The Country of Ice Cream Star

by Sandra Newman

  Truth, been gratty to me, if they take me in their company. But El Mayor’s insistence be, that I keep safe behind. This give me contradictory moods, and I start thinking reasons, why the Lowells sure to perish hopeless.

  I chew all this to scraps with El Mayor, any a night.

  ‘Some fightless diggers,’ I will say. ‘What you doing there? You lay some carpet for these roos?’

  ‘And you? Look at yourself. You small as foals. Is like a ten.’

  ‘I be with Pasha safe.’

  ‘You trust that yellow cannibal? He lie more than he speak. Goddamn, ain’t let you go with him.’

  And so we skirmish long and long – who be foolish worse, and who preventing who from going. How roos be risky for a female, but be safe for males; or safe for warry Sengles, but will kill a Lowell quick as sneezing. How Pasha self ain’t be no kitten, sensible to trust.

  Times, these nighten conversations mingle in my tired day. I start to think like El Mayor, doubt Pasha’s every kindness. Get memories of Army camp, the feather that he kilt for nothing. Ya, worst and fresh in conscience be my Pasha’s photographs.

  I seen all these photographs now, except the one of Pasha self – object he ain’t never mention, nor I brave to ask. Even without this, they be nefasty ornaments.

  Is some where roos walk past dead children like they nothing bushes; or stand in laughing talk with some child torn in pieces at their feet. Be children without noses, ya, which never figure in my eyes – keep thinking that the picture torn somehow on its thin cloth. And be one photograph of only cut-off hands, a bloody dozen. Look like uncanny spiders, heap in sunlight on young grass.

  Is calmer pictures, show their helicopter planes and long-nose tanks; show a city burning, hazy in enormous smoke. But even when these photographs show only lazing roos, one roo will hold a weirdo rifle, bigger than no normal gun. Pasha’s explanations of these weapons be unhappy hearing. Yo he name the roos, and mostly add to this: ‘He dead.’

  Photograph that linger with me worst be of an inside room. Can see this been a lucky place, with tilen floors and window glass. Walls painten perfect blue. Got a sofa made of shining leather.

  On the sofa lie two girlish jones, look like they dress for church. Both is bloody dead. A tennish boy lie dead the same, beside them on the floor. Wall scribble in their blood. Is bloody pools and drops upon the tiles.

  Among this horror stand a yellow roo. He point a pistol to his own head, like to shoot himself. But he grinning, is some joke that happen in this camera moment.

  Every time I see it, I keep staring minutes at this picture. Feel like something that happen to me in another life.

  All Pasha say, this killing was mistake. Roo be Seryozha, was a yeary friend he had in soldat days. This Seryozha living, best he know.

  When I ask him what mistake this been, and if he worry for it, Pasha only say, ‘Be war. Is normal.’

  And truth, what Pasha tell me of his histories be a shorter list. Can learn, he joining to soldats when he been fourteen years. Can learn the places where he war – some dozen fights in Africa, with city names that ain’t pronounce; Venezuela, place of spotten panthers, where he learning Panish. Ya, been one war against Yevropa – rooish word for Europe – where the roos must leave in bad defeat.

  But he never tell particulars of his selfen life. Ask if he miss his townie home, he say he ain’t remember this. Ask who his mother been, he say, ‘A girl.’ Will tell peculiarities sometimes of his Russian Federation – on their driving cars, and how they buy their goods with money paper. Tell of yonder countries – wettish Anglia and hot Brazilia; countries that be islands, tiny in gigantic ocean. But he name no person of his life, ain’t mention no event.

  Ask how he live for sixteen years of war, my Pasha answer nothings. Mostly be, ‘Ain’t kilt.’ Ya, once it been, ‘Ain’t live, the others die.’ Will name the places where he fight, but ain’t say what he doing there. Always be, ‘Is war,’ and shrugging. Only thing a child can tell, is something make him want to smoke.

  One time I ask him, ‘What you done so foul, I cannot hear?’ He smoke in silence then, think separate in his furry head. At last, he say, ‘I told some lies.’ When I repeat my question stubborn, he say, ‘You want to hear my lies?’

  But worse beyond no other silence be his manners on the cure. Vember passing long, and still he tell no plan for Washington. Will only say, ‘Be thinking.’ No attack can get another answer. He thinking and he thinking, but he never tell these thoughts.

