The Country of Ice Cream Star (58 page)

Mamadou squint his face, like he defending from some mally smell. ‘Interest me, when his love been starting. Thought it may interest him, what other loves you had this day.’

Take a breath, before this figure. Then memory come ugly, when I first done sex with El Mayor. Night of that day of murders in Army camp. Same day I tangle last with Mamadou in our fear amours.

I force my careless voice. ‘Who counting hours? Was children kilt this day. Found what be insignificant.’

‘He going to cry for what be insignificant, ain’t my trouble.’

‘So you rid him from me? Easy notions.’

Mamadou insult in his eyes. Grit like he bear down on pain. ‘Sengle, you mine.’

I take an empty breath. It come a trembling sadness out of nowhere. ‘How? I be your queen or so?’

‘You mine. All it is.’

‘Law be, I ain’t your queen no more. I left. Must be a simper.’

‘We past laws now. This be reality.’

‘Reality.’ I force a laugh. ‘Was in that book you ate.’

He shake his head in some disgust. ‘You need to eat that book.’

Then we staring evil to each other. Both be breathing rough. I think to spit, to punch his face. But every notion pass in nerves, and Mamadou still stare his cold belief into my eyes.

‘Ice Cream Star,’ he say, ‘you never caring for that digger. Same day. What this going to mean?’

I pooch my lips. ‘You ain’t make much impression. What it mean.’

‘Learn this, fool. I ain’t him.’

‘Ya, I notice this. And so?’

‘You want to ruin some digger’s feelings, be yours. I got no feelings you can ruin.’

‘Got no feelings, right. You made of cheese.’

‘Ain’t his sort of feelings. Nor you stupid to miss this fact.’

‘Fool and stupid coming brave from Mamadou Cannot Read.’

‘Same day. Be paltry, girl. Ain’t never like that digger myself, but nobody deserve that. Next time you want to tell me insults, talk.’

‘I write a note. Somebody read it to you.’

His eyes widen to this. Then he laugh. Shake his head and laugh into my face like easy pleasure.

‘I been with him months,’ I say. ‘Was all about yourself, I guess. Every person living just for you. Ya, I be yours. Been yours these months.’

‘Goddamn. Ain’t Sengles allow to tell the truth?’

‘I guess that girl below, she also yours?’

Mamadou startle eyes. ‘Patricia?’

I get uncertain feeling, but I hold my scorning looks. ‘Girl got a name? Where be your Army morals?’

He bite his lip and grin, his anger gone in admiration. ‘Ice Cream Star.’

‘Ya, I also got a name. Known this.’

Mamadou laugh short. His shoulders ease, he look back to the city’s blacken heights. Ya, my anger weaken sudden. I follow his gaze and find the moon, its paring shape particular white. Can hear the guns again, so far, their clatter weaken in changing winds. And I love the NewKing, like exhaustion of bellesse. Be stars, and be himself, in lonesome stretching of my heart.

A burden cloud touch on the moony edge, begin to hush its light. Moonlight swallow, and the city’s towers lose their shape. Dark settle against my eyes. Then we be watching into blackness.

I say soft, ‘Was vally, what you done. They penals.’

A thick explosion rise in distance, lose into the wind. Can hear my breath, the stirring river. I look to Mamadou, but he be only a shadow in a blackness.

‘Can comprehend,’ I say on thinner, ‘why you putting me in Metro. Only, ain’t been needful.’

He sigh out some tired thought. ‘Ya, can be bone you come. Can use you here.’

I swallow, say braver, ‘Think we keep the Ministerio?’

‘We keep it. Problems with Inúd.’

‘Guess we ain’t fight the roos without Inúds. Soldier people.’

Be a troubling in the dark as he turn toward me. I tense, expect his hands. But he only say, ‘They come to us. Come to Maria, how it be.’

‘Ain’t no right Maria to them.’

‘Face them how you done, Inúds respect that. Bravery.’

I cross my arms low on my ribs. Hug deep into myself and say, ‘NewKing. Be something you should know.’

Then my heart flinch queery. I square my hands in fists, hold painful into my cut palms. And I say soft, ‘When we come here. I been pregnant.’

Can hear him breathing in the dark, but he ain’t speak. Be his breathing and my frighten breathing through the grandy cold.

‘They kill it,’ I say whispern. ‘Anselm’s people. Ain’t know how, some surgeries they do. They give me pharmacy, I ain’t known.’ My throat begin to catch in tears. ‘Now Pedro sure to tell this story. Threat they always make, so they can burn me for a false Maria.’

