The Country of Ice Cream Star

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 behaviors, 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 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 elevator 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.

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.

And I sleep and wake to this, until it be a life like any, ordinary from its use. First days, been even vally somewhat. Excite the city’s bigness, ya, my godness, how our war can win. But even in this innocent time, it been one poison detail: the despairs of El Mayor.

HIS GRIPES BEGUN on our first day of Mariano life — behind the night I slept with him in arms, First Runner by. I woken in this bed alone, and live my day without regrets. Done my first church and first receptions, conscious only for myself. Return to find my Sengles come, and bring their tantrums into peace. At last, I standing lonely on the outside porch of my iglesia. Watch my townie stars and try to recollect my feelings. Then El Mayor appear and close the glassen door behind.

Child look besleepen messy. His churching suit all muddle in its shape, his face be strange with hurt. Is like a picture drawn of how he suffer his murdern children, ya the wreck of Lowell mill.

Before I think no words, he say, “Ice, why you slept with me?”

Take me a breath to comprehend. Then I say, “Thought you liking this.”

“But — Ice, you knowing how it is? These people kill you if we do so.”

“Shoo. Been only sleeping, with all clothes.”

He take a shivern breath. “Ice, ain’t like robbing eggs. Is death.” His voice catch thin and he look anxy to the glassen doors. Say lower, “Yo, how we going to leave this place? Be any miles of guns to pass. The roos and then these madden children. Why this got to be?”

“But heed,” I say, low cautieuse. “I thought… we stay some time. Place can be useful to ourself.”

He cross his arms, clutch to himself like freezing. Ain’t look at me, he only clench, frown awful to the floor. “Nay, you want to stay? Because you ruling here?”

“Shee, ain’t for that! What Pasha thought, we war upon these roos. Got this whole city now, be chance we getting all their cure.”

He give a snorting breath. “Pasha.”

“Heed, be a city in Washington. We join with them against the roos. Be two cities fighting, Pasha say we winning so.”

“Ain’t care what Pasha say.” Now he look up with grieven rage. “I need to leave this place. War can be years.”

“Ain’t going to be no years,” I say, surprise. “How it be years?”

“Is war, they lasting years. Guess Pasha never saying this?”

“I know, I know, but this be petty wars. It only be one place.”

“Ice, I cannot wait no years nor months. I be eighteen. You get this cure some years behind, I never live to… Ice, you never think of this? Of me?”

“Sure I think of you. Of Driver also. Why I want this war.”

Then all himself seize vicious. “Nay, you want this war because your roo told you to want.”

Now I be only staring to his face, sans thought nor breath. Porch come familiar now, and in my corner-eye a doily chair seem townie like a friend. The sofa room shine warm behind the glass, and be familiar. Is El Mayor gone strange, with twisten face and churching suit. And he narrow on my dress, say harsh, “Heard how you marry with him.”

First, this ain’t even comprehend. Then I shake my head. “Ain’t marry real.”

“And you want to die for him? This ain’t been real?”

“Should kill him? Sure I dare my life. Think I ain’t done the same for any Sengle? For yourself?”

“Ain’t try this. Think I cannot see?”

“What? You seeing what?”

“You never want to tell me of your loves before myself. I figuring why.”

I laugh in stagger breath. “Now I be doing sex with roos? You ain’t believe this self.”

“Yes, I believe. What else I can believe? You dying for him why?”

“Heed, this be Ice Cream Star, I going to do some bellicose nonsense. But I ain’t false to you. Ain’t false with any roo nor beast nor person. Damn, ain’t been!”

Can see he catch on this. His painful face go soft, want to trust.

“Shoo.” I shake my head. “Come hold me. No one even there to see. Ya, the last Maria, she done sex, and no one bother.”

Can see his body tempt, his eyes be yearning in their shame. But he reach to the door. “You ain’t the last Maria. You my Ice Cream. If you kilt for me… been worse enough, my children dead at Lowell. Be too much.” And he slip out, go fleeing hasty to the farther rooms.

BEHIND THIS, HE BE WRONG to life and difficult to friendship. Some days entire, he only sit in bed and gloom at reveries. Talk to him of war, his only answers be despair. Will say in choken voice, “I fight them. Got no wants to live myself. But you wasting misery to plan. Ain’t be no goddamn plans.” Ya, with every word, he looking painful through his skin entire.

His Lowells keeping in a neighbor edifice, call the Bergdorf Goodman. They settle easy to this change — disapprove the building for its lack of perfect baths, but love the city’s smart richesse. But El Mayor soon quit to visit. Some Lowell always asking mean, why he left any child at Massa; say everyone been living still, if El Mayor insist they come.

In this malaise, his jalousie to me grow past no sense. Be mostly Pasha he suspect, but also be Jermaine and Anselm, any living male. Worst evolution, he start questioning children on my loves. He even bother Driver on this, and he quiz my small Tamara. Soon any blindness guess that he got histories with me himself. But El Mayor cannot resist his mouth. Must ask and ask.

This bring me into tempers for my selfen loneliness. Gratty to his fears, I be Maria Virgin, gone from flesh. Never can feel his hands, nor any person’s wanting hands. And all this feary time, my body grieve its missing life. Be all my days indoors, I never freezing in the difficult air. Ever I stretch my arms, be Anselm chiding me for rudeness. Life got no dirt nor washing rain; no love nor pounding war. Be like the world feel nothing for myself.

Yo, come a day, me-Pasha coming back from church, and Pasha walk before me sleepy in the Ministerio hall. Then some wildness catch in me. I leap upon him from behind, in murder dress and heely shoes. Kick his ankle loose and topple him back upon myself. We land thudden, Pasha crushing me painful at my ribs. First he only brace, surprise. But I reach up to his face, and catch a finger in his nose. Then he tear and hit me honest angry with his elbow. I grab his hair, jab him in armpit, but we both start laughing silly, tumblen like we be. Look up, and all our guards be staring terrify, ain’t know who they must help or fight.

Then Pasha pulling free, he go on hands and knees beside me. All his furry hair dishevel. He say, laughing breathless, “Fighting like a girl. Pull hair.”

“What you think I being, foolish? Fight more, this girl go teach you cowardesse.”

Then I punch him smart into the eye, but he cannot quit laughing. He say gaspen, “Useless. Got no arm.”

“Foo, you asking me to hurt you real?”

Then Pasha shake his head, complain injustice. Say he cannot hit me, I be hurt. Our soldiers start to laugh themself — be our funny manners of barbarian, can see. Pasha rise up to his feet, and I get up with perilous grinning, feel some starting life.

He say, gone seriosen shy, “Want to fight, you need some learning. Cannot fight like that.”

“Ho, you bragging air. You fight so special, how you lose they teeth?”

He make a face. “Nay. I teach you. Seriose, you miserable.”