  Our journey lasting its third week before this strife conclude. Be on a morning when I go for deer and Pasha follow after. He say he like to hunt again – but from his worry looks, can know he got some word to say. So I agree with beggar hope.

  This day, the morning risen thick. Snow waiting heavy in the clouds, the light be shabby gray. We stalking through some wither fern, scarce past the campen noise, when Pasha speak behind.

  ‘Ice? On Washington.’

  I flinch immediate to him. He standing clumsy somehow, fidget hands upon his gun. And he say soft, ‘How, if I go alone?’

  First, I ain’t comprehend. Say dumb, ‘Alone without myself?’

  He shrug. ‘Be most a week, two weeks. Can get cure easier so.’

  Then I narrow on him careful. Yo, like I expect, his bluish gaze gone stupid blank.

  ‘Shee.’ I huff my breath. ‘You clear as nothing. Got your lying face.’

  ‘How? Ain’t lie.’

  ‘Be easier, right. Because you never go to roos. You go sleep in some evac and come back with sorry explanations. If you coming back.’

  ‘Bone,’ he say with stubborn mouth. ‘I take some Lowell. What can do.’

  ‘Lowell?’

  ‘Take some male. Be better.’

  I stop on this and narrow eyes. ‘You mean, this Lowell watch you there.’

  ‘I done without. But you ain’t trust.’

  ‘Is clever thought,’ I say unpleasant. ‘Which Lowell you prefer to kill?’

  To this, he frown disgusting, drop his gun loose on its strap. ‘Kill no one.’

  ‘So, this Lowell coming back? I guess.’

  ‘Come back if I come back.’

  ‘So you ain’t coming back? Gratty for telling.’

  For a breath, we stare against each other in our different upsets. The snow begun around, in seldom flakes like pointy air.

  Then he say hard, ‘You ain’t safe with me. More than Lowell.’

  ‘Ho, because I female?’ I huff an angry laugh. ‘Ain’t try this, Pasha.’

  ‘Yes. Is truth.’

  ‘Damn, you terrifying. How I live by you these weeks? Heed, you bring me, or I go alone. I go without yourself! Ain’t waiting on your goddamn nonsense!’

  Pasha raise a fist in temper. Yo, quick without no thought, I spit on it. The roo flinch back and grab his gun. I grab my gun.

  We both hold, unnerve. Roo clutch his rifle against himself, face pinking in distress. A snowflake drift between us, tumbling. Then he swallow strange, his hands go softer on his gun. ‘Ain’t kill no Lowells,’ he say underbreath. ‘I never thought this.’

  And he turn himself away. Sit down into the messy ferns. Crouch to his gun, like curling to an injury its hurt.

  I stare a moment to his furry head. Then I crouch by, say hot, ‘You heed, this nonsense finish now. I taking Money south tomorrow. I learn whatever you hide, can die without no painful curiosity.’

  ‘Nay, Ice.’

  ‘Yes, Ice! Be watching Driver die. Your moron lies and “I be thinking”. Cannot bear this!’

  Can hear him breathing fast, his body clench in hot reaction. Then he say low, ‘You think, they keep the cure in camp? Where it can steal?’

  ‘Ain’t going to know. You never told.’

  ‘It be in boats. Far in water.’

  First, I only get a dumb relief, he telling facts. Then this news settle in me. I say, ‘They grandy boats you speaking of? Is there?’

  ‘Ya, is there.’

>   ‘But … ain’t impossible, we steal this. Swim somehow?’

  He reach to a fern and tear some fronds away, crush these in hand. ‘Nay. Be nothing worth. These boats, ain’t get inside from swimming.’

  I grip Kalash. Feel her angry substance, crush this till it feeling in my bones. ‘And if I fight for roos? You fight for them. Live fifteen years in this.’

  ‘Is differences.’

  ‘Is lies.’

  He turn to me. Fist tense around the fern, his eyes be shaming misery. ‘Ice Cream. You be a girl.’

  ‘You saying, going to be like Army camp. Something like.’

  A hopeless pain go through his face. ‘You ain’t live long there. Yourself, be nothing you can live.’

  ‘I live … I can live. But you saying, ain’t no use.’ Can feel my sorrow, hard behind my eyes. ‘They take me on no boat, ain’t going to be. Is right?’

  His face relieve. ‘You comprehend. Ain’t use.’

  ‘So we dying anyhow. You saying, all this been for nothing?’

  He drop his crushen fern, look down. Then his voice come whispern, feary. ‘Nay. I thought a plan.’

