The Country of Ice Cream Star
Page 54
‘Older brother?’
I fret my shoulders. ‘Sure.’
‘And he fights now. I understand. Why you always worry.’
Relieve in me somehow, he guess this wrong. ‘Sure you right, Polkovnik,’ I say friendly. ‘Worry bad.’
He shake his head. ‘But is not necessary, Korolyeva. Listen, most injuries are nothing. Go home, rest. Is nothing. And many never injure. Look, I am fifty-two years. How many wars I was, I do not know.’
It soften in me, this can be real kindness. I think of Mamadou, and guess he be the sort that never injure. And when I look to my Polkovnik, his eyes be normal sad.
Then he say, ‘How he is, this brother?’
‘How brothers be.’ I shrug.
‘But it is different, I think, without a father. A mother. You see?’
‘Nay, how is different?’
This dabbit into longer talks. He telling how, in Russia, brothers rival for their parents’ love. Yo I ask questions, how it be to have these living parents, when you grown fifteen. This lazy on some pleasant time, while evening darken to the moon, begin to grow its first white stars.
But as we come to yawning hour, Polkovnik say like sudden thought, ‘Your brother now, he talks to you?’
Then my suspicion wake. ‘Got no means to talk. He done it, if he can.’
‘No, always are means, my Korolyeva,’ he say in worry surprise. ‘Have radios here?’
‘Ain’t your problems, what we got. He got no means, and all it is.’
‘You defend him, yes. But he should talk to you. No, I am not sure I like this brother enough for you.’
I heed this quiet, smoking, looking at my townie stars. Then I say, in colder voice, ‘Best we ain’t speak of him.’
He sigh low. ‘You don’t trust. Of course, you are smart to doubt. But I only like you. And not only beautiful girls are lonely. Sometimes, old unbeautiful men are lonely also.’
*
Behind this, Polkovnik Razin always ask if I heard from my brother. Make face of disapproving sorrow, when I say I ain’t. Yo, I begin to notice, all his talks be pities somehow. Pity my risk, my loneliness; pity that I be short for life. He even giving pities, how the Russians do this cruel war – say he be soldat and cannot choose, but still is sorry. In this, he mention Europe, older enemy of Russians. ‘This war, they will say it is a crime, but still they do not help you. Yes, it is a bad world, Korolyeva. It is a bad world to be weak.’
And once he say, like helpful notion, I should work for roos. ‘It is good for Russians that some Americans speak for them, you know. And you are Korolyeva, important person. They will make very beautiful life for you.’ When I give scorn to this proposal, he get pity eyes again. ‘I am sorry it is insulting. Of course, you will never do this. You are a good person, but it is now unlucky.’
How it come worse, he learning pox on me in his interrogations.
My other roos be mostly left to rot in easy misery, but Polkovnik Razin dragging off to question every day. From these conversations, he return with ugly bruises. Yo, as the war grow in unluck, Marines try worser cruelties. Soon he come with fingers broken; fingertips lost all their nails. Can notice he sit skew, breathe shallow, from hurts beneath his clothes. When I ask on this, he answer jokes. ‘They exercise their arms on me, good for their health.’ Or, ‘It is age. Do not grow old, Korolyeva, you see it is ugly.’
From this, Quanticos learn exactly nothing. How Patricia tell, the Polkovnik stubborn in unconsequence. Ask him warry questions, and he say, ‘You like to fish?’ Then come some torture cruelty, and he come gasping up and say, ‘I am never lucky to fish, me.’
They hate him worse for this. Be only dreaming when they murder him to a respecting silence. Still, is times Marines distract. Yappit on fishing for some minutes before they gather hatred. And somewhere in this talk, he catching gossips on myself.
*
This conversation come the day my Marianos start their war. They gathern at last in easter woods, behind the roo positions. The night before their first attack, I travel through the tunnels to speak to them in gratulation.
This be a speech of their goliath deeds that every years remember. Tell how all children, ya myself, be praying for their life feroce. I wear Maria dress and speak impressive in my reina voice – stood on a trucken rear, with fidgeting pines and oaks around, the vally stars in bright attendance. Keep watching, but in all these thousands, cannot find Mamadou nor Crow. Be only shadows–shadows, blurry in the forest night; an everywhere that say ‘Amen’, and stand with sudden leap of darkness.