So we start our fighting games, that become a Mariano gossip for dismaying morals. Can comprehend, Maria and Jesus boxing, be ungodly sights. One moron padre tell us we must pray against temptation. More practical ermanos tell us explanations, how this seem. Even my Tamara Ten go nerviose. Tell me privy it will harm my brains.

But our vally guards will find us fighting mats and so. Bring us to the Ministerio ballroom, when night be gone in quiet. There we scrap joyeuse, and Pasha teach me pranks of war, with killing grips and gouges that be useful even against the roos. Truth, cannot war angry much. Pasha twice my weighing size. He knock me into dreams, if he ain’t careful. But we sometimes come to church with vally bruises, neverless.

ONE NIGHT, THIS FIGHTING BROIL into an honest argument. We resting from our scraps, akimbo on a fighting mat. Pasha sitting frogleg while I lain with spraddle arms. Both wearing soldier clothes for ease; my murder dress be waiting on a doily chair beside. Ya, Pasha got a cigarette — roo cannot live an hour without this comfort in his mouth. Guards stood by the farther wall, in muttern conversation.

And Pasha say from nothing, “Ice? When war begin… you leaving here?”

When I look to him, he got peculiar cautions in his face.

“How?” I say. “To Quantico?”

“Nay, Quantico,” he say misliking. “Woods somewhere. Apart.”

I rummage myself up to sit. Ain’t nervy yet, be only puzzling, what he want to mean. Ya, Pasha watch with sharp attention, like he heeding some event, beware its wrong result.

I say, “What woods? Foo, how you meaning?”

“Is better,” he say cautieuse, “when war begin, you hide apart. Can take all Sengles, what you should.”

“Shoo, been coward gods. I make this war, then hide myself?”

“Be normal that Maria hide. I talk to guards on this.”

“To guards? Foo nosy. Need no guards’ opinions, what I do.”

Pasha pinch his mouth, look to the guards in differences of thought. I look to them myself, see how they smoke in boring mood. Guard Lopez tell some braggeries, while the others grim their face.

And Pasha say low-voice, “If we lose, roos come here. To Marias.”

I look to him annoying. “Need no losing talk, goddamn.”

“You need. Must think.”

“So they come here, and every child be kilt, while I hide cowardly? You bitten by the evil insect, roo.”

“Help nothing, if you kilt.”

“Nay, is your old attitudes. Must check ten ways before I sneeze. Nor we losing, roo. You keep this straight.”

Then his voice come sharp in riling. “Is only demonstrations, how you brave. Ain’t useful nothing. But you must do… do foolishness. Must always die.”

“Foo, must always die. Ain’t even plan to lose. They dooms be yours.”

“Yes, can lose.” His mouth grit bitter. “Yes.”

Then I get up in quick disgust. “Lose and lose! Ain’t needing this. You plain depressing, all you be.”

Pasha be on his feet in angry instant. I raise my wary fists, expect our skirmish start again. But he stand only furiose, hands clenchen at his sides. Say hoarse, “I helping you before. I help you?”

I narrow on his grieven eyes. “Sure you done. You help.”

“Help your Sengles. Help… at Army camp.”

“You save my life. I know.”

“This… be what I ask. That you hide. Be for myself.”

Then his eyes yearn to my face, can see them thinking every story. The dandelion lights shine dim like underwater sun, and Pasha look uncanny white. Yo, his need catch in me. Feel how I love himself the same. Even a guilt begin, that I ain’t thought how he keep safe.

“Bone,” I say reluctant. “If we lose. But you hide also, Pasha.”

He give a longer sigh. Smile funny, like he feel stupidity. Then, without changing face, he swipe and swat me unawares. I laugh angry, dodge around. Punch short into his guard, and we go scrapping again like nothing been. Chase and jab and yell frustrations till our mally nerves forgot.

49. OF SPYING VARIOUS

WHEN TWO WEEKS BE GONE, AND AIN’T NO NEWS FROM MASSA woods, I lose impatience with my pointlessness. Be the tenth of Cember, roos expect in January, and still I cannot trust the Marianos’ plans. Apostles swear they glad to war — they only wait for proof. But every day come evidences of their wrong intention.

First, they insist we cannot tell the city on the roos. About the cure, can comprehend, is reasons for this quietness. Once it be known, all desperate people run to roos direct. But be no harm if people warn about the rooish armies.

I argue this to Anselm, ya apostles, till my voice be old. But they insist that Marianos scare hysterical from this news. Be riots terrible. The city wreck to crumbs by looting. Is even problems, how we ever bring our soldiers into war — they going to terrify idiotic, that their enemy pale.

“You don’t understand how whites are regarded here,” Pedro say in teaching voice. “In our Bible, they’re described as hell’s offspring, a race of giant scorpions. If people thought there were thousands of white men headed for the city, it would be chaos.”

“So Jesus be a scorpion god?” I say. “Be white himself.”

Pedro make a pickety face. “No, Jesus was God incarnate. He was only sent as a white man to give whites a chance to turn back to God. But they killed Him, as we know. And since that time, the whites are damned. They are demons, santa reina.”

“Your people killing Jesus, time-again. You also demons?”

“Perhaps you should read the Bible,” say Pedro shortish. “But we will decide when and how to tell the city. You don’t know what you’re dealing with.”

TRUTH, I BE IGNORANT AS FEET. But can know, my Pasha never treating like no giant scorpion. Be plenty Marianos who dislike him for his weirdo color; is even fools who think his touch be poison. But no one doing riots when he enter rooms. Ain’t be.

I try a small experiment, with kitchen people of downstairs. Sneak to them by darkness morning, when they chopping-washing foods. Stand in their grease abode — with queery conscience for my diamond looks — and tell them every information on the rooish army.

These workers all be English poor, and first they only dumbfound that Maria visit their dirty selves. But when they comprehend, they do no chaos, nor they panic. Only frown discomfort each to each.

At last, one girl say shy, “Why don’t everyone know about that, senyora?”

“Apostles want it secret,” I say. “Got all stupid reasonings. Yo, Anselm, he the worst.”

Hear Anselm’s name, and all these children terrify out of sense. Go begging, I ain’t tell him that they even heard this news. Say how they losing jobs for this. Can even be, they rid to jail. Yo, as I leave, I hear a girl say, sour in undervoice, “Why’s she want to tell people things that get them hurt? I just don’t know.”

NEXT DOUBTS BEGINNING BY MY GUARDS. Before a week be gone, these children be like townie friends. Pasha spend most daylight hours in their smoky company; ya, my girl fourteens be broiling into love amours with them. From our first days, they known about the roos, against all secrecy. Live among all Sengles, and they hear abundant word. Best Anselm can ever do, he frighten them for knowing.

Now, as our second week prolong, they talk some cautieuse surprise, how no one start war preparations. Weapon factories make no extra bullets; soldiers sitting lazy. Any war before, it been all hasty work to this.