  I catch on this. ‘Plan with myself?’

  ‘Ya.’ He shrug annoying. ‘You ain’t heed, so.’

  I find my cigarettes and take one out. Light it gratty, feeling aftersorrows in my heart. Then suspicion bite in me. ‘Hold – can know this plan?’

  He laugh some choken way. ‘Can know.’

  ‘Yo tell. Can tell me now?’ I suck my cigarette, keeping my eyes apart. Get fears he change his notions if I even watch him wrong.

  ‘What I think,’ he say in careful voice, ‘you come with me like wife.’

  ‘Ho, roos keep wives like Christings?’

  ‘Ain’t like Christings,’ Pasha say unhappy. ‘Some soldats keep girls.’

  ‘Yo sho. They going to do.’

  ‘They comprehend this. I ask for cure, for you. For favors, or can pay. Physicians take pay sometime.’

  ‘Sure.’ I sigh my smoke out glad. ‘I thought of this myself.’

  I glance at him, and find him clenchen down around his gun. Face turn away, but still can see, the child embarrass mean.

  ‘Foo.’ I laugh. ‘You touchy something. Ain’t fret myself if roos believe we wive. This why you kept it all these weeks?’

  ‘Nay, ain’t this.’

  ‘So why? Ain’t science plans. Can think of this before a month.’

  He shrug misliking. ‘Cannot be always by you there.’

  ‘Your risks again, I guess.’

  ‘Yes. Ain’t jokes.’

  ‘Foo, is raping problems.’ I laugh nervy. ‘What you meaning.’

  ‘Someone hurt you, ain’t know how it be.’ He shake his head resenting.

  ‘They rape me, how it be. Ain’t mysteries.’

  ‘Nay,’ he say harsh. ‘Ain’t know how I be.’

  This notion stop me queery. Remind how Pasha done at Army camp. Yo, he hunch to his gun again. Hand tearing ferns, and drop them by. A snowflake float in wind above, then dart onto his hair.

  ‘Better we living, Pasha,’ I say soft. ‘Sure I known. Some Deema rape me, be my mally luck. It need no acts from you.’

  He hold, fern dangling from his hand. ‘Ain’t easy like you think.’

  ‘So it be crafty. How you got to do.’

  ‘Ya.’ Then Pasha look toward me, like he check some fact. Think a moment, and grit unhappy. ‘Nay, I think some way. Be some soldats can trust.’

  ‘Bony to hear.’ I laugh, and Pasha make uncertain smile.

  ‘Is truth,’ he say. ‘Some soldats bone.’

  ‘Sure I believe. Is only funny.’

  I shake my head, look to the farther woods. Can see the seldom snow against the sun, like tiny dust. I try to think some circumstance where I will kill for Pasha. Sure, if it been his life, ain’t questions. Think arguments to tell him this, but all my thoughts be puttering moths. I suck my cigarette.

  At last I say, discomfort, ‘I never thanken you. How you come for me at Army camp.’

  He laugh soft. ‘Is truth.’

  ‘Felt two contradictions in this. How … they people shot. Ain’t thought to thank.’

  ‘Is normal, ya. You only be a small.’

  When I look, he lighting up a cigarette. Smile show on his face. I say, ‘Can insult how you like. I going to love you for this real.’

  His face go soft embarrass, but he keep eyes on his hands. Say quiet, ‘Ya. I going to love you also.’

  33

  THE SIMPER, OF HER PEOPLE

  Day behind this argument, we pass into Connecticut. Ain’t no line to show – must figure this from roadsigns, where they left. Now be petty days before we reach our safer home. Ya, woods continue solitary bell. Be even questions sometimes, why we never roam before, like this been pleasure escapades.

  Myself, be readying my fear to go to Washington. Now it being real, all apprehensions change in me. My walking hours become long maginations of my rape. How Pasha kilt in my protection; what resulting after. Roos cut off my nose, my hands. Hounds eat my dying flesh. I start to figure days till January, wish it being farther. These days can be my only life.

  Ya, be times, I get a sneaking wish to never go. My weakness think, no child can change all problems of this evil world. Go to roos, be moron suicides, like Pasha ever sworn.

  But my contradictions fail to nothing when I see my brother.

  These days of tired wandering, Driver sicken past no comfort. His hands be thick with posy sores. His cough be raw and long. He skinny in his clothes, and now he lose his careful dignity. Will ride a cart among all enfants, drowsing in the middy day.

