Sandra Newman - The Country of Ice Cream Star

“Ain’t want no safety. Want to die.”

“Ain’t let you die. Ain’t let you.”

Then we only hold together, weeping into dark. He stroke my head against his chest, and we cry passion hard, like running into breathlessness. Be like we seeking something with these tears, some hope to feel. Seek in our orphan loves their dead. Seek in a dark bewept. Yo, I feel this been the truth of all our time together. We always been a grief that huddle close against a vicious light. And he bend to me and kiss my hair, in last tendresse of need.

But tears be like all tears, a water that weaken into emptiness. Then only be this room, gone hazy with cigarettes. Be the outside noising of soldats, the always cold. Be ourself, wet-face and clutch together, shy in sudden conscience.

And slow, he loose from me. I sit back, feeling strange and small. Cross arms against my chest, and shiver in his jacket’s warm.

Pasha sit back muttering low, “Ain’t let you.” He seek his pocket for cigarettes, hand moving clumsy weak. Ain’t find them, and he leave this hopeless. Only stare to the floor with ruin face, tired and spent and white.

And here I know, like worser truth, my Pasha never being false. He caring for no roos. He caring for no town of people. In time, he faithful to his daughter. When she die, his faith die also. Then he find myself. And when he said he want this war to save my life, been simple truth. Yo, if it been needful, he kilt every Mariano with his own hands, so I keep safe. So been our war.

But this war ain’t only Pasha’s. It been also mine. I known that we can lose. Pasha told me this himself. But I thought to save my brother’s life, and cannot hear no doubts. I risk my whole believing city for this single love. And even when Driver gone — is Pasha right, all choices evil. Can leave all children dying of posies; or I kill them in some war.

And my heart suffer, and crave to leave this mally world, and it beat on. Quantico burn red in the window. Rooish laughter rise, be still alive beyond all death.

At last, I take a breath, say dumb, “Can use a cigarette myself.”

He find his cigarettes in different pocket. Give one to me, light a match and watch my face particular in its quick light. Yo, when the flame be rid, and I be sucking on this gratty smoke, he say, “Mamadou ain’t dead.”

Take me a second to know these words be real. I narrow on him, still blind somewhat from the matchen flame. “Nay, you know this certain?”

“Ya. Gone to Marias with your cure.”

My blood flash hot and strange. “Goddamn. He there? Why you ain’t said?”

“Be saying.” Pasha shrug.

“Foo, Razin choosing Mamadou?” I laugh dumb. “Been queery choice.”

“Ain’t choose,” say Pasha shortish. “He ain’t even know who Mamadou be.”

“How, been luck?”

“Nay. He ask me to choose. Because I know yourself, he ask.” Roo look to his blooden knuckles. “Thought Mamadou keep you safe.”

I stare joyeuse and weak a minute. The smoky pall of District in the window draw my eye, but cannot feel its misery now. Luck woken in my heart. Can think, is even chance the NewKing give the cure to Sengles. Sure, he got no child his own.

Then a notion stir in mind. Start like a bitter joke — a loathing on this time of evils. But it twist somehow. Grow real and real in quickening thought. Is like a birthing foal that find its feet and rise up as a horse. And when it find its shape, is bell as wonderful.

I say, “When it be done — I told this lie — what being then?”

Pasha flinch, look sharp to me. “Ice, you heeding? You will do this?”

“Hold.” I ware my cigarette. “Be asking, I can go back? To Marias?”

His face tense again. “Roos go there now. Ain’t—”

“Shee, answer questions. They will bring me?”

“Can be.” Pasha seek my face. “If they think you theirs.”

“Europeans, they got cure?”

He get bewaring looks. Say stiff, “Will cure yourself. Do this.”

“Nay, what I thinking. Europeans will give it somehow?”

Pasha get his worst naying face. He shake his head and shake his head. Ya, when he take good breath, his voice be rage. “Roos warring in Marias! You heed nothing? Ice!”

“Nay, roos been weaker, if we got the cure ourself. Ya, Europeans got no boats?”

He swear rooish, stand up to his feet.

I say up harder, “People die for this tonight. To get that goddamn cure. Yo, all my children die without. It be a country dying here.”

“Ain’t save countries, Ice!” He turn back furiose. “Is moron work. Can save a person. Save two people.”

“Nay, you going to help me, roo! It must be something, from all this.”

“Cannot.”

“Goddamn, you help me! Or you watch me die!”

Then he scream harsh and loud, “Ain’t say this! It be cruel! Ain’t say this!”

Even the roos outside go hush. Is like the world stop on its feet. Yo, I cringe back in body fear, expect his fists. Heart pounding bright.

But when he only hold in stare, I reach unthinking for his hand. Then his face go weak. He take my hand and muttern, “Ice, ain’t say this more. Ain’t say.”

I take a sorry breath. “But cannot be for nothing, Pasha. All they deaths. And you be bone, I know you be. You know.”

He shake his head, begin to answer — when footsteps thud inside the house. Go shivering in the floor, and rooish voice come muttering toward. Pasha freeze with agony face. Noise gather close, and he say low like helplessness, “Ain’t talk to them. I do… you only keep with me. Ain’t talk.” Then the door kick hard against the sofa, jar my frighten back. And, for the first time, I hear their vampeer— rooish word for “vampire”—callen like simple name.

Pasha shout back rooish, “What you need?”

“Be time!” A child roo loud with boozen voice. “Razin already gone!”

The door push hard again. Some child go laugh and muttern swears. Pasha’s hand grip hard on mine, until I feel my hand its every bones. He whispern dumb, “It all be right. You keep to me. Ain’t talk.”

Yo, as I stand, the sofa shift against my legs. The door come wide.

AND THEN IT BE ALL ROOS. They jabbering, pushing elbows, as we stumble to the vicious night. I still hold Pasha’s painful hand, and every world be roos. Guns fearing in my sight, be blacker nothing by the moon. Roos’ dirty voice come hot around my ears, their dirty laugh. The dead we stepping over be theirs; the smoke we breathe, the stank of guts.

And we come to a helicopter plane. Its roar unbearing loud. Its headblades spinning, blurring, so the wind hurt in my eyes. We step inside, roos jostling everywhere, I cannot flee their touch. And be this helicopter’s inside room, without no seats. Got smell like rifle oil, that changing sudden when the door come shut. Become a soldat pue of sweat, of booze. A smell of sex that sicken in my mind, was rape. Roos flop various to the floor, and all be close. Must sit into their unwant touch. A child start shouting “Korolyeva!” at me through the blaring noise. Laugh ugly, though I never look.

Then the helicopter skew like losing balance. Fling and fling itself, and fall from earth. Lose into trembling air. I panic breathless, clutch at nothing, my own legs — while roos laze careless. Only lean their balance, like sitting a tricky horse. I think in distant mind, Ain’t nothing. Flying. What it do. Look up, where be two scuffen windows, round like scary eyes. And as the helicopter tip in air, I see a swipe of broadening road.

Road got some weirdo trucks with rifle noses, pointing various. Thousand children walk behind. They clog and fill the road. All stir together like an awful worm.

The helicopter bounce and all be gone. See only dirty sky. Yo, I keep seeking with my eyes. Crave to see if these be roos, or be my people stolen. I stare the windows, while a stranger hand reach toward my face, and Pasha swat it back. Swat it back. The helicopter tip again, and show a blackness that stretch forever, shivering by thin moon. Is water. And I know impossible, these children lost forever. Every Quantico, and every Mariano. Penals. Crow. They never seen again.