One day, walking to church, my closest guards explain all reasons known. These be Julio, Metro child who love me with his eyes, and Bean, a chubly English, rude in ways. Pasha walk ahead with different guards of his new friendship. Can hear them noising Panish, while our talk go careful soft.

Bean begin. “What I think, they’re afraid to make a lot of guns right now. Do that, and people will think they’re planning to fight the Marines again.”

“Foo,” I say. “Who want to fight Marines? You only losing twice.”

“Inúds, that’s all.” Bean shrug. “They never give that up. Half the city already thinks we’re attacking Quantico this spring. Cause — excuse me, santa reina—you’re an Inúd Maria. How people see it.”

“That war, nobody want,” say Julio. “Metros also, we don’t want.”

Bean huff breath. “Yeah, really. You’d have a rebellion on your hands. Start off trying to fight Marines, you’d end up fighting the English here.”

“But ain’t no war like that,” I say annoying. “We fight for Marines.”

Bean nod. “I’m only saying what people will think. They don’t know nothing about your war. So you go making a lot of guns, there’s going to be craziness. Guaranteed.”

Here guard Lopez straggle back from Pasha’s group of talkers. Can see, he overhearing, now he come to fix our notions. Lopez be Inúd himself, and always loud with townie pride. For this, he be a hatred object to all other guards. He wear a scarf with eagle picture — flag of their Inúd — and this scarf be always robbing, and is found again in guardroom toilet.

Now Lopez say confident, “Senyora, it is nonsense. There is enough of weapons. Why no one makes more.”

“Enough?” say Bean disgusting. “What I heard, we’re already short on bullets. Get a war, we’re finished in a couple of hours. Unless you want to fight with sticks.”

“What you heard.” Lopez smile superior. “And you heard Inúds are afraid from English. But we like to fight your English. It is easy like target practice.”

“Point is, nobody’s fighting,” Bean say cold. “There isn’t any bullets to do it.”

Here Julio nay his hand to Bean, and tap one ear with meaning look.

Lopez see this, and say huffish, “I am not a spy.”

“Oh, you’re not?” Bean laugh nasty. “Sure, you’re not. That’s funny.”

Lopez scorn his face and say, “Senyora, I am sorry. I don’t continue for respect to you.”

Then he haste back to Pasha, stalking like an insult cat.

Bean muttern, “Guess Anselm’s paying Lopez money for his gorgeous looks.”

“Yes,” say Julio cold. “For that, and spy.”

LAST WORRIES COME FROM SENGLES. From our first days, I asken all my jones to scratch for helpful news. They mostly fail in uselessness. Jonah discover naked dancing shows in Chelesí, and he forget all other life. Villa do her usual filth with every living male. In Loisaida burrow, Hate You lose her shoes to gunpoint robbers. Behind this bad adventure, she be cowardly to all outdoors.

But Asha Badmouth and Jermaine go spy like natural rats. They visit Santiago in his palace Residencia; then they go shooting cans with English scratchers in a field of garbage. One night entire, they boozing at a soldier barracks of Inúd, and Asha return with soldiers’ names writ uppen-down her legs. Yo, every place, they asking-sniffing for all gossip known.

Most they hear be tales fantastic. Get fables on myself, how I do sex with Jesus, or with Pedro, or with some mystery child name Tony whose existence be a question. Be worser talk on Pasha, how he eating insects at all meals, or babies — anything but food. Also be whispers, showing that some gossip leak about the cure, although this story always suffern some peculiar change. Strangest version be, that roo meat cure all maladies. Eat Jesus’ body and you live forever. My sixes heed this seriose, and soon they picking Pasha’s hairs from furniture to swallow.

But be one story all my guards approve for simple truth. Is on Simón Zelote de Loisaida, sad apostle. How rumor tell, Simón ain’t only be the general of armies. In last Maria’s time, he rule the city mostly by himself. Other apostles been some nothings, living scary to his will. Even Anselm stick in second place.

First, this cheer me wonderful. Can hope, Simón become my friend against all Anselm’s threats. He doing with the last Maria; never he be indignant that I going pregnant once. Ya, he must hate Anselm, how this weasel rob his power.

But, before I start no plan, a worser rumor come. This tell that Anselm kilt Simón Zelote for some politics. He keep this careful quiet. Simón be popular in the army’s love.

THIS BE A TIME when Anselm and myself be most like friends. All my reception hours, we exasperate at fools together, and when they go, we ease in scabby jokes. I got my trono chair, but he must stand his aching feet. So when receptions finish, Anselm splay himself upon the floor. Ya, become my careless habit that I lie longside. Sometimes in this, he stretch against the floor in catly luxury. Rest cheek to its stone — and I will stretch and rest cheek to the stone in thoughtless kinliness.

So, in this question of Simón, I go ask Anselm straight. And he agree the tales about Simón Zelote his old power. Tell all disgusting memories of the horrible this been. “He would summon us to his house in Loisaida, all hours of the day and night, to issue his instructions. Often from his bed — and sometimes, Maria was in the bed. But no matter what he did, Simón was beloved.”

How Anselm explain, Simón be Metro; his Maria been Inúd. So every spaniel glad to them. Ya, the English give Simón respect as vally general. “The worst thing about a war, senyora, is that it produces war heroes.”

But when I ask about Simón his murder, Anselm only laugh. “Now he’s dead? How thrilling. I wonder if anyone’s told Simón?”

“You saying it ain’t true?”

“It ain’t true, and Simón ain’t dead, and the word is isn’t.”

“Then why he disappearing, if he loving power so?”

“But he didn’t disappear, senyora. His Maria died, and he lost his support in Inúd, and with it went his power. And one of those losses — I won’t guess which — struck him down with terrible grief. But I’m sorry to say, it didn’t kill him.”

I bring this story back, and Asha Badmouth say annoying, “How you even ask that rodent? Sure he going to lie. You heed my word, Simón be dead as bacon.”

All this leave me in suspicions past no toleration. So now I go in personal hunt to find a friend important — anyone who know secret pox, and ain’t in Anselm’s ruling.

First want be for Simón Zelote, if he living anyhow. So one night I go with Julio-Bean to Loisaida. But we can only meet Simón’s own guards outside his door. Nor these Loisaidas will agree to take no message. They say, Simón depressing since his old Maria die; dislike all politics for his resentments to the living world. We roam around the house, but all we seeing be shut curtains. Come back frustrating tired, to Asha Badmouth’s jeer of “Dead as bacon.”

Next I seek Soledad, but this sad child be lost entire. What my Sengles heard, she live by Pedro in Inúd. When I ask Pedro, he swear ignorance to this — but his eyes false. I send Jermaine and Asha scouting there, but be no help. Pedro’s Residencia got all guards with mally temperaments. Ain’t want no Sengles setting foot, nor they admitting they know Soledad’s name. My children watch some days, but see no trace nor face. She gone like breath.

