The Country of Ice Cream Star

by Sandra Newman

  Then I explain the plan entire – from Pasha’s news of Quantico to my apostle parley. Only, I give this history some changes for his comfort. I tell about the search to Massa, but never mention Christs, or doubts about the apostles’ right intentions. And I say easy certainties, that we defeat the roos – how they surprising helpless by our thousand–thousand guns.

  As my tale continue, Driver’s eyes flash with peculiar feeling. He smile, but bite his lip and frown again. Look almost shame. Keep rubbing at his throat, like he will soothe its natural fear. All these changes sting my guilt – but I keep talking glad, my voice ring strong.

  At last, he smile correct. Say soft, ‘This grandy city war for us. They roos be sorrier.’

  ‘Truth,’ I say with falsen lightness. ‘Be some sorry roos.’

  ‘Roos coming January, ya?’

  ‘January. Be only a month to wait.’

  Driver shake his head and look up smiling to the dandelion light. ‘A month. Ain’t to believe.’

  I watch him now with misery grown. Be comprehending, I must tell these lies to all my Sengles. Can only Pasha know the truth. Ya, Soledad be townie here – will learn all facts without myself. Must beg that she ain’t telling Driver, for no circumstance.

  To this, a better notion come. I say, ‘Ho, Soledad be by?’

  In second’s change, his face go harsh. ‘Nay, why?’

  ‘Only to ask her on this place.’ I shrug. ‘Politics, you know how.’

  ‘She gone.’ He set his jaw. ‘I told her I ain’t want her by.’

  ‘Ya?’ I say feeble. ‘Where she gone?’

  ‘Gone where they tolerating murder.’

  Now his face be only hatred. Is like our journey weeks, when he been vicious on myself.

  I clench my hands. ‘But, brother … it been reasons why she kilt they feathers.’

  ‘Been reasons she will kill our Crow? She going to shoot him, if you ain’t been by.’

  His eyes hate into mine, and I say weak, ‘Can be. You right.’

  ‘And she must risk yourself? Know why she doing this? To be apostle. Rich without no work.’

  I shrug nervy. ‘Ain’t been only this. How she believe–’

  ‘Got her religions, sure. But I can live by her?’ He clench his hands, then flinch. Frown angry at his posy fingers.

  Now my heart be simple hurt. Politics be forgot; yo, any angry vengeance gone. I only feel how Soledad love my brother, all our journey weeks. And without her, he been alone. No Sengle hear his voice. Will be alone in sickness, days to come, in this abnormal place.

  But I say, sad past no help, ‘Ain’t want to live by her myself.’

  Driver ease his hands, his eyes gone sensitive with pain. ‘Ya, need no more talk. She gone. Gone to her people somewhere.’ He cough again, and all his face look shaming hurt. He cough again.

  ‘You bone?’ I say unhappy. ‘Sure, must be physicians here.’

  He swallow at his throat. ‘I only need some rest. Ain’t slept.’

  ‘It be a sleeproom by. Was El Mayor there, but–’

  ‘Nay, I got a room below. Be bone.’

  Then we standing clumsy, caught in opposites and wants. I glance down to my precieuse dress, my hands in clean unhurt. Muttern soft, ‘Be bone, yo sho.’

  He nod. ‘Sleep better now I seen you.’

  ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘You only keep yourself. We all be right.’

  When Driver gone, I walk straight to the sleeproom. Door still parten, El Mayor–First Runner where they was. I stare on them a longer moment, knowing I should wake them. Convince First Runner from no Massa search. But at last I close the door behind myself with careful softness.

  Be tricky work to cross this jumbo bed. I ware on El Mayor–First Runner, how their sleeping change. El Mayor lain with back to me, scarce move with breath. But when I soften down to him, his body startle gentle. I touch my arm around, and his hand fumble to my wrist and pull me to. I form myself against him and he settle into sleep again.

  Then I lie to him quiet. He breathe against me, and be relief, how our two bodies know each other. Is like a pharmacy that hush and soften in my blood. Some while, I worry on my Sengle littles, how they bringing here. Fret on the search and Mamadou, on Driver’s sickly looks. But soon, this misery weigh me into sleep. Fall into struggling dreams, and wake sometimes and grip to El Mayor more needy. And sleep again and every sadden kindness be in this; is like I dream into a heaven for all children waste with grief.

