The Country of Ice Cream Star

by Sandra Newman

  Be a breath of achen silence. A drop of sweat go anting from my armpit, tickle down.

  Then come a barking laugh from Santiago – prettieuse child who worn jeans to my questioning. He say, ‘You want us to fight for Quantico?’

  ‘Yes.’ I hold my face correct. ‘How it result, I do.’

  ‘That’s hilarious.’ He look around. ‘Who wants to tell the Marines?’

  ‘Thank you.’ Anselm make a narrow smile. ‘Would anyone else like to comment?’

  Here puppyish Juan speak up, with shyness face. ‘But, santa reina, there’s no proof. It’s only something Jesus told you.’

  ‘No sho.’ I scoff my breath. ‘Seen other roos. Ya, been the photographs.’

  ‘But, senyora,’ Anselm say in helpful voice, ‘about the cure, it’s only him. And that is the main point.’

  ‘Nay, been the radio speech. Roos offering cure, was said direct.’

  Anselm raise a finger. ‘And I forget – why didn’t you take this generous offer?’

  ‘Was lies,’ I say impatient. ‘They only wanting us for use.’

  ‘And you knew this how?’

  ‘Ya, Jesus told us. So?’

  ‘Jesus.’ Anselm draw a circle in air with finger. ‘We are back where we started.’

  Now Pedro say, in caring voice, ‘Please try to understand, senyora. You’re asking us to give our army to Quantico – to our enemies.’ He spread his hands like helplessness. ‘We can’t risk the city’s safety on the basis of one stranger’s story. Jesus’s, of course. I don’t mean yours.’

  ‘And the whites aren’t coming here,’ say Juan. ‘If they attack Quantico, that’s good for us.’

  ‘Nay, be the cure,’ I say annoying. ‘Why we need to fight.’

  ‘But please,’ Anselm say in, with looks of friendly understanding. ‘We can address this to everyone’s satisfaction. We’ll just send someone east – to your Massa, santa reina.’

  A moment, the apostles only frown at him, confusing. Then most their faces ease.

  ‘Send someone to Massa?’ I say unbalance. ‘How this help?’

  Anselm gesture like simplesse. ‘It should be easy to find proof. If everything you say is true, we’ll find a war in progress.’

  ‘But you find no cure,’ I say. ‘This going to be in Quantico only.’

  ‘But senyora,’ Juan say, his puppy face bright seriose, ‘we’d find white men to question. That’s what Anselm’s thinking. Isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’ Anselm smile to me. ‘We’ll capture some. It’s what we do.’

  ‘That’s good,’ say Pedro. ‘If they all tell the same story, it would give me much more confidence. And if everything else checks out.’

  I scoff my breath. ‘Why you ain’t go to Quantico direct? When January come, be any thousand roos to ask.’

  ‘Wait,’ say Anselm. ‘To be clear – right now, there are no roos in Quantico?’

  I shoo my hand. ‘Been said. Ain’t there till January month.’

  Anselm nod. ‘So if we go to Quantico now, we’ll only find … Marines. And I don’t think they’ll be very happy to see us.’

  Around the room, be preciating laugh. Bell Santiago muttern, ‘It would be pretty funny, till they shot you.’

  I say frustrating, ‘Shee, can tell them why. Must warn them anyhow.’

  ‘When we’re certain, yes.’ Anselm knit his hands together. ‘But for now, the only way to be certain is to send a party to Massa. If they find this army of white men, if they capture some for questioning – it’s a different situation. I hope that’s clear?’

  Here I notice snake Felipe narrowing on Anselm hard. Now it come queery to me, Felipe ain’t spoken all this time. Child been all mouth the day before.

  I take courage up and say, ‘Felipe, what you thinking?’

  He startle, look down to the floor. Even his silver dress look flustern, like disturbing water. ‘I think … I’m not sure what this search is for.’

  ‘Weren’t you listening?’ Anselm say unpleasant. ‘I did just explain it twice.’

  I say, ‘So you believe, Felipe?’

  He shrug annoying. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘That’s what the search is for,’ say Anselm. ‘So that we can know.’

  Felipe look to Anselm cold. ‘I’d like to hear who’s going, at least.’

  Young Juan say up quick, ‘I’ll go. I’d like to go.’

  ‘So Juan is going?’ Felipe say, his eyes still hard on Anselm.

