The Country of Ice Cream Star (74 page)

I know, like nightmares I remember, Pasha Vampire there. My white Polkovnik there, with all his powers, with cure that can be mine. Mamadou there, and Crow. Be dead or prisoners on that shore. Yo, the bridge shine in my eyes. Be only death between.

Then I pull on my coat. Stretch arms into its warm and whisper, ‘Shee your Russians. Shee you all.’ And I spit upon the ground. Swear low at any god that be, and go.

I start across the bridge. I head for Arlington.

Come out from the fire’s ardent air, and colder night be gratty. Breath come clean and sharp, is like a truth that hurt inside. I keep Kalash at readiness, be scouting forward for no Russians. But all be silent. Hear only my crunching steps in snow, my short insisting breath.

When I look back to Washington, be only smoke to see. Come up in bunchy trails beside the moon. Cannot see the palaces, but the whitish monument stand clean apart without no hurt. Be like a simple burial stone for this whole murdern city.

Come over the bridgen arch, and still be no one. Here I pause. Take off my coat again, wrap this upon Kalash to hide her. Figure, I come in girlish finery, sans no showing gun, be chance the roos ain’t shoot me.

Here, the hill be clearer in my eyes. Can see a monument wall, bash down in places from artillery. A patch of cemetery show small campfires by the rumple trenches. And I see some itsy people, moving in this patchen white.

I creep in to the bridge’s stony railing. Its top reach to my chin, must only stoop and I be hid. So I stalk forward, crouching. Scout through the railing sometimes, see how roos be doing various. Their dapple clothes confuse in dapple ground. And, as I come toward the bridge’s end, I start to hear their noise – a passing truck, a shouting voice, a muttering that change in wind.

At the bridge’s end, be trees. Block all these roos from sight. I straighten here, grab up my skirt. Run to the broken memorial wall,
duck in its friendly shadow. Then I take a deeper breath. Feel how my ravish fear bring all my blood into attention. And I step onward, walking easy past this final hiding. Come to a darkness under trees, can see the whiten graves beyond, the stripy looks of snow and earth. Among, be working roos. A shovel rise and strike, and first I think they make new trenches. But, as I come, can see these shovels claw into the higher banks. Scatter their dirt into a trench beside. Then it come natural in mind, what work this going to be. Like we always joking in our trenching work, they bury children. Make a rooish cemetery in the cemetery’s skin.

I come up stronger. Grip to Kalash, and find a useful hold beneath the coat. Yo, now can see the hill entire. Be every dozen roos in carrying task, a haste of grandy shadows. Night be patchy larm of voice and crunching feet and digging. Bright among, there be a fire, with roos stood talking round. From their slaggen posture, can guess that all their work be booze.

When the first roo notice me and pause, my heart twist queery. He straighten, point with lazy gun. Child beside him shift and look. Then all the drunken roos ware up their rifles as I come toward, heart watery in my chest. Yo, now I come to my first murdern body, pause my step before.

Be a blackish child in dapple uniform, face down in earth. Legs finish in an unshape darkness, speckling far in snow. Ya, in a trench beside, can see another – sitting curlen with his head thrust back to show no face. Below his brow is jaggen bone and meat, a reddish scrap hung down. Unhurt ear look perfect neat beside. I fetch into stillness. Look up again to find, everywhere along this hill, be Russians watching me.

I loose my hands slow from Kalash. Begin to raise them in the air, skin flaming in the cold. And I step precarious around the child kilt at my feet. Keep eyes to the drunken roos, and gather breath to call.

Ain’t time to even fear, when footsteps run to me behind. A yell come stark, then someone catch my arm and pull it vicious. I strike against without no thought, turn wild, and find Bashir.

I stare up to his hawken looks without no mind to use. He shout some rooish in my face, rage breathless. Shout and shout, before I comprehend.

Why you here? Why you here? You cannot be here! Why you here?

I start laughing somehow, and this bring Bashir ferocious. He grip into my shoulder, shake me rough. Begin a grosserie of cursing, where I comprehending only words for
imbecile
and
dead
. And he finish again with
Why you here?
in choken voice.

I touch to his gripping hand. Roo hoarse, ‘Need Razin, brother.’

He stare a moment, shattern in his face. Glance back to the roos around the fire, who all be watching interest. Then his mouth twist angry. ‘Nay. You dead here. You already dead.’

Feel some impatience, how he talking pointless, and I roo, ‘Ain’t care, how I be dead. Need Razin.’