In final desperation, I think on poisoner Felipe. Ever he try to kill myself, he hating Anselm right. Yo, now it seem peculiar, he ain’t coming to receptions. Is like Simón Zelote — but Felipe living to all eyes. Every morning, he give noisy sermons in their Metro church.

Ain’t try to go myself. Cannot want Anselm knowing anyhow. Felipe be his worst mistrust. So I think a foxery, how I send El Mayor. Child need good distraction, and he love politics like food. Nor no spy beware him, how he droop pathetic all these days.

First I asking, El Mayor give only nays and miseries. He cannot, and ain’t want to, ya be moron enterprise. When I insist, he asking vicious, why is mine to choose. Talk stank on Sengles, and fifteens, and gods who cannot use a fork.

But when I coming back from church next morning, he be gone. Hate You say he left to Metropolitano for my task, and Asha Badmouth add, “He looking prettieuse. Clean as a dish.”

When El Mayor return, is tardy night. He stomp in glad bedrunken, shining face like he infatuate. Tell laughing stories of Felipe’s brainy talk, his snobben wife, his Metro Residencia that be palaces beyond. How they got a boy to serve their food who wearing whitish gloves. Give demonstrations, how he talk to them in sleeper English, sounding like peculiar books.

I ask him cautieuse, “You starting anything of politics?”

“Foo, bell,” he say. “I had a cat, I naming it Felipe’s Secrets. Yo, it changing names before it learn to answer. Fact be truth.”

Behind this, most his days be there; yo, all his talk be stories, how he win Felipe to his love. No time be gone before he sleeping at Felipe’s Residencia, get his selfen room. These nights ain’t pleasure for myself. I known his goating habits. But cannot cavil, when he only doing my requests.

First news he bring, Felipe got psychologies on myself. Ever Maria come in mention, Felipe hush like sudden hurt. When El Mayor go ask on this, Felipe get a pickety face, like it be ghetto questions. Say, “Religion shouldn’t be a subject for casual conversation.” No asking get a different answer. Be a closen door.

But soon Felipe starting his own questions, how I be to know. If I be nice or evil; be like normal or be strange. Now El Mayor get entertainments, lying on my holy self. Explain my hatred to all sex; how I save deer from cruel hunters. Say how I weep sometimes, when children only mention violence. Ya, Felipe heed this seriose, and only look for more.

One night, when they both gone in wine, Felipe start his own insanities about my perfectesse. Say any child who seen myself must know, god living in me real. I be compassionate and pure, cannot kill even roos.

Through this, El Mayor be mostly choking not to laugh. At last, he ain’t resist his mouth. Say in sleeper wise, “It’s strange you tried to kill her then.”

Felipe startle awful. “You — she knows?”

“Sure, she knows that,” El Mayor say. “Nor she doesn’t blame you, brother.”

This ruin Felipe’s face entire. He go in boozen tears and start to gabble all his murder tale. Say how he try this poisoning for selfish politics. But God defeat his evil, though God must use Anselm’s hand. Best El Mayor can comprehend, Felipe knowing this been tricks. But he still believe this been a miracle somehow — as if no basic child can fool himself, is supernatural strange.

Yo, now Felipe do all godly sorriness for this unmurder. Go days without feeding, give free money to needy beggars. And he praying to Maria god, that she forgive his crime. This Maria be myself, but ain’t myself — all skewball notions. But why he never coming to receptions, been for guilt. He shame himself before his human god.

“I lost my faith in the last Maria’s time,” Felipe say. “I don’t think anyone could know that woman, and still believe. But when I gave Maria — our Maria — the wine, I realized. As soon as I saw her face, I knew. But it was too late then.”

El Mayor get pities now. “It’s not too late. She’s living, see that.”

“No,” Felipe say with tragedy looks. “I mean, it’s too late for me.”

Behind this sad exposure, El Mayor go bold in questions. Ask on the search, the war, and even say I sent him for this cause. But now Felipe lose his drunken face. Go scary quiet. At last he only say, “Please tell her she doesn’t have to be afraid. As long as I’m here, she’s safe.”

IN THIS, ANOTHER WEEK GONE BY. Is Cember 21, and still from Massa be no whisper. Search been gone some twenty days, is twice our expectations. And now my sleeping nights become all terrors, how the search destroy. Keep waking from nightmares where the searchers capture in a burning house. I trying to save them, but I got no hands, roos cut them off. Or it be Money burning, trotting normal like this fire ain’t notice, and all her burden be the NewKing, dead. And I wake in fright, and cannot sleep again. And cannot sleep. Nightmares leak their panic into morning, and in church I sometimes hold to Pasha’s hand. Only then I sleeping fearless, head down to the wooden rail.

Times, in my waking nights, I go to sit by Driver’s bed. Be foaly in uncertainties, I yearn toward my brother. Yo, he soften to me now, his bitterness forgot. Will call me fondly names like treasure sister and potato, like he done in better years.

But all this time he weaken. He sleeping in the middy noon, gone into pharmacy time. His posies grown to sores, and every movement be a wincing hurt. Yo, all his talk be sickness. Ain’t even try to fool me that he got no other life. He give his coughing speech and gasp it back — and all be of physicians’ sayings, or of pills the Marianos give for pain. His breathing be a weary labor, and can see that Driver frustrate sometimes, wish this task been rid.

Once I try to sleep by him, from clinging lonesomeness. But I ain’t sleep for nothing, only listen how he stir in pain. Think how the cure come slow across the ocean, and rage to swim out to these boats, with gun between my teeth. Fret through the night at all my feeble helplessness.

Now I start telling Anselm, we must send to Quantico for parleys. Must start our war without no extra proof, it cannot wait. But he only heed me like a hound that yap in dull annoyance. The only change I win, the weapons factories start their tardy work, creating bullet-guns. But even here, is problems. How my guards warn, this bring the city perilous in gossip. Every fool believe we going to fight the Quantico Marines.

Come a day, it be a marching manifestation in the streets. Some thousand children yell their hatred to this unexisting war. And soldiers grabbing people from, bring them to prison in their blood. Next morning, when I walk to church, is children kneeling by the road. Say nothing, but they wearing black in token of their grief.

Day of manifestations bring some mystery joy to Anselm. In sudden change, his manners smile. Go laughing-joking through the day. Yo, all apostles happier kept. They grin in meeting, and their eyes share in some glad conspiracy.

This bring me into scary moods, what trickeries be forward. My Sengles know no telligence; nor El Mayor heard nothing strange. Yo, questioning Anselm be no use. He say his nothing and nothing else, and smile to my frustration.