  Yo, in the farther hours, I wake startling to a noise. Be a pounding note, repeating dull outside the nighten windows. Sound go on persisting, until it inkle in my mind: is bells. Ring for Maria gone, the lover of sad Simón Zelote. Cry her death to every knowledge.

  Then First Runner’s voice come by my feet. ‘Ice Cream? You waking?’

  I shift my head to see her. She half risen, looking fright. Her scabben cheek be swollen somewhat, and her left eye open squinty.

  She whisper, ‘What it be?’

  ‘Is only churching music,’ I say whispern. ‘Bells they ring.’

  ‘Ain’t them? The roos?’

  ‘Nay, nothing harm us here. We good.’

  But she still look her scary eyes. I take my arm from El Mayor and reach. ‘Shoo, you come here. It need no fearing.’

  She crawl to, cringing low, like she expect these bells crash in the windows. Come to my arms and duck in tight. I go whispering, ‘Be no roos, be nothing mally here, be safe.’ Then I hush and only let her hear my quiet breathing, until her breath come slow the same.

  At last, she look up to me, shaming gentle in her eyes. ‘Ain’t sleep with no one since I been a little.’

  ‘Can share one night. Ain’t mean you little none.’

  ‘Nay, I know. Person going to frighten for a while behind this, Mamadou say.’

  I swallow at this name, but say assuring, ‘Sure they do. He right.’

  Then her face tense, like she distrust. She touch her scabben cheek. ‘You know what been in Massa?’

  ‘Ya, I know.’

  ‘You know.’ Her eyes relieve. ‘And you ain’t feary.’

  ‘Sure. You keep by me.’

  ‘Nay,’ she say pickety. ‘I only think, ain’t necessary children fear from this. You ain’t. The NewKing ain’t.’

  I bide a minute in my thought, feel how her smallness breathe. Then I say cautieuse, ‘The NewKing never fearing much, no sho. Is even going back to Massa.’

  Expect, she scare again, but her bruise face be only puzzles. ‘Nay. Why he ain’t told me?’

  ‘Decide this while you sleeping, compa. He going to catch some roos. He never fearing them, can see.’

  ‘Can go with him? He said?’

  I tense misgiving. Feel the bells continue and I try my mind for help. Yo First Runner watch in need. Look tiny in her injury, in pinkish Mariano dress with lacy flowers on its neck.

  ‘El Mayor will want you here,’ I say at last. ‘Can need you, compa.’

  ‘Nay, Lowell gone,’ she say like facts. ‘You ask the NewKing if I come?’

  ‘My ten, you want to hunt the roos? You shivering here from only bells.’

  ‘Be his to choose,’ she say with peeving mouth. ‘He going to want me.’

  ‘Ain’t think he want you safe?’

  ‘Be safer by the NewKing. Safe as wolves, how Mamadou say. He said he want to leave me?’

  Then her eyes beg all their feeling. She start to pick her scabben cheek with fingernail, in nervy fidget. Ya, can see her face grow in betrayals, painful dark.

  ‘Leave your hurt, you do infections.’ I touch her picking finger. ‘Now I going to tell you truth. The NewKing ask for you particular.’

  ‘He ask for me?’ Her hand go still, her face clear in relief.

  ‘But he ain’t need you, ya. Child big in years, can keep himself.’

  ‘He ask for me. Yo, see?’

  Before I can object again, she nest her head down to my shoulder. Can feel, she find her happy endings, want
no onward tale.

  Some time, I stroke her shoulder, think vindictions on the NewKing. Bells ring on, sound like they calling fool, fool, fool.

  Then, above the sofa, I notice the picture of crossen Jesus – picture I seen yesternight, when we been waiting for our proof. Is painten brownish-reddish, with a blackness sky behind. Jesus agony in his blood and loosen down with pity face. Is like he wanting admiration for his feebleness.

  I feel the paining of the bells, and think, Nay, death be easy, coward. And I close my eyes exhausting, holding to First Runner soft. Be gratty we survive our proof. We live into our war.

  OF GODDING IN MARIAS

  Vember 29–Cember 25

  48

  FIRST GODDING DAYS: VEMBER 28–CEMBER 10

  Be the following night the search depart for Massa woods. Mamadou, Crow and small First Runner all go in its company. Search leave by careful dark, nor any person see its shy departure. How Anselm wish, this business of the roos keep secret now. Ain’t want all Marianos hounding off to seek the cure.