Then someone call his name behind. Still holding to my arm, he turn and yell. Some laughing voices answer. Then a clutch of roos walk out from forest shadows, smiling curiose. Be seven, all with hawken face, dark fur. Is queery, how they so alike, ain’t telling who be which. Only their beards be various grown. Ya one got fatter gun, wear necklace of long bullets round himself. And it inkle in my mind, these be Bashir’s Kavkazky people – his vally children who behaving honest like no roo.

One child with thinner beard say weirdo words, ain’t rooish. Then they laugh hilarious. Bashir grit, shake his head. He talk back unhappy in that weirdo speech, but end with
Razin
.

Kavkazky roos show mock impression. One clout Bashir against his head, and start a longer speech of dispute. Another Kavkazky talk in louder, naying his big hand.

As this squabble rise, a yellow roo come staggery from the drunken fire. Call down. Bashir let go my arm. Turn shouting, grab his gun to ready. And all Kavkazky roos go spitting vicious in this second. Yell shrill, and fix their guns to shooting pose.

Yellow child halt surprisen. Shout some quick filth, and turn back, calling peevish to his friends.

Bashir turn furiose to me. ‘You see. Now we be kilt for you.’

‘Nay, he rid,’ I roo unsteady. ‘You fear him bone.’

Bashir swear underbreath, while the fat-gun child put hand upon his shoulder. Fat-gun child talk low, like he speak gentle to a spooking mare. Then he clap twice on Bashir his shoulder. Say in rooish, ‘Is normal.’

‘What be, my brother?’ I roo dumb.

Bashir look to me tired. ‘What you ask. We taking you to Razin.’

‘Bone.’ I smile my mouth. ‘Be gratty.’

He shake his head, resentment waken in his eyes again. ‘What you think he do? What you think?’

Fat-gun Kavkazky roo to me, ‘Bashir is guilty, girl. You help him, and now – you see? Very bad.’ But he grinning friendly, like he gratulate my crazy wits.

Bashir say, ‘Give her to the filth here, be no difference.’

‘Nay,’ a long-beard Kavkazky cavil. ‘Razin, is interesting what he do. These, we know what it is. Not interesting.’

Bashir go muttering nasty to this, while long-beard smile to me joyeuse, put arm around Bashir. And I smile back. Heart revel in its panic, all my body warm like rest.

‘Ain’t nothing to me, what he do,’ I say. ‘Be gratty right.’

74

OF THREE DESIRES

Way to Razin be a maze of nightmares. Must step over gutten people, scattern parts of flesh. Times, a ruin body, seem like nothing that can live, scream awful to us as we pass. Kavkazky roos keep all around me, waring to the sides. And every minute be new Russians, come with booze insistence. Some be only curiose. But others coming in belief, Bashir’s roos taking me to rape. They offer help with this, nor they be ready to discourage.

With some rapists, Bashir will only mention Razin, and they rid. But often, a hopeful rapist cavil, Razin get me after. Say filthen jokes to this, call insults on Bashir’s dark roos. One skewtooth child keep pace with me, go spitting sideward on the blackish dead, and grin to me behind. Soon it be a following band of dozen cockroach Russians. All spew threats and maudy jokes.

Bashir ain’t speaking mostly. He walk grit in stormy moods. Yo, must trace between all trenches and must keep together close – be always new attentions. But in some quiet moment, he say sudden that Kirill dead.

I be pausing to step around a murdern soldier’s head. Be caught in frighten sickness, and I say distracten, ‘You kill him real?’

‘Nay.’ Bashir give sideward frown, like he impress some meaning. ‘Your Razin kill him. But was many kilt.’

‘How?’ I say. ‘Razin killing Russians?’

Fat-gun child begin explaining, but this muddle in rooish definitions, be no use. And my mind be stupid, trying to know that Kirill dead – in all these ruin bodies, Kirill be somewhere. I work to save him all these days, and now he end like nothing. Be a thicker piece of dirt.

Then Bashir say sudden to the fat-gun roo, ‘Lies, lies.’

‘Razin’s lies,’ the fat-gun say. ‘Is better than no truth. Can kill you.’

Another Kavkazky laugh. ‘He ruling now, his lies be truth.’

‘Nay, hold,’ I say. ‘Who ruling?’

‘Razin ruling,’ say Bashir disgusten. ‘The general been kilt.’

I grimace puzzling to him. All Kavkazkies break in laughter.

‘Girl,’ roo the long-beard child, ‘is bad job, general of Russians. Short to live.’

‘Our children kilt the general?’ I say.

‘Yes,’ Bashir say cold. ‘Think this.’

‘Nay.’ The long-beard grin to me. ‘This been Russian vote. Soldat dislike general. He do mistake, and general rid. So Razin punish Kirill. Punish whoever he mistrust. They shot. Child who do mistake – I think he is healthy.’