I hear his breath, gone harsh like mine into this blinden nowhere. A tear slip down my cheek, and I hold, shivering. Expect, he mention El Mayor. Say insults on this baby, got from father unbeknown.

But when he speak, he only say, in thicken voice, ‘You hurt?’

‘Hurt?’ I swallow, try to think. ‘Nay, been weeks before. Ain’t hurt.’

‘Bone. You ain’t hurt.’

Can hear him shift again, and then his hand touch to my arm. I ease to this, my tears come looser. ‘Told you sooner, if I known you doing this. But only Pedro know, now Anselm gone.’

‘Pedro,’ Mamadou say in almost whisper. ‘And the simper known.’

A moment, I cannot remember who this simper be. Then I say low, ‘Nay, she ain’t … be Pedro who will tell. She vanish anyhow.’

Mamadou’s hand go gentle to my cheek. It say his angry love –
you mine, no morning come before your enemies die –
while Mamadou say quiet, ‘Patricia fix that cut for you. Ain’t guess I coming back tonight. Best you stay in my room, no one messing with you there.’

‘Sure.’ I swallow at my tears.

‘Will send for you when it be right.’

Then his hand be gone. His shadow retreat with crunching footsteps. Only, as he come up to the stairy hatch, he pause his step. Look back in untelling darkness. Then he bend hasty and be gone.

I stand a longer minute, faltering in my tired courage. Be thinking,
Sure, he kill whoever it need. Is war we do
. But still it pinch in misery that Pedro dying for my ask. Like I murder Karim with one small word.

And the cloud slow from the moon. Light give back its silver grief. Empty towers sharpen, like a goliath monument of loss; a burial yard of giants left upon the fearing world.

59

OF QUANTICO ITS WARS

When I come down to the smoky room, the penals gone. Be only the Patricia girl, sat on the floor to clean a pistol. She stand up quick when I come in, this half-gun in her hand, and her long body fine like prettieuse rifle. Then it remember nasty, Mamadou never saying she ain’t his.

‘Sorry for all negligence before.’ She smile, correct in friendship. ‘Didden know who you was, ma’am.’

‘Need no special manners,’ I say shortish. ‘Ain’t those times.’

‘Well, thass very kind of you to say, ma’am. Very kind.’

I look by to the room. Floor be beery cans and bootprints, cigarettes and tramplen clothes. It seem a home of usual things, too shabby for no harm. But in my corner-eye, Patricia smile, reminding like a sting.

I say unliking, ‘Mamadou said, you fix my cut.’

‘Well, certainly be happy to, ma’am.’ She nod like gratty news. ‘Idden going to be like your doctors, though, should warn you.’

‘Ain’t science none. Be skin hurt, mostly.’

‘Thass fine. It’ll be an honor, ma’am.’

She go off to a grandy pack, set in a darker corner. Pick through, and she talk friendly nothings, how she keep her things together in this den of bandits. Tell stories of their thieveries, while I watch her slender arms unhappy. Ain’t heeding sense until she say, ‘Of
course I mean no disrespect to your soldiers, ma’am. But things is facts.’

‘Ho.’ I narrow to her. ‘So you ain’t a penal self?’

‘Wadden no shame, ma’am, if I was. But no.’ She stand up with a metal case in hand. ‘Like you say, we all past formalities, so I’ll introduce myself. I’m Captain Patricia Mason, ma’am, United States Marine Corps.’

I take a startling breath. ‘How, you from Quantico?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ She grin. ‘Here two days now, enjoying Mister Mamadou’s hospitality here.’

‘Goddamn, how he fetch you? Someone got into Quantico?’

‘Well, I unnerstand the boys he sent had some experience. They was smugglers, make a story short.’

‘Wolfen.’ I shake my head, admiring. ‘So, you being here, it mean your people trust us? About the roos?’

‘Well, sorry to say, Mister Mamadou’s boys did get a mosquito’s welcome. But it don’t need trust now, ma’am. The Russians are there, they’re live in color.’

This chill through all my pleasure. ‘There? The Russians be in Quantico?’

‘Not in, ma’am.’ She frown light. ‘We all sticky on that little distinction.’

‘Ho, cannot get in. Your land mines.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Patricia say with mischief grin. ‘Quantico welcome mat. Now, maybe I should look at that cut, if you feel comfortable. Truth to tell, my folks all believed you Marianos was soft. Easy life, you know. But it’s a pleasure to meet a leader that do close combat right. A natural pleasure.’

Wound seem nothing feary, but Patricia say it wanting stitches. She offer that she go and threaten the drunks downstairs for booze, but I reject this help. Be my vanity now to show no weakness. So I sit on a box with
Licencia Agricola 62 – TOMATES
on its shabben flank; Patricia perch beside. Then I hold reluctant, gritting against
her needle’s hurt, while she explain the Russian war at Quantico.