  I ain’t see Mamadou again before they leave, nor I see Crow. My only news be from First Runner, who come for departure thanks. She tell, with duty face, how they been keeping an hour with penal soldiers in guardroom below. Ya, half the penals drink themself to puking in this petty time.

  She say this plain in facts, then add, ‘The NewKing telephone this booze. Apostle privilege.’

  ‘For friending?’ I say. ‘Or he drink himself?’

  She get a lurking in her eye, like she consider secrets. But she answer slow, ‘Juan given him no rifle. Some penal trade him rifle.’

  ‘Foo, they sell their guns for booze?’

  She shake her head correct. ‘For diamond. But none will trade, till they been drunk.’

  This talk leave me in better tempers. Think how he took this diamond from my ear without explaining word, and trust he bring First Runner also for some secret cause. But once they gone, is only silent wondering to feel.

  Then days come after days, and every day the same in fearing wish. Be nights in my iglesia rooms, where Sengles soon be living, with their piggery and skirmish. Ya, all hours of tired sunlight given to my godding work.

  Each morning start with church for me and Pasha Unluck Christ. Must groom beyond no human looks, walk out with redcoat guards. Come to San Patricio, the edifice of our proof. Here we sit in porchen seats aloft, with brown ermanos round. Children in the benchen seats below gawp at us greedy. Then hours drag through the morning, with their marches to and by, and singing. Pedro come out to the stage, talk Panish in impressing voice, and someone sing again, and march, while every boredom die inside.

  First churchen miseries, me and Pasha sitting mostly like we dead. Feel they staring eyes, and Pasha listen all attention. Tell me afterward what Panish things been said about ourself. But come a day, my Pasha smoke a cigarette, and no one cavil. Then one day I bring Kalash, and spend this time in fool experiments, if I can lift her barrel with my toes. Behind this, we both smoking constant; drawing pictures of Pedro in the Bible book its margins; sleeping with face in arms upon the rail. Yo, I always bring Kalash, however Anselm scorn this practice. Gun become a panic want, like when littles got a favorite toy or shirt they always hold.

  Church ending after miseries entire, can think, it will be night. But ain’t yet middy day, as we go footless sleepy to our rooms. Now Pasha get some rest from trouble. His days be playing carden games with soldiers of our guard. Yo, he grown ambitions, that he doing sex with Altagracia, so he chase her sometimes, though she only give him nays and noise. He be a whitish demon to her attitudes, unfit to touch.

  Myself, my after day be in receptions. This meaning that I capture to the trono room its golden chair, with Anselm by in watch. Then a march of different strangers coming with their grumbles. Their water stanking with disease; their roof be made of holes; their burrow hospital be wild with insects. My part be to heed, do god behaviours, write my name. Is Anselm who give answers, while I hush for ignorance.

  Be days before it notice, Anselm follow some visitors to the door. Shake hands in parting, then he put his hand into a pocket. Pocket fatten through the day. When I interest in this practice, he explain unshaming, children bribe him money to help their need. Ask if he do their will, and Anselm say, ‘I try, senyora. But I’m afraid it’s not always possible to be honest in this work.’

  Apostles coming to reception also, with all signing papers. These gone friendly to me now. Will tell exciting gossips, bring me gifts of jewlerie. But Felipe never come; he only send some underchild with papers and respects. And from Simón Zelote, be no whisper.

  For these receptions, Anselm teaching me Maria manners. I learn to speak in queenly voice, remarkable and kind. Move graciose and slow; be slow and graciose in temper. Cannot sit frogleg in chairs. Nor I can scratch, nor spit, nor smoke except in hidden privacy.

  Some ways, I stubborn to no change. Cannot remember forks, and always start to eat my meal with hands, disgusting in taboo. Ya, my speech keep all its rough ungrammar. In sleek Maria voice, will call an apostle ‘farting mouth’. Is what the Marianos call my ghetto sensibility.

  In lazy hour behind receptions, Anselm also teach me basics on Marias City – how money papers work, and how they punish children for their laws. Most importance be, how children here got Panish–English sorts.

  The Panish be the rich. Is callen ‘spaniels’ for dislike. They live in perfect homes with water toilets and lectricity. Wear every luxury of clothes, nor these be evac loot – all making new by tired workers. Yo, the English live in evac partments, rotten to describe; unwindow places where the shee collect in nasty buckets. They wearing rags and plastic bags, and eating water soup.

