The Country of Ice Cream Star (67 page)

For this work, they teaching me to walk the land-mine maze. Truth, this need no genius brains. All is patterns that repeat. Sawdust circles safe to walk around their farther edge, but must cross all squares of bones direct, however you be finicky. I also learn to walk the tunnels underground, in craft of blindness. Stalk sidelong to a rail, and kick with foot to check its distance. Times, I even run – will sprint my heart to reckless nothing, till I tire or trip my feet. And at last, I climb out to the bluish wildness of the day. Breathe and blink the sun joyeuse, before I must climb down again into the dirty trenches.

Arlington trenches be a maze cut deep in rooten earth. Some be shallow, wreathe with old barb wire and barricading trash. But most got walls high overhead. These using for all peaceful life. Get chairs somewhere and eating tables; beds with cleanly sheets beneath a roof of slanting tarp. But, ever their condition be, all trenches stanking unbelievable of rotting meat. Ain’t no trench where no one kilt, nor every scrap can bury nett. When this corpsen stank be fresh, it be particular as a word. The Quanticos burn smelling wood to rid this evil breath. But it be there and always there. Stick in your hair, your clothes, and soon all smells be bad reminders.

First week, my task be safe as any life. This be a time when roos do only bombing from the air. My only fight be ducking into tunnels, coming out again. Wear soldier uniform, but never clad its pinching helmet. Bring Kalash for only her respect.

But when I been in Quantico six days, roos learn the land-mine patterns. They catch some talking prisoner, and every secret told. Then they teach soldats to do this stalking in some hasty lessons, and one day of sunlit frost, they make attack enorme.

*

Hour they come, I been in Buckethead trenches, far from any tunnel. Been seeking a difficult captain here, while every smaller Quantico make scabby eyes at me. These children hate all Marianos for our history wars; say courtesies if they must, but cannot make their faces smile. At last, I found a helpful thirteen boy. Been heeding his directions, standing by an eating tent, when roos announce their visit with grenades.

Accustom now to goodly bombs that shiver all the ground, and I ain’t comprehend at first. See smoke in farther trenches; hear a banging, thick and dull. Ya, my thirteen boy scream nonsense words and crouch to handsen knees. Eating tent go flapping wild with children scrambling out, and all the land around break deafening with guns.

Yo, while I stand in puzzle, a grenade come chucketing past. Sock to the tenten roof, and slide. Look like a fatly beetle, ain’t nothing frightening to see. But every child go diving vicious, and – for stupid luck – they knock me down.

Feel the explosion as some stinging dirt, a shock in ears. And then I jumping to my feet – in unison of every child – and scramble with them to a farther trench, no thought betook. Got Kalash in hands, but holding wrong. Is loose and skew. Sneeze the dusty air, and follow brainless.

Then be time of running, falling on stomachs, scrambling up and running. The gunfire shift to left, to right, is big and small like changing moods. From yells, I start to know, we heading forward to the Sooner trench, but ain’t know why. I guess no reasons.

Ya, we come to a shallow place, and see the land above. Strange in innocent daylight, be all hundred bigly roos upon, go running–crawling like we be. Most is small in distance – seem like toys of magination, flailing shadowy in the sun. But be two children close and huge. Was crawling to the trench ahead, but now they heel back to us, shoot direct.

Then, without thinking sense, I shoot – yo every child be shooting wild. Ain’t aiming, only shoot, like slapping a stinging wasp in panic.
Be a longer second before I know, Kalash got safety on. Ain’t rid no bullet. And I fall hasty, claw her switch with weirdo fingers, strange to use. Find her three-bullet setting, and relieve. And see a Quantico child lain on his face, his neck torn through. Blood be moving, kicking from his wound. A girl crouch by him, rise again with blooden hands and awful face. Shout high and vicious, ‘Eddie’s dead!’

Then my body hunch in dirt, is stubborn to no change. Bullets pass overhead, like skinny wind. Marines crouch, leap to shoot again, and crouch.

Ain’t know how I decide. But I leap up and shoot feroce. Fall down again and swear my moron brains, that I ain’t aim. Ain’t look. Leap up again, and no one there. Then all Marines be running again. I run. Come to the Sooner corner, and the gunfire louden vicious. A child in front go staggering down.

All Marines jump to the wall before I guess to fear. Ain’t think until the bullets come at me. Then I see the grandy child who shoot, stood in the trench before, and point my gun in hate. Shoot right. And shoot again at nothing. Been only one roo there. He down, is sitting bloody, drop his gun.