NEXT DAY, THESE COMPLICATIONS bring me-Anselm into open strife. Been in our privy hour behind receptions. We lain together on the floor, our habit from more friendly time. Yo, I ask what we do, if no one coming back from Massa.

In days before, this question going to bring his snapping-turtle face. But now he answer light, “Let’s think. We send another search? No, let’s wait peacefully for death.” He gesture to the painten ceiling. “Heaven will receive us.”

“Shee,” I say annoying. “Least we do, we tell the city. They all in pointless frights about Marines.”

Anselm taken with a yawn. He rid this slow and say in sleepy voice, “Yes, they’re halfway to insurrection. So you believe it would help to say we’re actually planning to fight white demons — who may not exist?”

“Roos exist, goddamn. Kilt half my children with their stank existence.”

“Senyora, I’m pointing out that nobody will believe it.”

“Believe it, if we tell them right. If apostles telling, they believe.”

“Because our apostles are known for their perfect honesty. I understand.”

I sit up frustrating. “People going to learn it be the truth. Ya, cannot be no worse. Go on like this, it be rebellion total.”

Anselm shut eyes like simple peace. “And if there is rebellion total, we will squash that rebellion totally. It won’t be the first time, sadly.”

“Kill your own people, for some misbelief? Been prettieuse.”

“Yes, regrettable. But if we didn’t, there would be rebellions every month. We’ve had that also.”

“Foo, you trying to fret me now. Ain’t even mean this awfulness.”

To this, he only nay his finger. Look like he mostly sleep, his body loose in its long dress. And he muttern from shut eyes, “War is evil, but is sometimes needful.”

At first, I still believe he only pesting me. I even consider tickling him, how he lain unbewares. But then a nasty inkling come. Why they making extra guns, it ain’t to fight no roos; ain’t even been to please myself. These guns prepare against rebellion. They made to kill our selfen people.

Almost, I rid this thought. Remind, the guns begun this strife. No person thinking to rebel, until the guns been made. But cannot lose my doubt. It stick and stick like evil smell.

I look on Anselm, where he lain in his same peacefulness. I say, “You do this filth, it be without myself. Know this.”

“You’re joining the rebellion?” Anselm open curiose eyes. “Brave girl. But shouldn’t you check with Felipe first? I know you place such reliance on his advice.”

“Ain’t seen Felipe since the clausen signing,” I say stiff. “Be no Felipe in this story.”

“That’s nice to hear. I like to hear nice things.”

Our eyes meet in some bad comprehending. Then Anselm sit up and arrange his dress around his knees. Fold his hands and say like simple task, “About your baby.”

I scoff breath. “Shee, known your threats. They old.”

He say on unheeding, “At this moment, two people know about that incident. Pedro and myself.”

“And physicians know.” I shrug annoying. “So?”

“No, actually, there are only two people.” He look to me with teaching face, wait for my understanding.

My gut go cold. “You saying, they dead? You murdern they physicians?”

Anselm flutter his hand toward the cloudy ceiling. “Yes, sad. But getting back to the point. Pedro does not know about your advances to Felipe. And I’d advise you to keep any thoughts about rebellion from him also. I actually like you, santa reina. I would miss you if you were gone. Pedro…” Anselm make a sour mouth. “He isn’t so enamored.”

THIS FIGHT BEEN CEMBER 23, when my Maria life seem like it been a year of winters. Must walk to church and sit in meetings, sign my name to papers. I scarce remember how the earth can feel to naked feet. My body start to feel unclad without Maria dress; sometimes I startle that my Sengles ain’t stoop down to greet me. I terrify for the search, I fight my voice for war, think madness plans — yo, these despairs come normal now. I scarce expect no other life.

But it been only one more day when all this misery shatter. Ya, my Maria life go shattering, lost into the past.

50. OF VANISH PEOPLE THEIR APPEARANCE

THIS ENDING START ON NOCHEBUENA — NIGHT BEFORE THEIR NAVIDAD, the birthing day of Jesus baby. All the city be in tinsel ornaments and sprucen rings, and half our guards-ermanos gone to festival in their homes. But my Maria work been long the same. Send me to my iglesia rooms with sad and skinny moods.

Then I be in the sofa room, lain flat in silken underdress. Got church at middy night for Nochebuena pookery; I rest my pinchen skin before the worser grooming this will need. Keepers on the floor beside. She got a bitty plastic cow, is trying to saw its head off with a meat knife. Pasha telephoning cocktails, our new habit in this time.

Through this, Jermaine be reading the Marias Bible out to us. Be mostly like the Christings’ book, but got some scandal differences. Jermaine been Christing born — his early brains been pickled in their nonsense — and now he angering how the Marias Noah take extra children in his boat, a whitish pair without no morals. God want to drown all whites and leave the world to Noah’s blackish get. But Noah foolish in his pity. Cannot leave all whites to die, whatever stank they be.

Seem funny to myself, and I be laughing when El Mayor come in the door.

I saying, “God some helpless mouse, cannot just kill these roos? Squitch with fingers, they be done.”

“He strike them at His will,” Jermaine say seriose. “But you ain’t seeing—”

“Ice,” say El Mayor with nervy looks, “can talk to you apart?”

I sit up hazy, smiling to him.

Pasha cover telephone with hand and say to El Mayor, “Want some cocktail?”

El Mayor look cold to this. “Nay, I need no cocktail. Ice Cream?”

“Yo sho.” I get up hasty. Be mostly fearing, been some trouble down to Metropolitano.

He say nothing till we gone into the sleeproom by. Then — how he never done these weeks — he close the door behind.

My heart unbalance, guessing he invite me into love. But when he turn, his face be all resenting misery.

And El Mayor say, “Why you got to show yourself like that?”

“How you meaning?”

“Wearing unders.” He swallow at his throat. “You know.”

“Ain’t unders. Yo, who thinking what I wear? Be later hours.”

“He thinking. Roo be thinking, sure is right.”

Then I comprehend. Injustice flash into my nerves. “You ask me here for this? I thought this nonsense been forgot.”

He get a look I recognize from jalousies before, like all his mind be burning red. “Ain’t forgot by every child who tell your dirt in Metro.”

“Now it be gossips?” I say hot. “Yo, how I even do no filth? Got a dozen children watching, ever I pick my nose.”

“Ain’t mine to know. In Metro—”

“Metro, shee! You brave to mention Metro, where you keeping every nights. Guess what you do there.”

This catch into silence. We look bitter, one to one. And El Mayor say cold, “Be only doing what you done yourself.”

Take a staring breath before I comprehend his meaning. Then the room go small somehow. “Nay, truth, you got some girl?”

He flinch, look to the floor. “Why I cannot?”

“But you… you done this real? Ain’t only saying for some punishment?”

“Punishment for what? What you done?”

“I done nothing! Shee you know! You only guilty for yourself!”