  ‘And Juan will take his guard, I expect,’ say Anselm. ‘That’s twenty men?’

  Juan nod with warry looks. ‘Twenty-two.’

  ‘And perhaps we could have the penal company?’ Anselm smile sharp to Felipe.

  Felipe startle, frown his mouth. Before he answer, prettieuse Santiago break in rude, ‘The penal company? Why not send real soldiers? Just ask Simón.’

  Anselm flinch to this, say thin, ‘I’d rather not disturb Simón Zelote right now. So, Felipe?’

  ‘I get it,’ Felipe say with some unliking. ‘You can have them.’

  ‘So, Juan, his guard, the penal company – that’s eighty, altogether.’ Anselm look to me. ‘Is that acceptable to you, senyora?’

  Now my blood be bad with doubts. Ain’t comprehending much, but sure can feel, they plan all this before. Most likely be, when Soledad told her story, they begin to plan. Anselm and his friendly apostles figure through the night, decide this search for evidence.

  Ain’t see how this be differences – can think for hours or think for minutes, still they want their proof. Nor they agree to war without.

  But mistrust be loud, is like a stank in every thought. Ya, when I looking to Felipe, all his face morose with hate. He stare on Anselm like he watch some poison insect, wish he got a shoe to crush it.

  ‘Yo, what this penal company be?’ I say. ‘If they ain’t soldiers, what they be?’

  ‘They are soldiers,’ Pedro say assuring.

  ‘They’re criminals.’ Santiago laugh. ‘They get out of prison to fight in wartime.’

  Anselm say, ‘The penal company we have now already fought in our last war. So they aren’t fresh from prison, senyora. Really, they’re like any other soldiers.’

  ‘Traditionally, they’re sent to dangerous duties,’ Pedro say. ‘And this – if you’re correct, senyora – is certainly dangerous.’

  I doubt around this, but can see no wrong. Sure, what I known of Mariano crimes, these penals can be bone as any.

  ‘Is well enough,’ I say at last. ‘But I will like to go myself.’

  They all get puzzling eyes. Juan say uncertain, ‘Go yourself?’

  ‘I go to Massa,’ I say clear. ‘Can help to find these roos.’

  This bring a storm of every nay. It be unthinkable and crazy. Even Felipe say it be impossible for danger – is funny, when he only try to kill me hours before.

  At last, I yell into their noise, ‘Bone! But I will send some child my own! Or I ain’t sign no clause, can be forgot!’

  They hush with various disturbance. Ya, can notice, most these children look to Anselm seeking help.

  First moment, Anselm spite his eyes. Pluck his brownish dress like clothes themself be an exasperation. But soon his face go mild again. Can see, he find a better thought.

  ‘That’s actually a good idea,’ he say. ‘Your people know the region. Send whoever you like, senyora. It’s nice that you want to participate. And now that that’s all settled, can we get back to our original purpose?’

  He look suggesting to the clausen papers on my knees. Then all apostles perk themself, like hounds who smell their meal.

  I stare a moment, lost in doubts. Think how it can be, if I demand the war begin, before I sign their mally clause. But if these fool apostles do their search, they learn the cure be real. Then sure, all other plans be by. They need this cure like any person. Ever they be reptiles, ain’t no reptile glad to die.

  Murder dress feel sticky now, is itching on my sweaten back. Yo, the windless
silence ache. Everything be tight and wrong. But I take the pen in feeble hand, fish out the signing page. And I look down, seek my new name.

  43

  SIMÓN AND THE MARIA GONE

  Ain’t heed how the apostles leave. Their stoopings pass in corner-eye, their Panish mutters pass. Light flutter in the glassen door as it come open-shut.

  Then only Anselm stand below my chair, the clause glad in his hand.

  ‘I must congratulate you,’ he say. ‘That was genuinely exciting.’

  Some time, I only trace my finger on the chairy arm. Got shape of golden pigeon that sink claws into a golden heart. Eyes be bluish gems, stare no expression to the lectric light.

  At last, I look to Anselm tired. ‘How long this hunt for roos can take?’

  ‘Not long. Ten days, perhaps. They can take trucks out to where the road ends. And then they’ll pick up horses.’

  ‘Shoo, ain’t known you keeping horses. Seen no horses there.’