The smart Marines know this somehow, and all go plungen forward. Sprint around–upon this gunshot child. Someone shoot him again, is yelling curses, then he run away. I be left one second that remain, is like a silence.

Shot child be black. Ain’t rooish nothing. I seize cold – then see behind, his clothes be roo. Is theirs. It be a slave who fight for them.

In this second, I see his eyes concentrate feroce. Is like he studying his death, look out for any small escape. Then his face lose its thought. Without no visible change, is brainless things.

And I see my Quanticos far ahead, and I go run.

This battle last for awful time, but be no other blood I seen. We shoot at farther roos, and cannot hit, and duck again. Then be a time we lose somewhere, in trenches no one recognize. Ever we try, the gunfire always shrinking into distance. Ya, somewhere in this slacking
time, a twelvish girl turn to me, saying mean, ‘Who in goddamn hell are you?’ When this fact discover, they all giggling high to tears. Girl bow to me in mockery, but an older boy go shove her. Say with laughing voice, ‘She got a kill, you idiot. What you got?’

When we find the battle again, is done. All children slacking rifles, talking various in nerves. Yo, General Hatter there. Yell orders at anyone he see. And be peculiar to myself, he look the same as in the Situation Room – foxen child with prettieuse mustache, perfect in his clothes. Stand like easy afternoons, and shout like pleasure, like a song he sing to feel his voice.

He yell me back to Pentagon tunnel. I leave through familiar dark, sweat chilling on my skin entire. Get to the White House, and I wash myself for longer time. Keep thinking awful, can be Pasha that I shot. Ain’t even look before I shoot. This thought come back and back, and every time, it be relief that this ain’t been. Is only when I clothe again, be walking out to feed my roos, I mind the dying child himself. Then I sit down in the frosten grass and weep my eyes.

Yo, as I cry there stupid, feeling nothing but my gripping throat, two Quanticos go past. One say to the other nervy, ‘Wow. Whass wrong with
her?’

The other say low-voice, ‘Oh, thass the New York girl. I think her brother died.’

68

OF ROOS THEIR COMPANY

Behind this fight, I be forbid to venture outside Washington. How Patricia say, ‘You get your head blown off, and we all enter a world of crazy.’ So my new task be digging trenches new for Washington’s last defense, in safety of the rear.

Chore be at Arlington Cemetery – a field of hundred thousand burial slabs, in whitish lines like crops. This be the final ground that roos must pass to enter Washington, and all Marines be grim, that trenches needful in this backward place. We dig shallow, above the holes old soldiers bury in. Yo, always be some jokes, how we preparing bunkbed graves. A child say to me once, ‘As many folks dead here as we got living. Kinda puts perspective.’

Between ourself and Arlington’s battles stand the cemetery hill. On its crest be Arlington House – a grandy pillar mansion watching downward like a moon. Ya, is something in this house that never settle in my eyes. Ain’t white, is only pale uncolor. Look like rooish skin. Groom perfect, but ain’t use. It be museum, keeping dead with all its ancient furnitures. Often behind it rise the smoke and rattling jolts of war, and in my mind, I feel it like a staring enemy. Get mally dreams where Pasha living there among all roos – but be an evil Pasha, coming at me violent with red hands.

These days be work and fear and work again, without no kindly word. Marines ain’t glad to strangers. Even my digging crew dislike
my help. Ya, worse be fights with generals about the rooish cure. Verna still swear it ain’t exist; ya, Hatter say, ‘Not asking how I can live a hundred years, when people’s shooting at me.’ When I remind their promise to trade prisoners, they grim their mouths. The Commandant will mention how my soldiers ain’t fought yet – they still march southward, slow and slow. ‘So your side of the deal remains to be seen.’ Then Verna add, she glad to trade my roos – once I convince them Marines got nuclears. ‘Achieve that, there’s some chance the Russians leave, and we don’t all die here. If thass a thing you even think about, I don’t know.’ Ya, when I tell my selfen doubts on nuclears, they rile like wasps – but never offer proof that they be real.

In truth, my only friendship be in my sad company of roos. Be enemies, but they always glad to me. Theirs be my only smiles. Yo, in nights by them, there been bellesse that sing into my mind; a witchery of grieving stars that Washington Mall become for me.

Mall be a milen field of grass with princen mansions to its edge. In this guerra season, it mostly bandon from no life. Can stand in starry wind aloft a pillar edifice, look out on only empty palaces and ornamenting trees. War be a sometimes deafening of bombs and needling sirens. Plane rip overhead, or stuttering light go in the farther sky – but I stand harmless, like this all be dreaming maginations.