Then something falter in his face. He narrow on me in painful thought. I take a choken breath, feel weightless somehow with my awful. Confusen mind keep saying, ain’t no reason I should hurt. He fleeing me all weeks, we finish. Nor I love him right — but to this thought, my heart go skeering red.

Then El Mayor say softer, “Ain’t mean nothing, what this been.”

I scoff my breath. “Yo sho? You told this girl that she be nothing?”

“Ice, nay. Ain’t no girl. Was girls. You know how.”

This saying jeer inside my head. Ain’t no girl. Was girls. Cannot see how it be worse, but all my body strange with cold. “Should expect. How you be.”

He shake his head, his eyes gone wisty shame. “Ain’t even come to say that. Had some news. It all come wrong somehow.” He look down to my dress, and all his face be feeling misery.

“News?”

“I seen you there… be like I lose my memory.”

“Shoo, what news you got? Can leave this. Want to leave this now.”

He gaze at my dress a longer moment, like he finish some thought. Then he look up and say, “Think I seen Mamadou.”

First, this ain’t comprehend. Is like he saying it in Massa — he seen Mamadou in the woods. I even tense in worry that his jalousies found their right object. But then my mind come bright. I say with catching breath, “Yo, where?”

“In Metro, in some hinder street. Child been in soldier clothes, alone. But can swear it been himself.”

“Ain’t spoken to him?”

“He skit away before I call. Felipe been with me, I ain’t want to chase.”

“Goddamn, should chase.”

“I know. Was… sure I know.”

I force my painful mind to think. “You figure he fled from Massa alone? He hiding?”

El Mayor grimace his unknowing. “You heard nothing here?”

“Nay, been normal boredom. Navidad and so.”

“Can be some soldier, only look like Mamadou. But I can swear, it been himself.”

I grimace into thought. Cannot see any reason Mamadou come back alone. Even if they try to kill him, he ain’t never fled — it been impossible for pride. A moment, I consider if he murdern all these children — sixty penals, twenty guards and Juan. Return with only Crow — First Runner and slip into hiding.

Then El Mayor say soft into my thought, “I got to go. Felipe wait for me in Metro. For Nochebuena meal, you comprehend. Ain’t be no other reasons.”

I flinch, look up uncertain. “Sure.”

“Ain’t want no girl before you, Ice. You knowing this?”

“Yo sho,” I say in difficult voice. “Can guess.”

“Love you worse than broken legs. Ain’t brave to risk you, all it is. I even think of this, I lose my wants.”

“So they be lost.” I force a smile.

“Nay, shoo.”

He reach out to my shoulder. Touch it careful soft, like he be touching to a wound. Yo, I confuse in sorriness. Now Mamadou woken to my heart, can want no other hands.

But El Mayor freeze in a sudden conscience. Look back to the door.

Yo, as if his fear call it to life, a knocking come there hard.

El Mayor startle back. I flinch myself, call up in nervy voice, “Yo, what?”

“Senyora? Can come in?” Be the voice of my guard Julio, shy behind the door.

I look distress to El Mayor. Already he stalken far from me, frown guilty to the wall. I say fretful, “Sure, come in. Be here.”

Julio open quick. Glance to my underdress, then look away with careful face. “Senyora, is from Simón Zelote. He want to see you now.”

Bean peek past his shoulder. “He sent a car. It’s down there, if you want to go.”

“Simón Zelote?” I say footless. “Nay, he saying what he need?”

“They don’t say what.” Julio shrug. “Ask for you, to Loisaida. Is too late?”

Bean muttern, “Seven’s not late. She’s got four hours till church.”

“Loisaida, foo,” I say. “Why he ain’t come himself?”

“How he does,” say Julio.

“Bossy,” Bean agree. “He even sent his guards to bring you.”

“Guards?” I say misliking. “You be sure they even his?”

“They’re his.” Bean nod with knowledge looks. “They was here a lot, when we had the last Maria. Same routine.”

I look back to El Mayor, who still be frozen in dismays. Now I be fretting if this can connect to Mamadou. If all the search return with him, be there in Loisaida. But ain’t no reason they gone to Simón. They should come here.

Yo, dark in memory, come Asha Badmouth’s Dead as bacon. Guards be Simón’s — but any a child can send them with an easy lie. And if Simón be dead, these guards ain’t here for no good task.

But I say in hoarsen voice, “Can tell them that they wait. Will go. I only need some clothes.”

51. BY SIMÓN ZELOTE

SIMÓN ZELOTE’S CAR BE LARGE IN ELEGANCE. IN ITS BACKSEAT, can stretch my legs out long, breathe only leathern smell. The guards and driver all be Metros, clean in soldier clothes. Try asking what Simón want, but they comprehend no English word. At last, I sit back nerviose and stare the passing streets.

Loisaida be the neighbor burrow to the south. Place be a wilder dereliction, and its children poor. Got crime in every sort, and starving, every bad unhappiness. Ya, most barracks there, to keep the soldiers’ misbehaviors where it be no worth to harm.

Come across their border, and the road be sudden rough. Car joggle like a trotting horse. Buildings all got cloudy plastic covering the window holes, and hills of trash beside their doors. Upon this trash, the snow be clean, but all around be trample filth. Most thing I notice, be some littles by an orfanato, chasing pigeons. They wearing blankets, stead of coats, and plastic bags on their sock feet.

Residencia where we come be drear concree, sans no bellesse. But here the windows all be whole, the road be swept and nice. Wear Mariano flags along the front, flap sad in Cember wind. Yo, as I come out of the car, a redcoat guard step from the door. Call clear polite, “Senyora, please to follow. Simón is waiting.”

The way be simple halls without no pictures, nor no softening rugs. Come to the office door, and it be plain as nothing. Wear no sign. Yo, as I take the doory handle, a last reluctance grip in me. I magine that this ain’t Simón. Be traps. Is Anselm’s soldiers there. I open with chilling expectation, squinting from mislike.

But be an office room like any. Ya, Simón be there, familiar in his soldier clothes. Stand to his feet with Panish courtesy.

SIMÓN A CHILD OF MIDDLING HEIGHT, with handsome looks of houndish sort. Bear himself peculiar straight, like all his muscles fix with hardness. Now he look tired rough, his face be scurfy with unsleep. Can see his age upon — is twentyish in heaviness.

Ya, I go fascinating to the drawings on his hands. How I know now, these showing ranks of soldiers, and the wars they fought. Simón’s be everycolor stars and numbers, meeting crafty. Thicker on each hand, an L for Loisaida writ in black.

The office self be picky clean. Smell be piney wash; his desken papers fix in perfect stacks. A pistol on his desk be shining jolie like an ornament. Wall got photo of the last Maria — long-face girl in finery clothes like mine, but black for widowing.

Once we sat, Simón Zelote dabbit time with pale excuses. Say how he thought, is best we meeting here, be better privacy. He sorry to ask me here on Nochebuena, but is urgent. Talk various shee that children saying, when they dread what they must say.

