The Country of Ice Cream Star

by Sandra Newman

  And Pasha tell me of his wars, and how he done all worst things you can do, more times than he remember, when he been dumb with pharmacies and murderous with fears, and then he need to just forget. He tell me stories of this, but he ask me that I never tell, if we both live beyond. I promise honesty to this, and so I never done. Then he say about the times he try to kill himself, but always he was found and made to live. Ya, he argue, like I known he will, that I can kill him also. Ain’t need him for the cure now – and it be like killing Deema, justice for his evil life. And I say again that I ain’t kill him, and Pasha say he thought I maybe changing, if I known his crimes – but any blindness known was something like, and I say nothing to this. Then Pasha take my hand, and I cry somewhat, but he never seeing in the dark. And we sit in hunting silence, smoke with our free hands, and coldness settle feroce on our bare faces, as the dawn begin to sneak its faintness into this black city crawling with unknowing children, and our mouths begin to taste of terrify and animosen love. Until the sun be risen dull, and knocking come, our death come knock impatient in the room. Yo we ignore this hatred detail – until they come for us without no pity, soldiers and ermanos, talking disapproval, talking meaningless, and pulling me, and I loose Pasha’s hand, and he look shame as I be led away, and I call back that I will find him. Ever hell be big, will find him there. And if it ain’t no hell, it been a bony night, was bone as any, and if we live, yo if we live.

  40

  OF PROOFING

  This death morning spent in grooming. Be exasperation, how I live these final hours with strangers tugging at my hair and pinning cloth against my frighten skin. Everything is fingers. Start to flinch whenever I feel a touch.

  Two girls who pester most be callen Altagracia and Mercedes. They nasty prettieuse, chub females with all paints upon. Both is skunking with perfume, and all their helping children skunk. Is only Altagracia–Mercedes speaking English any, and it be Panish in its sort, pronounce in noses and confusions. But they keep pronouncing on, with scarcely taken breath.

  Mostly they talk grooming yappit, until I hating my own ears, be angry that no child be born with ears. And while their voices pippet round, is always fear within. Any comfort I can think, I terrify the same, and my mind slip to needless maginations. I think of snake Felipe, apostle of Metropolitano. How he will smile like honey as he hand his murder cup. How this poison act, if it be painful. If I refuse to drink, how I be draggen out to burn. How it can be, that Ice Cream ain’t existing anywhere. Will be no me to know that I ain’t there.

  And I must stand and raise my arms. Murder dresses clad on me, and strip away, flung off like grandy swans. Mercedes work with pins around my waist. Then must lean back with hair in faucet water, feeling devil miseries.

  In this, I think to draw their talk to something that distract. So I ask if Marianos ever can bear with whitish children. Be dreaming how I save my Pasha, and he live among. So I ask, if be some white with kindly manners, how this been.

  Then Altagracia make some pittering talk, how whites be Satan’s get, was made in person shape for our confusion. In their old America, whites had a bad religion, where they worship paper money. Was mally churches callen banks, deciding all their laws. These whites live like diseases, all was homosexual selfish. Good black children was kept as slaves, or capture into gloomy prisons. She keep on with this blablabla, while she pluck at my face, until it be a nagging madness.

  At last I speak up breathless, say, ‘Your people ain’t no differences. You worse. Be farts that blame the cheese.’

  She startle back. ‘Senyora?’

  I hush myself. Can guess that I look peevish as a boring mule. Only I muttern, ‘Get your own white people, kill them gratty. Pasha mine. Is townie children.’

  ‘I not kill anyone, senyora.’

  ‘Nay, you ain’t kill no one. I feed you to him first. Be right.’ Here I begin to cry, and Altagracia–Mercedes cluck around me like two picking hens. Pat my face with serviettes and stroke me till I swat them.

  When they finish me, I wear a dress like all the others. Top be covern in some pearls, the bottom feathery big. Hair braid with diamond jewleries, and Altagracia fix a band of pearlen beads atop, with straggling gauzen cloth loose down my back. Clip diamonds painful to my ears, string diamonds cold around my throat.