  ‘But your horses are there.’ Anselm make his mischief smile. ‘I’m sorry, senyora, it wasn’t possible to bring them back so quickly. And as you see, it was lucky, after all.’

  ‘Lucky,’ I say short, ‘if you ain’t plan this all before.’

  ‘Oh, are we being honest now? That’s nice.’ He stretch with catly satisfaction. ‘Senyora, may I sit? It’s not correct form, but I’m actually tired after that.’

  ‘Sure can sit. You want this chair?’

  He laugh soft. ‘Oh, no. Far too symbolic.’

  He settle frogleg on the tilen floor without no circumstance. Set the papers on his knees, start shuffling through with gratty smile. Truth, I get relief myself, now all apostles gone. After all their strangeness, Anselm feeling mostly like a friend.

  I say, ‘Can ask you something, Anselm?’

  ‘You have a voice, and I have ears.’ He fish out my signing page and laugh. ‘Oh, look. Your handwriting. Oh, no.’

  ‘Heed, where Simón Zelote been?’

  He set the papers down. Look to the flying children on the ceiling, mourning eyes, like they commiserate his always problems. ‘Well, she notices things,’ he say in underbreath. ‘She isn’t stupid.’

  ‘Going to notice. And when you said you ain’t disturb Simón Zelote. What this been?’

  ‘Well, Simón is our ranking general. So if we sent regular soldiers on this search, we’d have to ask him. And that would disturb him.’

  ‘Then how the penals be Felipe’s, if they soldiers also?’

  ‘The prison is in his burrow – it’s really a bureaucratic detail, santa reina. Not interesting.’

  ‘But why Simón Zelote ain’t been here?’

  Anselm sigh. ‘Okay. But this will be your final lesson of the day. I am really tired beyond words. So, perhaps you noticed Simón crying yesterday?’

  ‘Sure.’ I shrug. ‘Was weeping like a messy two. Be weirdo generals.’

  ‘This is something you can probably understand. Maria often has a favorite apostle. We call this a Joseph. Does that suggest anything to you?’

  ‘Nay. Be nothing helpful.’

  ‘I think we’re past the point of mincing words. Simón was the lover of the last Maria. Repeat that wherever you like, it makes no difference now. Which is a great relief.’

  Almost, I ask if this Maria got device preventing enfants. If Anselm rule her so, with maudy threats. But now my anger tired.

  ‘So she sicken bad.’ I shrug. ‘Why he going to sorrow.’

  ‘It’s more than that. You see, when there’s a new Maria, the former Maria doesn’t just leave her place. She gracefully departs from life.’ He flutter his hand toward the cloudy ceiling.

  ‘Depart from life. She kill herself?’

  ‘Thank you. You understand.’

  ‘Nay, why she doing this?’

  ‘Well, usually for religious reasons. We don’t like to have two living gods. In fact, we dislike it so much, her suicide isn’t always strictly voluntary. But in this special case – although very few people know this – Maria died three days ago.’

  Still be puzzling on this voluntary, when his last words come plain. ‘She dead?’

  ‘Yes. That’s something you should not repeat. There must always be a Maria – every second of every day. If Maria is dead, there is no god. And worse, there is no government.’ Anselm narrow eyes. ‘Of course, Felipe wanted to go on pretending the last Maria was still alive. He didn’t want a real god, unless he had chosen her himself.

  ‘But happily, that’s behind us now. Tonight, you’ll hear the bells ringing to announce her death – and there the crisis ends.’

  Be worrying this when something inkle doubtful in my mind. Is from what Pasha saying yesternight, about the Jesus whites. How rich people buying them, to keep until Maria sicken. Then they choose some girl obedient, give her Christ to use.

  But now they got no roos in storage. If Anselm kill myself, can be no proof, and no Maria new. I pick around this, working thoughts, while Anselm square the clause in hands. Stand weary to his feet.

  Then my mind focus sudden. I break into precarious laugh. ‘Goddamn! You catching Christs in Massa! What you needing there. Yo weasel!’

  He give unshaming smile. ‘Well, I suppose we will, senyora.’

  ‘All Pedro’s shee, goddamn! They even questioning these roos?’

  ‘Of course, the questioning is real. We have two reasons for the search. At least two.’

  ‘But then you choose a new Maria, ya? And I depart from life.’