This night, my sleep be on a bicycle cart, returning through the tunnels. Keep waking to the tunnel thumping strange from bombs above; the speckle sound of crumbles falling in the wettish blackness. Come out and straggle to the monument with hopes to sleep some more – but sky be dawning bright as I sit heavy to my flagpost. Then Polkovnik Razin call out soft, ‘Korolyeva. Come, please. Talk to me.’
I sigh exhausting. ‘Already hear you better than I want.’
‘No,’ he say in injury voice. ‘It is personal matter. Please.’
I look to him reluctant. In this morning light, can see results of all his questionings. Face be bruise and blood, is swollen weird on its left side. Even his ears be colorn wrong. Look like he painten in cosmetic by a pranking little. But he look to me with his same eyes of loving friendship.
I get up, frustrating in my ruth. Sit frogleg by him. The wind be sharp, and we both wearing furry soldier hats. Remember to me queery, how I putting his hat on like mine.
He narrow on me kind. ‘I want to say I am sorry, Korolyeva. They told about your brother dying.’
Almost, I stand again. But I be tired for more resistance. ‘Can leave this,’ I say hoarse. ‘Ain’t need your sorries anyhow.’
‘No, please listen. It is this. My brother died when I was sixteen, also.’
I narrow to him cautieuse. His hounden eyes gone tired in sorrow. Even his unlips be sad, look most like human mouth.
‘Your brother,’ I say soft.
‘He was older, also. It is a terrible thing, Korolyeva. It is something, you know, that I still hurt.’
Then he begin to tell the story of his brother’s killing. Go into rooish as he talk, like he lose conscience of his speech. Is something about a cat his brother keep, a boat, then all confusions. His eyes be far in thinking memory. Times, he smile his hurting mouth, like greeting to this past.
Last he say, in careful English, ‘It was my first death.’ He turn his loving eyes to me, seek comprehending in my face.
At this moment, Bashir call sudden, ‘Lies!’
I startle, ya Polkovnik’s face change wonderful in hatred. But he only grit and muttern, ‘Fool.’ Look to me like he expect agreement.
I say stiff, ‘Be sorry. Cannot want to talk on this.’
‘You said.’ He frown, think on my face. ‘You are somehow cold. I understand. My brother could not save. It is different.’
‘Different, I ain’t know.’
‘Yes. For you, it is more bitter. If your brother was with us, we save him.’
‘Shee. Roos never going to help him,’ I say harsh. ‘Nor I ain’t love you for this fact.’
He nod. ‘Too late. If it was not these foolish wars, perhaps.’
Now I clench my hands, begin to stand up to my feet.
‘It is a hard death,’ he say on. ‘I am sorry you must see this.’
I narrow on his ruin face. ‘I guess your death be also hard.’
His eyes light with natural pleasure. Face break in a smile. ‘Good, Korolyeva. Yes, they will kill me. Why we cannot say this? But, before my death, I hope you will still talk to me sometimes. And perhaps you cry a little when I am dead? Yes, you will cry together – you and Pasha.’
Almost, I ask how he know Pasha’s name. Why Pasha cry for him, how he know anything of Pasha. But my better sense return. I turn and stalk away, all furies kniving in my heart.
69
OF BATTLE VARIOUS
Every child be in this fight. I even go myself to hold a trench in Arlington Cemetery, with petty eights and injure soldiers. Ain’t expect no fighting there, but Quanticos want a last protection, if roos break toward the deeper city.
These trenchen hours be nerves and nothing. In this backward place, we get no news. The only word be gunfire. I lurk in mud with my Kalash, agony my freezing toes. Times, my attention tire, and I watch idle at an antler beetle, crawling woozy in the dirt. Ease my nerves by reading burial stones of these old dead. My hiding stone say only BENNETT, but be stones beyond with various informations – mystery names of places gone, like Arizona and Wisconsin; prettieuse ranks like Purple Heart.
Then I drift back to fear, heed to the guns like I can read their voice. Mamadou, Crow, my friendly guards – each shot I hear can be their murder. Arlington House stare from the hill, and always my nonsense heart insist, this edifice be evil. Is like a mally warning from a future where we all be gone.
