The Country of Ice Cream Star (69 page)

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?’

I light my cigarette with showing carelessness. ‘Took from where? I guess you heard this also.’

‘They said Massachusetts. Yes?’

‘Sure,’ I say. ‘We catch him there, ya been another Russian we kilt.’

‘Yes.’ He smile some knowing mischief. ‘You didn’t like him so much?’

‘Ain’t like no Russians in Massa.’

He laugh. ‘But Pasha Toporov, this you like.’

‘Shee, ain’t necessary I kill all children I ain’t like. See Kirill living there.’

‘Of course, Korolyeva. But no one kills Pasha Toporov.’

Can feel his poison start to come. I draw some smoke and hold it hungry, looking to the winter grass, its shab and mudden baldness. Get a chilly memory of the injure soldiers on the bridge.

‘Vampire,’ say the Polkovnik soft. ‘What we call him.’

I shrug unliking. ‘Ya, he told this.’

‘Of course, he tells his wife. Secrets of the bed.’

‘Foo. Can be, they told you Maria do no sex. Ain’t normal wives.’

He laugh bright at this, say something rooish I ain’t comprehend. I frown to him, and he take breath. ‘I’m sorry, Korolyeva. It’s only difficult to believe. The man I knew, he wasn’t so respecting.’

‘Pasha got other girls he doing with. Ain’t mysteries this.’

‘But he left you pure. I understand.’

‘This be your talk? I want some filth, got Kirill.’

‘No, listen.’ He shake his head, eyes easing soft. ‘I die in the morning. It is no reason I keep secrets now. And I think you need advice, since Toporov is going to live. The vampire always lives.’

Want to give him nay, but this word
secrets
catch into my need. I swallow soft and say, ‘Sure, be advice. Ain’t caviling this.’

Polkovnik nod like courtesy. ‘So, first, it is a question. Your city, it fights here for nothing. It is a difficult problem for me, I cannot understand. But when I learn Toporov is there, it is now very easy. So I ask you, Korolyeva, it is Toporov gives this plan?’

I sour my face. ‘Heard no advice.’

‘You don’t like to discuss.’ He smile. ‘But please, I tell you, the Russians are very happy with this plan. It is difficult to take a city, you know. Very difficult war like this. So Toporov thinks, he brings what the Russians want. The soldiers only. Your soldiers come to open land, they catch very easy here. Also it does not need two wars, it saves much work. And then your city is left. No soldiers there, we walk in like our home. It is wonderful like big gift.’

‘But my soldiers rid your Russians,’ I say thin. ‘Forgotten this.’

‘It is brave to say, Korolyeva. Only, it is sad to be not true. But I will tell Toporov’s story. It is very necessary for you, I think.’ He sit back to his pole, with face of easy satisfaction. ‘First, he is from Volgograd. Perhaps he told you?’

‘Sure,’ I lie. ‘He told.’

‘But Volgograd says nothing to you?’

‘Been to no Russia, nay.’

‘We start with history lesson, so.’ Polkovnik nod with smilen eyes.
‘History, my Korolyeva. Our Russia fought two wars with Europe. The second war was foolish and small. It is not important for us. But the first was serious war. We thought then, we take Europe. It is not a big army there. But rich. It is wonderful war, everyone is thinking.

‘For few months, we win. The Europeans are afraid. They threaten they will fight with nuclear missiles. But we did not believe, because we win very well, and it is no nuclear missiles. We believe they cannot reach us with this, if they have. It is not so easy to do.

‘So they make demonstration. They bomb three cities. Chelyabinsk, Tula, Volgograd. It is not large cities, you see, it is more compassionate. Only two hundred thousand people die.’ He give his pleasuring smile, make all his injuries seem like harmless paint. ‘You understand nuclear bombs? I think, Marines don’t understand this much.’

‘Know somewhat.’

‘So you will know. These cities are gone. Toporov was fourteen. This day, he is in the forest alone. Walk on a small river, it is hills both sides. All this – fire, wind – pass over him. Parents, every person he knew, they are killed.’

I stare on at the grass, show no impression. Only a coldness shiver in my breath.

‘Toporov, he has nothing,’ Polkovnik say in easy voice. ‘So he goes in the army. Good. It is what a boy will do. And he is intelligent boy, works hard. He does better school of military. Everything right, he does this.