  Then Altagracia say she teach me through the sacraments. She take me to a grandy room, is empty of no furnitures. Here we go through any witless actions. I must say ‘See’ for ‘Yes’, and kneel and handle golden rings. This be the wedding sacrament. Then she giving me a wooden object like a boaten oar. I hold this embarrass, till she say, ‘When the wedding over, apostle Pedro give the spear.’ Then I throw it angry to the floor, gone hot through all my skin. Altagracia cry, with scary looks, ‘I must to teach both ways. Is not my choice, senyora.’

  So I stand trembling while she take the oar up in her hands. Show me how this murder done, explaining spears their use, like any fifteen child ain’t know. And here my coward heart begin to muttern its temptations. Truth, I cannot cause no wars to Washington if I be dead. Pasha only be one life – I win this cure, and every children save. Ya, Pasha thirty years, is like he living twice already. And I see Driver’s face in mind, his eyes gone furiose with pain. For all the murders Pasha done, one life. Roo ask for this himself.

  And Altagracia tell how I must find my place, and use my weight. How I must force this spear until he die. Then all my body feel this thrusting blow. My muscles gather bright. Is even pride, how I be strong. Can do this work correct.

  ‘When he dead, you kneel,’ say Altagracia. ‘On the blood, is good. Spear clean with dress. You try, senyora?’

  To this, I cannot bear no more. Say hoarsen furiose, ‘I seen. Now show the other way.’

  So we do this action, I repeat its queery words, and go until we come to drinking cups. Then I be weak from every fear, and ask if I can have some wine. Or booze be better. But this ain’t allow.

  They pick at me some more, and tell me cigarettes ain’t allow, and seeing Pasha ain’t allow, and pick at me. Try to pull me to a mirror, but I lie nasty that, among my people, mirrors ain’t allow. They take this with surprisen admiration. Yo, now ermanos gather in. Some rifle children coming, wearing different clothes, is reddish color, but their guns the same. All glance nerviose to me, ain’t nod or greet or nothing. Altagracia pull me to a middy place among these children. Give me last instructions, pick my hair a final time.

  Then we all walking down some broaden stairs, go lower lower, any wearing time, until I feel they take me clear to hell. Wish I dying so without no proof indignity. But we come into the room of dandelion lights, the statue of the girlish cannibal. Walk out to the bluish street. And gathern to the streeten edge is all the normal people of Marias City, the littles and the jones, with dirty coats and needing faces, roaring in their thousand voice. All madden as I come along, is pointing fingers, grinning strange, and we walk through their skree that swell against the buildings’ rocky flanks. On the street be scattern flowers, whitish petals shivering and drifting in the wind. My ankles feel like angry water, but I walk correct. Concentrate upon the cutting bother of the heely shoes, and go with feary upright step, longing that I been a rifle child, ain’t got this pinching dress and freezing arms and death and death.

  Rifles halt before an edifice savage in bellesse. Is towers and likenesses and curls, and all been carven out of stone. Ain’t believe in gods before, but cannot see how any person children make this edifice. A different fear become in me, that this real god exist. But my heart insist its hatred to any god who kill my Pasha for some fool performance, and I get some better valor, walking small into this vasty place.

  Inside, be worse bellesse. A music come from loften height, some moaning instrument. Be thousand people sitting in benches, wearing churching clothes. All about is carven – flowers and curls and stony children. Be tall painten windows showing long-nose sleepers acting scenes. Forward is a stage with golden canopy upon. On s
teps before this, apostle Pedro standing. Wear a silvern dress, wash shiny to the floor.

  Beneath the canopy be Pasha. He bounden to a stony cross with both his arms. Ain’t hanging, but he stand upon a granite step, feet bound the same. Look like normal rope they use, done up in fisher knots. He wearing brownish pants, is simple made, but all his chest be bare.

  See him there, my heart go black. It rage without no mind. I try to look away, but my eyes need to him. Will see and see.

  And I walk forward. Yo the rifle children fall behind, stay guarding by the doors. Be thinking how I run, if I can make them shoot me somehow. Be the death I will prefer, but still be chance no cup will poison. If I do this killing, be good chance. And I go forward, remembering these gaga sacraments. Feel the sweat bright on my face. Pasha watch me come with dazen eyes. Pedro step aside.