Yo, as the hours go long, my mind stray back to the Polkovnik. Worry to myself, what he can mean, that Pasha cry for him. Want to believe, was only lies. Traps, like all his brother talk. Try to decide, I never go to feed the roos tonight. They hunger for one day, be nothing I ain’t done myself. But my misery know, I going to go. I going to ask.
And children around me talk, and hush in heeding, and talk again. Once a girl call back in panic, ‘They’re coming! I can see!’ Then we all snap ready. Grit a panic time, where every rustling leaf become stampeding Russians. At last, a child shoot into nothing, and others join along, create a wave of feary noise. But this pass to quiet again, and we guess slow, all been mistake. Then is queery disappointment, how this terror cheat away. Leave us stood the same, with foolish smiles, sweat chilling on our necks.
To dusk, the gunfire hush. Is only smoke remaining, hazing thinner in the purplen sky. Then children gripe impatient, how this silence tell us nothing. Ain’t know if we win or die entire. All be gone in argument, if we should send a scout, when a raggity troop appear on hill above.
See their uniforms of Marine, and all the eights go larming glad. Some leap from trenches, start to run exciting toward these friends. But as these soldiers straggle closer, can see they carry injure children. And they become a thicker swarm – dozen and dozen pairs, each with a blooden load between. When they come to hearing, all yell angry for our help. Ease their burdens to the ground, and run back up the hill.
Hurt soldiers carry on a sort of hammock, slung on poles. With this weight, it be a weary journey to the hospital, across the bridge at Washington. Most our carriers be eights, and it become a straining progress of some hundred scattern littles, with load of screams and beggary. I carry with an injure girl, got bandages around her chest that redden slow with this long effort. She muttern once, confiding, ‘That broken rib keeps shifting, ow. But it idden kilt me if I’m still complaining, right?’
First child we carry got a bandage wrap around his hips. Ever a step misgive, he gasp. Is sweating greedy in the cold. Soon he only begging that we put him down, ain’t hear no reasons. When we come to the hospital and set him on the floor, he keep on asking that we put him down, as we turn sad away.
We go back for another, and meet a wave of limping soldiers, coming back with lesser hurts. These call informations to us, but each tale be different. We winning bone, or losing awful, or no person going to know. Only certainty they agree, Marines been dying generose. ‘It’s a lot of blood,’ one say, with feary laugh. ‘Don’t got many more days like that, I don’t think.’
We carry two more children, as the darkness clearing into stars. First be a girl with blooden chest, skree agonies when we lift her. She grip her arms against her sides, tears running from her scary eyes. Halfway on the bridge, she settle to a sudden calm, and when we reach the hospital’s lights, I realize she dead, with tears still bright upon her cheeks.
Last injure soldier got a shattern foot, and sob this journey through. Say angry, ‘Yeah, it’s only a foot. Got two. I got another foot, I know that.’ Then he go telling ugly stories, children that been kilt. At last, the girl I carry with say, ‘I don’t want to hear that, please. I leave you right here on this bridge, I will.’ Then he go hush, smile to me pologetic through his tears.
This final trip, I staggering tired. First time since my trip from Massa, I feel Kalash her weight, wish I can rid her. And it come ever stranger, how we creep across the river like a different river of moaning pain; how the full-grown moon stare down unblinking on our struggle. Some time I weep without no thought. Grieve these screaming–muttering children; grieve my Marianos that ain’t got no warmer hospital. Magine how Crow or Mamadou carry so, and if they scream. If they be silent, close to death.
When this work finish, I go to the White House, blinden weary. Creep to my pinken room to wash. Then in the bathing water, I break sobbing for Crow and Mamadou – although it feel like mally luck to weep, before I know they hurt. Then I ain’t want my soldier clothes. They burden with this night of screams, like all their dirt be blood. So I put on Maria dress. Clad soldier boots and coat to this and – like I known I will – I head out to the monument. Fetch prisoners their sorry meal.
Russians waiting like they ever been, in hurting boredom. As I come to Vitya, I even feel a gratty peace to this. Yo, it feel stupid, I ever fearing talk from no Polkovnik. Whatever he say on Pasha, it ain’t guns. Ain’t harm me anyhow. I answer nasty and go sleep. And sleep correct, will leave all terrors to the distant morning. Breathe my stars and curl into a weariness of flesh.