Quantico be three parts: District, Arlington and Washington.

District be a city of ruin. All streets got ugly barricades, and every window show a gun. Arlington be forest, with only fewer living homes. Got trenches dug instead of roads, and land mines scattern like bad acorns.

Between these go a grandy river, full of ruin bridges. Along this river, be the secret city Washington. Here be President’s house and old museum palaces. Ya, be Arlington Cemetery, where all ancient soldiers bury, when it been America.

Roos invade at Arlington. Yo, can guess, they known about the land mines from some spies before. Before they setting foot, they bomb a path of ruin through the forest. Smash the land mines best they can, to clear a road that lead across to Washington itself. Road be made, the roos come in. Bring more artillery trucks and tanks than sorrow ever known. But still be land mines somewhere. Soon their tanks begin exploding, block the road for all behind.

Ya, Marines be waiting. Begin all shooting backen forth. And how it is, the smart Marines be free in all directions. They still know where the land mines be, can use all crafty hidings. Roos must use the path they made, without no covering safety. Yo, this road lead only backward.

So soon the roos depart. Quanticos plant new land mines hasty, while the planes begin to come. Game start again from zero.

Roos do invasion trial four times, then bore from this unhappiness. Now all their visiting be planes. These spread poison gas and burning, every scaring awfulness. The Quantico enfants now be living underground, in concree tunnels.

Yo, along their bombs, roos dropping papers overhead. These invite the Quanticos to surrender. Tell the roos’ demands.

‘All they’re asking,’ Patricia say sarcasty, ‘is half of our grown Marines. Marines fighting for the enemy, would you believe.’

‘Right.’ I flinch as she tug needle angry through my skin. ‘Ya, then they take the other half Marines, without no asking.’

‘Thass the truth, there.’ She pause her hand, a plastic thread strung curly from it to my throat. ‘You see the position now. We all die together before that happens. Hoping you can make a difference to this outlook, ma’am. I do hope.’

‘How their bombing road be useful?’ I say, watching on her needle. ‘They wanting children only, why they head to Washington self?’

She grimace as she pinch my skin together, aim her needle. ‘Well, all’s we know, they left Washington alone so far. She’s pristine. So how it looks to us, ma’am, they want to take Washington intact.’

‘Nay, why?’

‘Well, it idden no land mines there in Washington. Thass a thing. But I think it mostly is, they know what it means to us. Thass our heart, ma’am.’

‘Ho, they wanting it to trade. If Washington be whole, they trade this for your soldiers.’ See Patricia’s frown, and I add quick, ‘If they can take it. Guess they never can, no sho.’

‘Well, the truth being,’ she say, nosing down to tie a stitch, ‘if they wadden afraid to bleed, they could maybe do it. Been on the radio back to Washington, and Arlington’s looking pretty effed. But we’ve been trying to let them know that would be a supremely dumb idea. They do
not
want to set their nasty little white feet in Washington, no.’ She take a scissor, clip my plastic thread. ‘And thass your last stitch, I’m sure you are not sorry to hear.’

‘Gratty.’ I sit back, breathing better. ‘But how you mean, they ain’t want Washington?’

Patricia snip her scissor shut. ‘Ma’am, our laws are crystal on that point. Foreign power takes the city, thass an Article 57. And I’m sorry to say, nobody walks away from that.’

‘Article 57?’

‘Suicide Article, in our founding charter. You see, we have three nuclear devices. Don’t sound like much, but it’ll take out the city and most everything around it. Yes, ma’am, the day a foreign army enters Washington, we hold a little rematch in hell.’

60

LAST MEETING OF THIS NIGHT

Be Patricia Quantico who take me to the NewKing’s room. Way be through a hallway where the light be only cobweb moon, come faint from parten doors. Ain’t heaten, and the Cember cold feel like a death in indoor stillness. To the end, we come into a darkness closen as a fist. I follow her soft footpats, find a doorside with my hand. Then she strike a match, and reddish shapes fit sudden in their place. She light a candle on the floor. Say her longer courtesies of Marine, and go off with dark looks, still warring Russians in her mind.

Room got only a mattress bed with blankets neat bekept. Window boarden blind. One wall be thick with hanging objects, and I recognize the NewKing’s leathern jacket from Army days. I go to it with sneaking wish, listening uneasy that Patricia ain’t return. Hold it to my face, but its good smell gone dim with freezing. I breathe this disappointment, then I put the jacket hasty back. Crawl into the bed, and I pull blankets overhead.