  I go and stand to Pasha, heart gone scrambling. Be almost blind without no thought, I only see one detail. Neat on his chest, there be a blooden mark. Show where my spear should go, is cut into his whiten skin. One shivering breath, it freak in me, they stabben him already. Kill him with some knife, left me no choice. But then my mind clear cold, can see this cut be scarcely bleeding. And it notice, roo got any scars along his chest – long nicks and dimples, purple and white. I get another madness, how he live beyond these every wounds. Sure, he surviving any stab I do.

  Then Pasha swallow at his throat. I look up to his frosten eyes. They terrify in strangeness, like he fear me now, too late.

  Yo we stare together, two small terrors in this giant room. Behind us, children watching from their benches, and the rifles watching, as the moaning song close to its finish. All come silent.

  I crouch down to my knees. Gather the skirt around myself. Look up to Pasha again, and mouth his name, but he be looking by. His bluish fright gone to the watching room.

  Then apostle Pedro come toward me, stepping careful. I watch to his face, and feel all hatred I can find. Hate his melancholy looks, I hate his gracile hands. Silvern cloth got broidery upon, in complicating flowers, and I hate these flowers, all my bitter living hate him.

  He speak. Be Panish, chanten long, his voice be like complaining water. Yo he coming to a pause. And I remember, and say, ‘See.’

  Then he put his hand soft to my head, and speak again. I be almost longing to his gentle touch, his haten touch. He pause again, and I say, ‘See.’ Rise to my feet, with trembling gone all through me. Hold out a trembling hand. Pedro catch it still. He fit a ring onto my finger.

  Ring be carven gold, fit loose. I want to shake it free – but I close fingers on it. Nor I brave to look at Pasha. I stare frighten into nothing.

  Speech begin again, and now a blackdress child come up, is carrying an actual spear.

  Spear ain’t prettieuse like every object here, is plain for use. Shaft be oaken, blade is longer than no knife. Its edges perfect sharp. Any girlish arm can kill with this. My hands guess how this hold, what force it take.

  Then Pedro take the spear, step graciose to me, and hold it out. I take it with some sudden greed, and hold it well in both my hands. Pedro’s face change warm. His eyes skit up to Pasha, wanting. Suffer how he want. I stare on Pedro, and my breath come faster, hands grip well.

  Be only a lurking moment that I look to Pedro’s throat. See how this throat can stab. My arms join, brighten in their hate. Then my madness pass to chilling sweat, but all my heart be simple.

  Yo when I look to Pedro’s eyes, he seen. He frozen blank, got superstitions in his pressen mouth. I be gratty for this alone. I hand the spear back smiling and say clear, ‘No puedo. No.’

  Pedro take the spear with wisty blinking of his eyes. My arms go trembling down again, while behind, is muttering in the benches, children sighing somehow. I look back to Pasha. He still ware on me with frighten blankness. Rain-color eyes look almost white.

  Pedro step away, and with no feeling sense, I go to knees again, work at my Pasha’s bounden feet. Behind, the children muttern, and I feel hotness in my face. Begin to hurry, fear that someone stop me. I stand to work his handen knots, and feel my Pasha’s frighten breath, hot at my nape. Rope chafe my fingers, and my belly pinching deep again as I free his last knots. Pasha never look to me. He only step down, stumble on bare feet. Stop with some different fright, and I turn perilous.

  Apostles stand behind. All wearing garb like Pedro’s, washing silvern to the floor. Cups is gold, with reddish stones. A moment, I expect that Pasha fight through these, we run. But nothing be. We stand the same, and when I look at him, he stare to nothing. One hand press his chesten wound.

  Then I tell myself, I drink some wine. All I must do. If it be death, this dying do itself. I only drink. And the apostles all step forward, as the music start again, its moaning wind and voice.

  First apostle coming be Simón Zelote, tearful soldier. Hold his cup out, and his handsome jawbone face show nothing. I reach and take the cup. When he release, its weight surprise my hands. It take some strength to hold this, and I look defiance to the gold, the darken wash within. Ain’t look like wine, is almost black. But I raise it, tense with spite. Gold chill my lips, I tip it clumsy. Then it taste too sweet for wine. Be squinting at this wrongness. All my throat join to reject it, but I swallow harsh. Wait for the pain, the wasting feeling. What it be.