Through this, I waiting weak. His tired face look no good news. Mamadou in my fear, and I be watching him with hawken need. I even begin to dread, Simón will take me into prison now; the searchers brought a Christ, and all my usefulness be by.

But when he creep onto his meaning, pigeon up to it with words — first actual sense he saying be, “Maria, are we planning a war against Quantico?”

Almost, I laugh relief. “No sho, we ain’t. Be nothing like.”

“I’m glad to hear that, senyora.” He nod, his eyes still glooming. “But if that’s true, I’ve got to ask myself why we’re making a ton of new artillery. And I also wonder why Anselm’s telling me different.”

I startle. “Anselm? He said we got war to Quantico?”

“No, he’s Anselm.” Simón smile sour. “The man didn’t tell me anything. But when I asked him, I couldn’t get an answer. Instead, he started asking what I know about their current preparedness.”

Here I remind, Simón Zelote ain’t been at the clausen signing. Never he heard my tale about the cure, the rooish armies. And then he disappear from sight, been sulking in his home. But sure, he be apostle, ya is general of armies. Ain’t sense that no one told him on the roos.

I think to tell him, but my nerves be wrong. Ain’t guess why he kept ignorant. Nor I want to step in Anselm’s tangles unbewares.

I say cautieuse, “It be no war on Quantico, truth.”

Simón sigh tired, his eyes still brooding in their disbelief. “Santa reina, how about this. I’ll tell you what I would tell you if you were planning this war — even though I know you aren’t. Can we do that?”

“Ya. Be nothing wrong.”

“Good.” His face go easier. “So, there’s one main idea I want you to leave with. You cannot take Quantico.”

I shrug. “Sure, known we losing twice.”

“It’s not just that. There is no way. I know that sounds extreme, but hear me out.” He smile, look friendlier now. Unknit his hands and rest them down. “So, I’m guessing Anselm told you about the place. They’re not as rich as we are, and their population’s a fraction of ours. Sounds like a good proposition, right? That’s what we thought when we first went there.

“But there’s just one problem. They only have a hundred thousand people. But they have three million land mines.”

Must be, I look stupid blank. Simón ask careful, “Do you know what that is? A land mine?”

“Sure I know. But any million? How they making this?”

He grimace humor. “Senyora, Quantico doesn’t produce much. Their buildings are falling apart, and there isn’t a working car in the place. Pretty much all they make is armaments, and they’ve been at it a very long time. That city’s been attacked by all its neighbors for hundreds of miles around, for decades. And they haven’t lost an inch of ground. The neighbors — they’re all gone.”

I think of roos attacking there, and start to feel some warmness for these Quanticos. “So where these land mines be? It be some circle round the city?”

“Good question.” He smile encouraging. “I’ll give you a quick idea. Take a block like this one. Mostly four-story apartment buildings. No special targets, nothing industrial. So in that block, they’ll have maybe two hundred land mines. You have to walk a maze to get through that street, and that maze is completely invisible. Try going into a building, same thing. Land mines, booby traps. You duck inside, chances are the room explodes. Or it fills with poison gas, that’s another favorite toy.”

He sit forward, mostly like he gladden to this evil news. “What else you get, every block is going to have at least one barricade. You’re not taking any vehicle into Quantico. Barricades are mostly made of old cars, patched up with concrete. But they leave some gaps, so they’ll be shooting at you through those holes.

“And they also like to decorate their barricades, for the entertainment of guests, with dead bodies. Since nobody’s attacked them for a couple of years, that’s probably going to be skeletons. But if you fight them for any length of time, it’ll start to be people you recognize. And you do not attempt to retrieve those bodies, because they’re booby-trapped.

“Windows above, you get your machine guns, light artillery. They’ll have grenades, including some cute incendiary grenades that basically burn you alive. And the Marines live beside their weapons, not just when they’re at war, but all their lives. You do not catch them off guard. So if you thought you could find the land mines, and dig them out, and crawl over the barricades, and actually go somewhere — you’re doing that under heavy fire from all directions.

“This is how their kids grow up. From the time they can walk, they learn where to walk, or else they don’t grow up. And those kids fight. Here, we’ll send someone into battle when they’re fourteen years old. So that’s humane, that’s the right thing to do. They don’t even think about that. The only thing they care about, as far as I can tell, is their holy city.”

Now Simón sit back, eyes set on me with expectation. Catch a pen from off the desk and start to click its nose in-out.

Been listening with ten attentions, seek to memorize these details. At last, I nod. “Holy city. This be Quantico self?”

“Well, yes and no.” Simón put by his pen. “So, if you’ve looked at maps, you probably know the Mall.”

“Nay, ain’t know this.”

“Well, you don’t need to, because you’re never going to see it. Basically, it’s where the old government buildings are, from the United States. That’s what they call Washington — the Mall — and it’s what they’re sworn to protect.” He smile grim. “According to them, everything there’s exactly as it was before the plague. So when they’re not manufacturing land mines, they’re polishing the piano in the old President’s drawing room.

“In case you aren’t getting the point, they’re dangerously insane, and the form their insanity takes is that you cannot take Quantico. And you wouldn’t want to, unless you were as crazy as they are.”

Only when he pause, and sit back in his chair with some release, I feel my risen joy. I breathe in good content a minute, looking out the window at a partment building set across. Got broken windows with some clothes hung drying on their jaggen edges. I magine Marines with rifles there, aim on a troop of sorry roos.

When I look back, Simón be frowning puzzlement at my glad eyes.

I say, “Artillery cannot clear these mines?”

He grit impatient. “Some. But say it did. Then you’re looking at destroying every inch of the street. Some people think that can work. They’re mostly people who weren’t there last time.”

“But what — yo heed. Be only thinking, if you got some planes?”

Now Simón look queery, like he guess if this be jokes. “You don’t.”

“Nay, but if. Is theoretical.”

“Fine, santa reina. I’m only speculating, but as far as I can see, you’ve got the same basic problem. You can win Quantico, if you can completely and totally destroy it. So theoretically, you could flatten the entire place from the air, and then take possession of the smoking rubble.”

Here I begin to grin, ain’t keep my feeling for no sense. Think how I telling Pasha. He sure to find some negative, but I see no badness for myself. Be only usual questions, why no person tell me this before.

Simón smile back, some careful wise. “Did I say something funny?”

“Nay, is only wolfen. They Marines, be feary peoples.”

“Wolfen, right. My boys have started saying that.” He narrow on me curiose, eyes gone to wary kindness. “Have I been making a fool of myself? You really never wanted to attack Quantico?”

“Ya, I said. Got no wants.”

Here Simón begin to ponder in his bony eyes. Think on our new artillery, or on Anselm’s sneaky hints. Can see, he puzzling different, but he still ain’t get no comfort.