Vitya–Kirill quiet, and I do this work with habit ease. Time I coming to Bashir, I yawning to my task. He hush moody like the rest. Take his water and crackers with an inward heedlessness. Only when I stand to leave, he roo up sudden, ‘Masha, wait.’
When I pause, he struggle to stand, his handcuffs scraping on the flagpost. Blanket fall clumsy at his feet. This be a child with hawken face, is mostly nose and blackish eyebrows. Feel queery, he now tall above me, with his looks farouche.
He roo, in almost whisper, ‘Want to thank you.’
‘Need no thanks,’ I say confusen.
‘Nay. Want you to know, I preciate this. Can be, ain’t other chance to say.’
A moment, I think foolish that he know some secrets of the war. That roos be here tomorrow, kill us all into one heap. I say, with nervy laugh, ‘Foo, how it be no other chance?’
‘Mikhail Arkadievich.’ He nod toward my white Polkovnik. ‘Come back from questioning with word. They trade us back tonight.’
I catch a startle breath. ‘Back to Russians?’
‘Yes. We going back.’ Then Bashir nod again, toward where I see in farther dimness, my Polkovnik lift his head. ‘Except for him. They kill him, send his body back. They tell him this.’
First moment, I feel only angry. They trading prisoners, should be for the cure. Ya, they should tell myself. Nor they murder my Polkovnik, sans no ask. He mine. But soon my rage become a weakness in my tired nerves. Truth, Quanticos do how they like. Ain’t going to heed me nothing.
I say soft, ‘But what they trade for?’
‘Ain’t know. Ever they think they want.’
‘So you free.’ I smile unhappy. ‘Can kill Kirill now.’
‘Masha,’ he say darker, like he disapprove my joking, ‘you go back to New York now. Be many Kirills in this army, you comprehend? Be bad here, when we come.’
‘Foo. Ain’t necessary you win this war.’
‘Nay, you must go. You go.’
I look by to my white Polkovnik. Bashir’s eyes follow my sorry gaze, and he catch breath impatient.
‘I only want to thank you,’ he say shortish. ‘I thank you, since these vermin ain
’t.’ Then he shift down his post again, sit frowning to the grass. I wrap his blanket thoughtless to him, while he keep stiff in anger, like he now resent this help.
I go on, hugging the brock of water close, my spirit strange. Polkovnik watch me coming with his looks of loving mischief. Ya, like he always do, he take his drink and food before he speak. Ain’t want to be himself until this humble task be by.
Then he say in quiet voice, ‘Bashir, he told you?’
‘Sure.’
Polkovnik nod. Frown past me, scout into some narrow thought. I stand away, gone thinking how I argue for his life. Be magining some trade I do – what petty use I still can give – when his voice come curiose, ‘Korolyeva – I can see your dress?’
I look to him, surprise. In this moonlight, all his cuts look black, like clinging dirt. One eye swollen blind. His beard got burns into its whitish scrabble. And he say softer, ‘Please, you take off the coat a minute. Show me.’
Come pudy somewhat, but my natural vanity rise against. So I unbutton this coat and pull it off onto one arm. Watch careless to him, while the cold seize feary in my skin. Ya, the Polkovnik look with preciation in his one good eye.
Then he say brighter, ‘Yes, you are beautiful. Pasha is very lucky.’
‘Shee.’ I scrabble to put my coat on. ‘How you even knowing Pasha? Shee you always talk.’
‘I am his officer once.’ Polkovnik smile his hounden eyes. ‘But Pasha Toporov everyone knows. He is a little famous, I think. Now, please, it is right we talk. Please sit.’
I sit without no cavil. Even feel joyeuse to skirmish, like this be a pleasure I been waiting for all hours. Fish a cigarette from my coat while he love eyes at me.
‘So, my Korolyeva,’ he say. ‘Pasha Toporov and you. Tell me.’
I shrug. ‘Nay, what they told yourself?’
‘He is your husband. In your religion, he is Jesus.’ He smile thin. ‘It’s funny to me, you understand.’
‘Sure. Been funny to us also.’
‘Yes, you aren’t from there. I heard.’ He raise eyebrows curiose. ‘You took Toporov there with you?’