  ‘Not at all, santa reina. We often keep these Christs for years. And I don’t want to kill you at all. I think it would give me bad dreams.’ He make regretful smile. ‘Still, we need the option.’

  Then he regard me curiose while I regard him back. I try to read some meaning in his face, but be no use. Feel like I stare into a light and only hurt my eyes.

  At last he say, ‘Now, before I go, I have a question of my own. Just something I’ve been wondering as we talked. That baby of yours – I don’t suppose it was Jesus’s?’

  This startle through my tired nerves. ‘No sho, it ain’t.’

  He nod with comfort smile. ‘Then, santa reina, I have a request. On this search, please send the boyfriend. The father, whoever it is. The situation with the last Maria, with Simón – it wasn’t ideal.’

  ‘Foo, ain’t your trouble, who I send.’ A superstition creep my skin.

  He nay his finger, smiling sweet. ‘Everything is my trouble. So you’ll send the father, please. Now, do enjoy the rest of your day. The guards will see you into your elevator. I’m sorry, I will get you that key.’

  Then he cross to the door with easy gladness in his motion. Door swing brightening and release its light.

  44

  MY WORST APOSTLE MET

  In the elevator, I lean nervy to the wall, guess how my iglesia rooms will be. If my children hide there still, and how I bear to see the NewKing. How I bear Soledad. If Pasha be there yet, and if he learning any telligence.

  Doors open soft, and I step out. Be dandelion lights and ruggen hallways, hush in all directions. Painten sleepers look sad from their frames like they beg freedom self. Yo soon, I recognize this place. Is where me–Pasha spent our yesternight in feary wait. This be the hall where I been draggen out, its quiet light the same.

  First door I seeing be the sleeproom, where I woken with the roo. Is parten on a dull unlight. I go to scout inside.

  On the grandiose bed, El Mayor lain, sleeping loose. Wear clothes is mostly normal, churching suit with whiten shirt. First Runner curlen by his feet in Marias finery gown – a fall of washen pink, look queery on this child austere.

  Then my spirit catch in teeth. I hold in perilous thought.

  El Mayor been obvious choices for the Massa search. I send him, I be sending my best eyes. Child smart as books.

  But sure, if Anselm want to rid him, El Mayor be rid entire. He go to Massa, far from tattling eyes, and shot like meat. Could ask him neverless, with proper warning
of his risk – but when I think of doing this, my heart go false. Cannot. Nor I be brave to tell him on the enfant, how it murdern. Gone vally to my death, but I be weak to say no hurt.

  I step back superstitious from this door. Go on, with sad excuses in my mind.

  I come next to the sofa room, without no clear intention. Room empty of no people, but its doors be open to the outside porch. A knifen breeze come in. Yo, through the glassen doors, can see a child outside, is bigly made.

  He show in profile, and the glitter sun confuse his face. But his hair be croppen like a Sengle’s, rough correct. I step to the doorway gratty, drawing breath for Driver’s name.

  Then he startle to me, and is Crow.

  He wearing Mariano clothes – a churching suit of perfect black – but all his skin look tired from weather. Eyes be red like hurt. Yo, he wear the marks of godscars in his cheeks, still purplish raw. And I recall Karim. How his hands guard to his face, want desperate to save himself. I see Crow’s godscars like an injury left by this bad killing.

  Almost, I turn away. But Crow’s hurt eyes catch to my guilt. And I step out to the fearing cold. Watch Crow’s deep-known face, the unchin jaw and lashy eyes. And Crow be watching with no comfort, stare like I be no one.

  I say soft, ‘Salue, my Crow.’

  ‘Salue.’ He duck his head in nerves.

  ‘Be sorry for your feathers. How … they shot.’

  He shrug like this be stupid mentions. ‘You save me, I guess.’

  ‘Ya, and I be gratty for that leaf you sent. Your warning.’

  He grit closer now. His face look mostly like denials, like he going to say it been no leaf. But he say, ‘Ain’t guess you want no warning.’

  ‘How I ain’t?’

  ‘Thought you come to Mamadou yourself.’

  Go guilty in my heart, but I say quick, ‘Nay, why I go to him?’

  Crow laugh undervoice. ‘You be his queen. Ain’t remember to you?’

  ‘He keeping that?’

  ‘Yo sho, he keep it.’ Crow laugh pitchy, rub his mouth. ‘Got some resentment, I ain’t know.’