Sandra Newman - The Country of Ice Cream Star

IT BEEN TWO WEEKS SINCE WE FOUND PASHA ROO, AND HE ACCUSTOM well. No one think to fear him now. Is horsen in his mild respect. He townie with our littles, ya he doing tasks his own. Nor he ever budge to leave. Is there and there, like rooten plant.

Yo, every day of those two weeks, I ask him on his age. At nighting camp, the roo must talk to me or he ain’t smoke. Most meals I give him from my hand, nor any a bite he take without an answer. Keepers taking gifts from me to teach him English speech. The roo be duteous to this. He always trying, asking words, and soon can talk as good as threes.

But all my trials end in frustration. Be English or be rooish, he ain’t know one truthful word.

Our first talk go like this:

“Where your other roos be?”

“Far.” He give me friendly smile. “Ain’t fear.”

“Ain’t fearing, only wondering. And every roo live thirty years?”

“Nay,” say Pasha, eyes gone careful.

“How you live so long?”

“Ain’t kilt.”

“Nay, why you ain’t got posies?”

“Posies?”

Here we snag and go no farther.

I TELL KEEPERS TO explain him posies.

Keepers sniff and say, “He know this well. You seen his teeth half gone? Was lying rot them out.”

“Nay, he truthful in this case,” I say, for I ain’t know him yet. “Explain him posies, little. Will be cigarettes for you, and meat.”

OUR SECOND PARLEY sound like this:

“Roos all living thirty years?”

“Nay, been lucky, me.”

I given him a bag of raisin cakes, he eat this vally fast. The sparkly noising of the plastic bag pick at my nerves.

I say, “What luck? You ain’t get posies how?”

Pasha concentrate on cake. No thought be in his face. His hand slip in the bag, flee to his mouth. Mouth labor like a mill.

“How you ain’t got posies? Hear me speak.” I reach and grab the bag. His careless hand hit mine and all his body startle.

He study how I tie the bag. At last, he lick his lips and say, “An insect.”

“Insect?” I stop my tying.

Pasha start to talk all speeds, his eyes still watching to the cakes. “Yo, insect living near. Be brown with legs. Eat him, be no sickness. Sickness go.”

Joying, I give back the bag. Ain’t scarcely breathe for want. And sure my pity warm to him. Every Sengle must be fed before the roo can eat. Now Pasha’s face gone tired with starving, any a child will sympathy.

He discuss the insect, its brown color and its lair. Which part contain this pharmacy. Discuss and eat. Cakes finish, and his eyes be fat joyeuse.

Take five minutes of this gabble. Then my mind go bright. I say, “Yo lying cockroach!”

“This ain’t cockroach. Nay.”

“Admit your lies, ain’t be no curing insect.”

Pasha look his thinkless way. “Ya. Ain’t insect. Be a fruit.”

Here I realize, this child ain’t care for being liked.

I say, “You trust me too far, Wish-to-Die.”

“Ice Cream bone. I trusting, yes.”

“Ice Cream will beat your head to soup. I feed your liver to my hound.”

“Ain’t comprehend.” He wipe his lips in good content. “Words crafty.”

I TRY ASKING WHERE ROOS BE FROM. One day, he say they live west of the mountains. Other day, they live beneath the sea, and roos breathe water.

All roos be boys, he go agree with me, one day. Another day, roo girls be prettieuse as pocket-flowers. In their country, be moths as thick as rain, eat clothes right off your body. Roos ain’t die at all. Roos die at nineteen, just like any a child. A roo will grow to fifty feet, when he been live a hundred years. Was giant roos built all the houses. Other children cannot reach the roof.

Roos feel no shame, this be the only fact I learn in all this talk. And days go by, and ain’t come back. My Driver looking gray and thin.

I tell Pasha, “Never you be thirty. You be a three, a nonsense enfant. Ain’t got sense to chew.”

“Cannot chew,” he say. “Ain’t give me food.”

AIN’T THAT HE SHY from talk. Be only meaning he dislike. Roo will blablabla with glad respect. Learn English faster than no sense, got noise for every company. And any a painful child can spend their boring talk on Pasha. One day, Best Creature and Baboucar play at throwing dirt into his hair. Roo shake it off and smile. Dirt soon be dog shee, dirt be rotten bones. Pasha never bother. Hour pass, he shake it off and smile. Next day, Best Creature and Baboucar feeding Pasha from their meal, they be his fetching hounds. Then Pasha go friend Mari’s Ghost and Villa — girls that chase for any male. Pasha never mind their giggling foolerie. Be no boring word he ain’t lick up, and look for more.

When I been still of bookish age, before I burden up with task, I read a book called For My Country . Be memories of a person, Jack Devont, who call himself a spy. He ain’t succeeding well at this. Soon in this book, he capture, took to solitary prison. There Jack Devont must count his steps and shave to keep from madness. Truth, this prison boring for myself. Like Lowell mill with worser food. Nor I ain’t so rich that talk of maudy food will interest. I chew some rotten food all weeks of life without no talk. The early, spying pages been my pleasure.

Been in a town name Soviet Union. Sleepers there be callen Russians, and he acting like a Russian. Jack Devont wear Russian clothes and speak their Russian language. Got some papers saying he been born in Soviet Union.

Now, be times I wonder if this Pasha spying for his roos. Ain’t move to leave us, though he left unbound. And no one tolerate Baboucar’s talk — yo, for their country, spies will suffer. For their country, spies be quick to learn a stranger’s speech.

Can think, no child will need to know a thing Baboucar tell. But come a time, I long for some Baboucar Roo, who spill his truths unthinking; a Villa Roo that hunt my sex, and tell me any wanting fact. Never a roo be boring to my mind, no roo will tire my love.

One other thing I learn from Jack Devont. Someone ain’t answer sense, can torture them to make them tell. Use burning for its pain and drowning water for its fear. This a matter OldKing Hak once practice on his Army slaves — yo, Hak is callen Spider-Heart, Disease, by his own people. Never a Sengle do this filth. Ain’t done in jalousie nor war.

But for Driver, I forgotten honor. I will love all wrong.

FROM THE HIDING MEADOW, wild, I gallop hard to Sengle town. ABC ain’t keep our pace, she go off in the bushes. Yip her disapproval as she go. I ain’t wonder, I ain’t look. Hate fill my eyes like night.

In town, be morning meal. All children round the folding tables, yappit and larm. Got rabbit fry and wheaten cake. Hounds sit by to beg. This be the scene of morning, as familiar as my hand.

Pasha stand by Villa’s place. She hand him up her plate to share. Her motion freeze, the way I scream his name. The noising halt, and they all turn to staring frighten cats as I ride in. I almost gallop over the tables, and I yell my hate.

Soon as I be down from Money, I get Pasha by his shirt. My Sengles start to laugh and shout. I never see, I never care. Pasha’s collar in one hand, the other hold my gun. Let Money go where Money please, I ain’t got time to rule her. I only drag the roo and warn my Sengles back with yell.

Last thing I see in town is Crow. Child coming down the Lowell path, two rabbits hanging round his neck, strung from a bloody shoelace. Got his hunting face, of arrogance and impish joy. He see me come, his joy run out like water.

“Going to fix this roo,” I call.

He say, “Fix it to death. I hate its sight. Ain’t coward out, Miss Weakness.”