These nights, I sleeping by the roos, now that their guard be gone to fight. Ain’t do this, and some bitter Marine come pour cold water on them, kick them in the face – any viciousness they dare. So I scratch a hammock from storage, sling this on two flagposts. Sleep there in coat and sleepen bag, restless with the sometimes bombs and always muttering of roos.

Be curiosity, how these roos is like and unlike Pasha. How they compare, no roo can answer any question normal. Ask where his town be, roo say, ‘The moon,’ or give a town name made of swears. Ask what they eat in Russia, they eat dirt, and dirt be healthier than no food – why crops be growing in it. Ya, while this roo be talking,
his neighbor roo will mutter sorry, ‘Lies, lies.’ But he give no better sense, got only other lies.

Any spying dabbit hopeless in this swamp of fables. Can ask on war, or on their freezing toes – they answer foolishness, and gladden if I smile. Yo, ever I mention nuclears, the roos go laughing simple. Try every gambit, but it always fail embarrassing. Once I forcing actual tears, say weepen, ‘Wish it being jokes. Can die in this myself.’ But all I gain, they rival to comfort me that it be jokes; Marines got no more nuclears than they got wings to fly.

First roo from the left be yellow Vitya, mouse of spooking. Every bombing, Vitya sob and twist against his pole – yet he suffer beatings from Marines in courage silence. Next be Kirill Filth, whose only talk be sexy feats he done, and like to do with me. His favorite game be to insist he got a pain between his legs, and ask me that I check it. Another evil mouth be my Bashir, but his unpleasantries be hatreds on the other roos. Is cowards all, gross with unwash. Got no right morals in their brains that wreck with love diseases. He always explain, he ain’t no proper Russian, is Kavkazky peoples – vally children who behaving decent like no roo.

Two roos vanish after my first night. If they talk obedient, or they kilt, I never learn. They leave a space where I sit sometimes, leaning to a flagpost. This be between Bashir Hate Everyone and my white-hair Polkovnik, child who be my closest problem in these nights of clamoring war.

I learn his three-part name – Mikhail Arkadievich Razin – and I call him this sometimes to try its tangles in my mouth. But in my mind, he always be Polkovnik, rooish word for colonel. Ya, even when we speaking English, he call me Korolyeva – roo for queen. We say these names in mockery, and they grow their selfen meaning in our hours of strange unfriendship. Polkovnik be Polkovnik, Korolyeva be Korolyeva – and in my mind, these two still struggle, through all times and darkness, on a field of grass, backs to a tower monument of grief, while angry wars of evil and bonesse burn in the sky around.

Polkovnik Razin be an upright child, sit proper as a hawk. Got most no lips to see, his reddish face be sharp in all its parts. In sunlight, hair be grayer than is white, and eyes be normal brown. These eyes be ponds of sentiment – sympathy and love joyeuse. But always his sharp mouth be harsh in plans.

He never waste his breath to lie. Ask a question he ain’t like, and he keep only silence, disappointing in his eyes. Then he ask something of myself, like demonstration how these questions meant to be. First times he do this, Bashir go roo, ‘Ain’t need to talk to him.’ Ya, when I answer the question, Bashir roo disapproving, ‘Mistake to talk.’

I ain’t tell Razin nothing on the fighting, nor he ask to this. Ours be chatterie of nothings – hounds and blizzards, fatly meals we had in better time. Ya, Polkovnik be a hunter, and we share some vally tactics from our wars on deer. And most, he always ask about my personal day, my moods. Talk sympathy, and blame Marines for their unkindness to myself.

Can guess without Bashir, Polkovnik got no honest love for me. Ever we friendly grown, can always smell his own intentions. For this mistrust, I keep my privy informations silent. Ain’t speak of Sengle town, nor any child important to my love. Ain’t mention that I known no roo before. Talk like I always living in Marias, without love nor hatred; like I first discover problems when I come to Quantico. But he the only Russian speaking English fit for conversation. So our talks become a habit of my lonely feeling.

First time he fish a secret from me, be the day I first do digging work in Arlington. I come besweaten muddy, wearing soldier garb, to feed the roos. Must hunker wobbly, aching knees, to give them their corn crackers – only food the Quanticos will allow to prisoners. Then roos got contradictory moods. Vitya complaining of his sores; Kirill keep trying to suck my fingers. Bashir must tell me seven times how Kirill ain’t need feeding. Be wasteful, since Bashir will only kill him, once they free. ‘Ain’t need to feed this person, Masha. Listen
to your friend, ain’t needful.’ He name Kirill insult definitions I ain’t comprehend, while I be sat with cracker in my hand, in dumb exhaustion.