‘Then he goes to Africa, eight years. You understand – the war here, it is unpleasant. What Africa was, you don’t imagine. Some battles, a thousand soldiers go, it is five come back. And many die very badly. A Russian is taken by Africans, it will be many hours to die. What we find, it does not look like a person. And sometimes, was no food, no good water. So it was common, Africans and Russians eat each other. Our soldiers hunt for food – it is animals, or it is people, the same. It was a joke we had, when a soldier dies and goes to hell, he does not notice. Eight years so – but the vampire lives.

‘Then he comes to fight for me in Venezuela. First, it is very good. Not like Africa. We are only taking people to work for us. Help them from their sickness, feed them. Very wonderful. But, Korolyeva, I don’t know why it is so, our workers are never grateful. Some weeks, some months, and they always try to kill us.

‘My men there, was two hundred twenty soldiers. Who is alive now – four. Three, we leave in a plane. We think Toporov is dead like others. We come back two months after, an army we bring. We find the vampire fat and whole, at our old camp. He has a hundred Venezuelans there, they call him “Papa”. They are feeding him, give him girls. They are dead now also.

‘And now I learn he comes to New York, where we lose every man we send. But the vampire lives. Always, the vampire lives. How you think he does this, Korolyeva?’

Here he begin to go in stories of all Pasha’s crimes. These mostly be familiar – what Pasha telling me himself. But the tales be different in this hearing. I got the injure Marines fresh in my memory. Feel how the children kilt by Pasha scream the same, die in their terror. Polkovnik talk on cold, and the world become a vasty darkness, an ever night of weeping children, while the moon watch down its one cold eye.

At last, the Polkovnik say, ‘But I am boring you. I will not tell the other stories, they are alike. And this is old to you, I see. He told his wife, of course.’

‘Sure,’ I say. ‘He killing people. Be soldat, is what he do.’

‘Soldat?’ Polkovnik laughing almost happy at this word. ‘Korolyeva, this person is an officer of spetsnaz.’

I shrug. Look back at my Bashir, who lean against his post, stare empty. Can wish he say his angry rejections now.

‘I see,’ Polkovnik say in humor. ‘This also tells nothing to you. So I will help you. For Toporov, spetsnaz means, his work is to lie to people like you. You do what he says, it is useful. When you do not, it is something wrong, he can kill you very easily. This is his education to do.

‘He is very good at this work, people trust him very much. I will
tell you my belief for why. People meet Toporov, they see the sad young boy from Volgograd. He has lost his parents, he is very sad and it is pitiable. But this finishes badly, I am sorry. These people always die, because the man Toporov is something other.

‘Now you are sad, your husband is going back to Russians. I am dying, so I tell you for a gift – he never left the Russians. What he did with you, it is work. When he is Jesus, he does this for Russians. Talks love to you, for Russians. And if it is good for Russians, he kills you and all your people in one night. And sleeps well after. Who your Jesus is.’

I heed this with a creeping in my blood. Is certain, Pasha always lie. And when he change his stories, say, ‘Now this be truth,’ I go believe. Ya, first chance that become, he skit to Russians. Rid me with no word. And in this inkling cold, I doubt my war from its beginnings. Been Pasha’s plan, Polkovnik right. Bring all my children to this hell, and never I mistrust, how Pasha be a Russian self.

Then all suspicions drop into a vasty loneliness. Magine how Pasha been fourteen. Step from this river ditch to see the world gone into nothing. An everywhere of fire, an everywhere of blowing dust. His people become a burning smut; his town blow in the sky as pointless dirt. Yo cannot watch this fire forever. Cannot only feel this fear. Come time, he must decide, where he will go. Walk away somehow, and be a vampire, wrong for life – so I despair, and watch the Polkovnik’s ruin face, his sorrow eyes.

‘But he gone back,’ I say at last, peculiar hoarse. ‘Ain’t need these stories.’

‘You need.’ Polkovnik nod. ‘Soon Russians take the city.’

‘Or they ain’t.’

‘No, it will be. You know. So, here is advice. Don’t trust Toporov that he keeps you safe. My Russians take a city, it isn’t good for girls. You understand. And if Toporov finds you – you learn what he is some harder way.’