  Of Panish, only be two burrows: Inúd and Metropolitano. All apostles be from these two wealthy burrows of the north. Inúds be soldier people, loving war above all pleasure. Ya, the Metros be like Lowells, prideful for their trading wealth.

  I be Inúd Maria, from the chances of my capture. So it be natural to think, Inúds will like me well. But all they spaniels be the same in hatred for myself. My living Jesus hurt their faith; my manners hurt their snobbery. Nor they forgive my speech – some spaniels learn English for its use, but all disgust its ordinary noise. Be sorry their apostles never murder me, and all it is.

  But for liken reasons, the poory English love me well. Little they known about our Sengles, but they know we ain’t been rich. Ya, I speaking English, and my ghetto habits cheer their pride. Soon they gone in rumors how I help them into better power. They learn my rightful name, and call me Ice Cream Star sometimes for love.

  Above all children be my Anselm. Nor his power ain’t through laws. How he tell me once, ‘I am your representative, santa reina. That is my only role.’ But from his yeary sneaking, he own every child important, like some minnows in a jar.

  This craft begin with simple money. Most apostles, ya ermanos, fatten on his mally wealth. Is other children weak in scandals – be homosexuals, or use pharmacies, or they rid their enfants. Anselm learning every dirt, and turn it to obedience. If any decent child be left, they lonely in their goodness. Try rebellion, and they lose employments, or be rid to prison. Yo, all Anselm’s minnows only smile to this injustice.

  Only exception that I learn be Felipe de Metropolitano. I asking once how Anselm rule Felipe, and he say, ‘I don’t. He is my last frontier, and I really think the case is hopeless. I do hate honest people, they really have no place in politics.’

  ‘Foo honest,’ I say. ‘He only try to kill me for his selfishness.’

  ‘Yes, and Felipe seems remarkably shaken by that incident.’ Anselm make a malice smile. ‘I’ve heard he’s actually praying. So I’m told.’

  ‘Shoo, ain’t every child pray here?’

  ‘Yes.’ Anselm make meaning face. ‘But Felipe is praying in private. In an apostle, santa reina, that’s a symptom of mental breakdown.’

  Time these lessons finish, it be always graying night. I eleva
tor to my rooms, where ABC be waiting. Her barking celebrations bring my Sengle littles out in skree. Then I must heed all enfant news: who bitten who, who wetting pants, what Panish swears they learn. Often, they start a tackling game, and never leave me free till my white dress be mostly footprints.

  My brats accustom to our palace life without no circumstance. Each morning bring some brave disaster: they clog the toilets with their socks; break sofas with their jumping games; throw pillows out the window at ermanos walking by. Days, when I be gone, guards take them to the woods below. Here they join in wars with children of the orfanato homes, where Mariano littles live apart from jones in noisy herds. Nights, they sleep on floors and anywheres, in blanket nests – beds be disgusting to their scratcher morals.

  These nights, when all my littles sleep, I spend discussing war with Pasha. Will sit with maps of Quantico, and Pasha guess our battles, pointing where our soldiers going to meet. Explain artilleries and trenches; bombs of burning and of choking. Tell how the roos got disadvantage, since they war to steal our children – cannot murder us entire, or all their blood be waste.

  He also tell me how to parley with the roos for cure. This parley being needful, how the cure be kept in boats apart. Even if we kill every roo soldat, these boats departing safe. But on these boats, be any hundred cures in ready storage.

  Best luck, we beat the roos entire, and trap their every soldiers. Only let them leave in boats when they give all their cure. But if the rooish army flee, can trade them prisoners we caught – and Pasha say encouraging, we start this any time. First roo we catch, we trade. Save Driver before we even start to win.

  Yo, in any venture we can think, is work of parleys. For this need, my Pasha teach me rooish seriose. We often dabbit time in church so – whisper joking ear to ear, or roo our petty gripes. And in the thickening night, we roo for hours in the sofa room. Make commentaries on our day, while Keepers roo in echo.

  When these occupations weaken drowsy, I go to my sleeproom. Bed always crowd with littles, smelly ABC among. Yo, Pasha sleep in sofa room beside, with my Kalash – he never lose suspicions that we murder in the night. Be times, I wake and find him peering in my door with owlen worry. He whisper ‘Ice, you bone?’ and smile embarrass to my teasing answers. But truth, I always sleeping better when my Pasha been.