‘But we forget this now.’ The fat-gun nay his hand. ‘Is old to talk.’

Then another stanken Russian come with interest to me, pushing, and when this struggle done, Kavkazkies go on in nerven silence. Ya, I be trying for relief, that Razin powerful grown. Ain’t going to be no general above, insisting that I murder. But most my fear be on our forward path.

Been climbing ever upward, stitching a path through stones and trenches. And, every turning, Arlington House come larger in my eyes. Is mostly like a normal mansion. Windows plain, and all be clean, like showing innocence. But these humble looks misgive me worse. Be how, in a dream, an object looking ordinary – a shoe, a rock – possess all maudy powers. If it touching you, your soul be rid. Or how a child with normal parts, who eat and smile like any person, will kill, spit on the dead, do laughing rape.

Try thinking how I come to my own death, it be no fear beyond. But cowardesse insist, cannot go here. I even remember Felipe’s nonsense talk of Satan’s armies. Can feel how Satan living there, in company of his demons. But at last, we come past all the burial stones and fires, and only be this mansion left to see.

Leftward in its yard, there be a row of sprawlen bodies. All be roos, with furry hair. Each blooden at his head, the blood trail prettieuse in snow. Can see how they been kneeling in a line, particular correct. Then their neatness spoil by sloppy death.

Ya, here the rapists ease from us, lose backward in reluctance. Then the Kavkazkies lag behind. Soon only Bashir still stalk by me, despairing in his fury.

House got low steps in front, that lead up to a pillar porch. On these steps, be sat some twenty roos. They easy kept, be drinking–laughing. Got no drunken slobbery – is only loose in pleasure, like they laze behind a grandy meal.

Polkovnik Razin be sat middy to the steps. Face still blooden right, and both hands bandage into whitish mitts. He wear his dapple clothes, how every Russian clad this day, and look no different to the others. But can feel how every child attend him. Yo, as each roo notice me, he check to Razin nerviose. Can see, this be the Polkovnik’s house, his line of neatly murders. Be his unworld of rape and screaming dead.

Beside him on the steps be Pasha. Pasha rest one hand on Razin’s shoulder, easy in his body. Wear dapple clothes familiar to me from all days in Massa. But he strange to recognize, in all this thousand world of roos. Ya, he look to me with some expression that ain’t his. Can be fear, but ain’t his fear. And Pasha take his hand from Razin’s shoulder, stand up sharp. Polkovnik Razin glance to him, then turn his gentle eyes on me. Is smiling curiose, like I be pleasant expectations.

Bashir step back without no word. Turn down to the better shadows, to the better dead. Ya, I go on, rage gripping hot. My fear be rid. It be Toporov in my heart of blood. I come uncaring through
the snow, its grub of cigarettes, red footprints. My eyes keep sharp to Razin. Ain’t want Pasha in my sight.

I stop at talking distance. Say in English, ‘Come for my trade, Polkovnik.’

An unknown roo ask something low. Razin answer rooish, clear in humor, ‘Be Toporov’s wife.’

Then roos around be laughing, look to Pasha curiose. Ya, I keep eyes on Razin. Know, if I look to Pasha, my wolfen certainty be lost.

Razin raise a naying hand. Say English through their laughing noise, ‘You want your medicine, I understand. But I am sorry, Korolyeva. Of course, I send this to New York.’

As he talk, the other roos hush down. Heed to this English speech with squinting face.

I take a feary breath. ‘Gone to my people?’

Polkovnik pooch his nothing lips. ‘I am sorry, Korolyeva. The man who takes it … How you are not there, I don’t trust. He keeps it, I think. It is bad.’

My heart go vicious, helpless, but I hold my face correct. ‘Mean, you still owe me somewhat.’

‘Of course,’ he say with pleasuring eyes. He look up to a brown-head child, say some low explanation. The faces round begin to puzzle. Ya, I see Pasha stir in corner-eye, and flinch my hate.

Razin look back to me polite. ‘Ask what you want, Korolyeva. You see I am rich today.’

‘Right,’ I say. ‘Can guess, you got some prisoners?’

Razin’s face go thoughtful, like he measuring inside himself. ‘It is a good thought, Korolyeva. The least, I owe you four people. It is the right thing, to show we are not ungrateful.’

I grit, be thinking hasty, how I argue for more children. Magine how the penals going to beg, while I choose four. How Mamadou refuse to come, pride stronger than no fear. So it come like nonsense when Razin say, ‘But I think, your soldiers are male?’