  Yo, his heart be bitter. He dead-among – must walk unseen through Sengles like a starving ghost. Sure, Lowells talk to any, ain’t respect this definition. But Driver narrow and contrary to their every friendship. And to myself, his manners most like hatred. Any a careless thing I say, he hear it vain or selfish. Avoid me how he can, and when he ain’t, his face be cold dislike.

  The only talking he befriend be with the simper, Hak’s girl. Seem she always by him, laughing nervy, make her pinchen smile. Ain’t a week gone by before she sleeping in his hammock. Be times, he sit her on his Piglet horse, teach her to ride. Then her scar face be enfant seriose. Her hand go in forgetting to the horse’s mane, stroke wondering. When Driver touch to shift her leg, her eyes be desperate sweet. Then any blindness see, she gone in love.

  In manners, the simper be a strange and worry animal. Flirt with some male, then she look angry murder as he go. Wear a Lowell workshirt deep unbutton, showing most her breasts; yo any boy go look, she grasp this shirt together feary. Every change be fickle: is skitty and rude and shy and hard.

  I never get the bravery to ask how she know Driver. Prefer my own excuses over truths I cannot fix. But at last I learn this sideways from another history.

  Been our first Connecticut night. I gone to Driver to tell about my loves with El Mayor. Be my first trial to say this secret, for El Mayor his hurting pride. Yo, now I going to roos in seriose, I mind this less. Already El Mayor be like a gentle past I miss.

  So, after evening meal, I follow my brother to his hammock. Begin in hopeful nerves.

  ‘Was thinking, ya, of El Mayor. How you always say, we can pair well. You mind this saying? Been feeling, it be sense to choose this. Now is better sense.’

  Driver been readying his sleeping goods, but now he frown to me. ‘Sense?’

  ‘How you said, our Sengles be too few. Ain’t keep without no help.’

  ‘So you trade yourself for gifts?’ He narrow on me cold.

  ‘Foo, ain’t like this.’

  ‘How it is?’

  ‘You always say, he love me well. Ain’t remember to you?’

  A doubt show in his eyes. ‘Ain’t thought I driven you to this. I know I ain’t been thinking well, sometime.’

  ‘Nay, you only saying, it be politics to do.’

  ‘Politics.’ He scoff
his breath and reach by to a branch. Crack off a skinny twig, then twist it in his fingers, thinking. My eyes go skitty to his hand, watch for the posy sores.

  At last, he say, ‘Ridiculous enough, you get an enfant belly now. But ain’t need El Mayor in this.’

  ‘Yo, he ain’t right with you?’

  ‘Child go with every girl he see. Can make your politics without that.’ He break the twig between his hands. Toss the pieces by.

  I take my breath unsteady. ‘Ain’t necessary is politics.’

  ‘Ain’t bone politics,’ he say, and make his bitter smile. ‘But it be like yourself, these days.’

  ‘What this going to mean?’

  ‘It mean, you ain’t gain nothing from this. El Mayor will use you gratty. But this never change your wealth. He got more pride than this, to pay for love.’

  Then some misery freak in me. I spit out blind, ‘Truth, El Mayor ain’t go with simpers none. Is better sort.’

  Driver’s face go stiff. ‘Forget this, Ice. You put this notion by.’

  ‘Nay,’ I say desperate, like I catch at something slipping from my hands. ‘You ain’t listen. How we even talking so? You blame me always.’

  ‘Can be some failures in me, sure.’ He turn sharp to his hammock. ‘But you name them without me.’

  ‘Driver, ain’t meant nothing. I done worser things than ever you done.’

  He rub his palm against his brow. Say cold and soft, ‘I know.’

  Then the world go weak in me. I want to ask him what he know. I want to pologize and beg. But I only step away and mutter some by-salue that come out griping.

  I go to the bosky darkness, seeing nothing real. See Mamadou the NewKing over me in angry love. Karim in all his blood, and every stank deed of my life. And in my darkness heart, I see the simper smirk her pinchen mouth, her mouth full of all ugliness. Her mouth that Driver heed.

  I go in painful mind to seek, and find her where I most expect. She dabbit by the Sengle fire, is lurking like she fear some insult. Truth, my littles do her petty evils, been occasion. Toss her shoes into a brook, or tell her Armies looking for her. My brats jalouse on any stranger pairing with a Sengle jones.