  Simon Zelote reach his hand. I be blind in wondering as he grasp the cup. My hands come loose away, and nothing been. I stand the same. I look, alive, up to the next apostle. Got better courage, and be comfort that I ain’t recognize his face. Be some apostle who never asken questions, got no care. Wine be the same, a sweetish gulp and nothing. He take the cup, and I be feeling gratitudes when I see the next apostle be Juan, young child who favor me. I drink his wine with almost greed, gladden in its safety. Then come posy Bartolomeo, child who ask about the clause. Feel worse to this, been something maudy in him, but I take his wine, drink hard. I almost drop this cup. He must catch it hasty from my loosing hand.

  Then my fears begin to waste, be tired of this fright. I only force my strength to meet these coming faces, take their cups and drink, and drink again. Be wishing only for the end. Be gratty now to die, ain’t bear to agony more in fear. And it go on, some unlikely stretching time, repeating and repeating. Music moan, disturbing in my ears. The crowd stare cold. I begin to notice the apostles’ expressions, who be nervy, who be calm. Girlish apostle frown at me so hard, she rumple her chin. Yo, prettieuse Santiago wink, like this be littlish game. Only after I drink his cup, I guess he want to reassure. Was hinting, this ain’t poison. I look after him in wish, long to his sympathy. Then I look back and see Felipe.

  Child looking maladies of fright. Face be bright with sweat, jaw clench. Hands grip knuckly to the cup. Is like he try to crush it gone.

  And I know, in evil calm, be now. I look back to the rifle children at the farther door, but got no strength to think of running. It wonder, how they doing, if I yell that this be poison. Spill it like an accident. Behind, be thought of burning – and how, when I be draggen out, all children see my cowardesse.

  Then I reach to the cup from simple habit. Felipe flinch, but ease himself and leave it to my hands. I take its sickening weight, and glance around the watching children, how they waring on this sight. Be like they know, they spitely curiose. Then all my fear be gone. Is only the metal weight in my two hands, the dream bellesse around. Felipe’s face be cringing dread, and I feel scorn against this weakness.

  I raise the cup in simple strength. Find the cold edge with my lips.

  Taste duller than the other wine, but I swallow without thought. And I look back to weak Felipe, thinking how he watch me die. My mind say, Now I die, see what it be. If it be anything. I look to the painten windows, the complicating reds and blues of drown sunlight, wait for this mystery. My heart beat skitty, like a hand-caught bird his frighten heart.

  But nothing be. I breathe, and feel my scary hands tight on the cup. Nothing be. Felipe watching to me, never move to take the cup. Look on
ly changing fear. Yo, my own fear start again. Keep waiting for the pain, until is hope and panic and every struggling need inside myself. Then sudden, Felipe reaching out, his face gone sick. I give the cup to him with almost guilt. He look inside, check that I drank.

  Then his eyes widen to me. Grown shiny now with tears. He whisper something helpless, be a prayer or beggary.

  And he turn and stagger by, a silvery change in my blur sight. I stand empty-hand and sick. Feel dizzy through my body, like it poison with its life.

  Then Pedro coming last, is looking tired in relief. He hand his cup like normal guesting. This I drink thankful for its wine. Wish there been more. And Pedro take his cup and I be cold with sweat and living weak. Some madness smile come on my face. Pedro make a two-stick sign into the air before me. Speak some louder words, and all the people in the benches say up, sudden and bold, ‘Amen.’

  And Pasha take my hand in his cold sweaten hand, and we walk back. Go between these benches, all the children standing to their feet. Guards gather to us at the door, but no one touching us. No tardy poison work in me. It be no harm.

  So we walk out to the street, its sunlight and its ravish voice. Walk into the shouting city, city that I rule.

  41

  OF ANSELM WEASEL

  Scarce remember how we starting back, get only scraps of knowledge. My elbow caught by Pedro, he whispern gratulations in my ear. Then he gone. We in the road, among the redcoat guards, the thousand strangers screaming wild against the gray and sunlit buildings. Pasha by me looking ghosty weird. Somewhere we stopping, caught, where children run into the road before. Get some skirmish there, and all red soldiers gather to me–Pasha, ware their guns around.