before I sneeze. Nor we losing, roo. You keep this straight.’

Then his voice come sharp in riling. ‘Is only demonstrations, how you brave. Ain’t useful nothing. But you must do … do foolishness. Must always die.’

‘Foo, must always die. Ain’t even plan to lose. They dooms be yours.’

‘Yes, can lose.’ His mouth grit bitter. ‘Yes.’

Then I get up in quick disgust. ‘Lose and lose! Ain’t needing this. You plain depressing, all you be.’

Pasha be on his feet in angry instant. I raise my wary fists, expect our skirmish start again. But he stand only furiose, hands clenchen at his sides. Say hoarse, ‘I helping you, before. I help you?’

I narrow on his grieven eyes. ‘Sure you done. You help.’

‘Help your Sengles. Help … at Army camp.’

‘You save my life. I know.’

‘This … be what I ask. That you hide. Be for myself.’

Then his eyes yearn to my face, can see them thinking every story. The dandelion lights shine dim like underwater sun, and Pasha look uncanny white. Yo, his need catch in me. Feel how I love himself the same. Even a guilt begin, that I ain’t thought how he keep safe.

‘Bone,’ I say reluctant. ‘If we lose. But you hide also, Pasha.’

He give a longer sigh. Smile funny, like he feel stupidity. Then, without changing face, he swipe and swat me unawares. Yo, I laugh angry, dodge around. Punch short into his guard, and we go scrapping again like nothing been. Chase and jab and yell frustrations till our mally nerves forgot.

49

OF SPYING VARIOUS

When a week be gone, and ain’t no news from Massa woods, I lose impatience with my pointlessness. Be the tenth of Cember, roos expecting in three weeks, and still I cannot trust the Marianos’ plans. Apostles swear they glad to war – they only wait for proof. But every day come evidences of their wrong intention.

First, they insist we cannot tell the city on the roos. About the cure, can comprehend, is reasons for this quietness. Once it be known, all desperate people run to roos direct. But be no harm if people warn about the rooish armies.

I argue this to Anselm, ya apostles, till my voice be old. But they insist that Marianos scare hysterical from this news. Be riots terrible. The city wreck to crumbs by looting. Is even problems, how we ever bring our soldiers into war – they going to terrify idiotic, that their enemy pale.

‘You don’t understand how whites are regarded here,’ Pedro say in teaching voice. ‘In our Bible, they’re described as hell’s offspring, a race of giant scorpions. If people thought there were thousands of white men headed for the city, it would be chaos.’

‘So Jesus be a scorpion god?’ I say. ‘Be white himself.’

Pedro make a pickety face. ‘No, Jesus was God incarnate. He was only sent as a white man to give whites a chance to turn back to
God. But they killed Him, as we know. And since that time, the whites are damned. They are demons, santa reina.’

‘Your people killing Jesus, time-again. You also demons?’

‘Perhaps you should read the Bible,’ say Pedro shortish. ‘But
we
will decide when and how to tell the city. You don’t know what you’re dealing with.’

Truth, I be ignorant as feet. But can know, my Pasha never treating like no giant scorpion. Be plenty Marianos who dislike him for his weirdo color; is even fools who think his touch be poison. But no one doing riots when he enter rooms. Ain’t be.

I try a small experiment, with kitchen people of downstairs. Sneak to them by darkness morning, when they chopping–washing foods. Stand in their grease abode – with queery conscience for my diamond looks – and tell them every information on the rooish army.

These workers all be English poor, and first they only dumbfound that Maria visit their dirty selves. But when they comprehend, they do no chaos, nor they panic. Only frown discomfort each to each.

At last, one girl say shy, ‘Why don’t everyone know about that, senyora?’

‘Apostles want it secret,’ I say. ‘Got all stupid reasonings. Yo Anselm, he the worst.’

Hear Anselm’s name, and all these children terrify out of sense. Go begging, I ain’t tell him that they even heard this news. Say how they losing jobs for this. Can even be, they rid to jail. Yo, as I leave, I hear a girl say, sour in undervoice, ‘Why’s she want to tell people things that get them hurt? I just don’t know.’

Next doubts beginning by my guards. Before a week be gone, these children be like townie friends. Pasha spend most daylight hours in their smoky company; ya, my girl fourteens be broiling into love amours with them. From our first days, they known about the roos, against all secrecy. Live among all Sengles, and they hear abundant word. Best Anselm can ever do, he frighten them for knowing.

Now, as our second week prolong, they talk some cautieuse surprise, how no one start war preparations. Weapon factories make no extra bullets; soldiers sitting lazy. Any war before, it been all hasty work to this.