Then I lose all defenses. “Truth, I want no war on Quantico. I only need their help.”

I TOLD MY NEWS of rooish war and pharmacy any times. Can think, I seen all possible reactions to this story. But Simón’s be strange beyond.

First I mention roos, Simón surprise like any a child. But after this, he only go depressing and depressing. Even when I tell about the cure, he gloom the same. Ya, within this grief, a fury harden in his eyes. He clutch his pen in hand like he will break it for his hatred. Time I telling on the search, he ugly with distress.

I end my tale with scary conscience. “Sure is mally, how they never told you. Cannot figure this.”

Then Simón sit back. Drop the pen loose on his desk. “That’s no surprise. The rest — I don’t know where to start.”

“I know it be unlikely tales. Is why they send a search.”

He hold up his hand. “Senyora, let me help you. The apostles believe you about the cure. They have no doubt that there’s a cure. What they told you — that is not what’s happening.”

I take sharp breath. “Nay, how you meaning?”

“We’ve known about the cure for years. The Russian army — all of it. Our last eight Christs were Russian. I’ve personally heard these stories five times. I’ve seen the kind of photographs you’re talking about. I’ve even seen a Russian helicopter that crashed down by the coast.

“Sure, most people don’t know. They never get anywhere near these Christs. But Anselm, your apostles? They’ve been planning against this day for years. The only thing we didn’t know was when the Russian army would come.”

I be mostly trembling now. I clutch into my dressen skirt to hold myself correct. “Then why they sent no search?”

“Because it’s not a search.”

“Nay, what it is?”

“Think about it. We can’t fight these Russians, that’s pretty obvious. So what are our choices? What do you think a man like Pedro sees in this?”

“Pedro?” I seek in my mind. “Seem goodly sort enough.”

“Pedro is the most self-interested person I’ve ever known in my life. Okay, I’ll save you time. Pedro wants the cure for himself. And he’ll trade the city for it, everyone here. That’s what that search is. They’re sending Juan to make a deal with the Russians.”

“Deal?” My voice come false. “To sell our children to the roos?”

“That’s right.” His mouth disgust. “That’s not what they’ll tell people, of course. They’ll promise everyone the cure — if they just do what they’re told.”

A coldness settle on me. “But the cure be only for… Pedro?”

“Pedro, the other apostles. Anselm. A few dozen people close to them. Most of those people don’t know it yet, but they’re the chosen. The rest — they’re livestock.”

Here his voice break weak. He make a loathing face, look to the picture on his wall — the old Maria in her blackish finery. “I’m sorry, santa reina. This is the wrong way to tell you this.”

“Ain’t mattering ways.” I cross my arms against my chills. “But how you know? Their… deal and so.”

“Senyora, it’s the plan. Same plan they always had, for when the Russians came. And you understand, the penal company aren’t coming back from that little outing. They’re a first gift.”

Now Mamadou come in mind. Flash in my heart joyeuse that he escape, be here alive. But then I think of Crow, First Runner — and every thousand children, in this city of my helpless ruling. How they sold in ignorance.

“I’m sorry,” Simón say through my thought. “I would have liked to fight your war, for what it’s worth. It was a smart idea.”

I look to him distracting. “So you ain’t agree their plans?”

“No, I did not,” Simón say thick. “I’m a soldier, santa reina. I die for my city, my city doesn’t die for me.”

“But why you vanish all these weeks?” My voice catch high. “Why you ain’t been? If I known sooner, we can stop them.”

Simón stand up like sudden impatience. Turn to a soldier coat hung by and fetch it from its hook. Start cladding it on, while he say flat, “I was told to vanish, santa reina. The deal was, I keep out of politics, and they don’t kill me.”

Now my dread gone heavy. Want to only sleep somewhere, forget I ever hope for life.

“It’s funny,” Simón say on, “I told Anselm I was glad to be out of it, and it was true. I’m sick of it all. But when I heard the talk about Quantico… I guess you never get over some things.”

“They ridding you for this, I guess. So you ain’t mess their plans.”

“Yeah. And I thought they just hated me.” He laugh short and look back to his old Maria picture. Gaze in suffering thought a moment, face gone tired beyond. Then he turn like sad decision. Take the pistol from his desk. Lodge it in a holder on his belt, and frown to me. “You should go now, santa reina. They’ll already know you’re here, so you don’t have a lot of time. Pedro will be at the barracks of Inúd by now, getting troops out after us. So what you need to do — find Anselm. Tell him what I said, and say you’re on their side. It’s the only side. Do that, and you could live for another fifty years.”

I take empty breath. “Nay, it be done? You trying nothing?”

“Me?” He laugh sour. “No, I’m an idiot. I’ll try to get to my soldiers, and I’ll probably be dead inside an hour. But you should just try to live through this, senyora. It isn’t your fight.”

52. OF FIRST REBELLIONS

RIDE BACK FROM LOISAIDA BE A WORSER DESPERATION. I STARE the broken streets, the littles racing in the trash, and think how it will be, when roos arrive. How, in church, apostles tell the rooish lies in ready voice. Children go obedient for the cure — and slave to wars afar. If any person try resistance, Anselm got all guns to use. These preparations done and done.

And if I heed Simón, I be there also, faithful to their lies. Can hope they give me cure for Driver — be small price for my obedience. Is even chance, all Sengles save, to live uncounten years.

But every other child go perish in the rooish wars. Only be enfants left, that roos will bandon for their uselessness — some hundred thousand enfants, that the city already poor to feed. These starving long, without no help.

And I stare into the passing streets, and breed in rage.

The car stop to the Ministerio. I come out to its hush of Navidad and empty night. Only be my feet to hear, gone crunching in the harden snow. Come up the steps, and in the entrance hall, the dandelions brighten lonely, seem to shine with cold.

Here I pause and heed to nothing. I think, and grasp precaire, and always find new desperations — how soldiers of Inúd already come for me, in violent hundreds; how Sengles caught among, and be too many to hide, too weak to flee. How I be small and ignorant, in a world apostles rule all years.

But soon I see my single choice. It be a hope without myself, a chance beyond my life.

And I grit at my unwant. I turn into my fear. Stalk to the wooden door that open to the underfloors of work.

THESE WORKER STAIRS is narrow plain. Must hike my skirt and lift its heavy tail across my arm; step cautieuse in heely shoes. I come into the unlit hall below and pass the kitchen self, where children clattering-talking still, cook Navidad feasts in preparation. Glass in its door be smeary wet, they show like struggling ghosts. Yo, I go onward, loosing down my skirts, toward the guardrooms’ noise.

This be a room of humble use. Walls brown from cigarettes; the carpet thin as Vember grass. This night of festival season, all the working guards be there. Also be kitchen girls in grease attire, sit drinking restful wine. Ya, Tamara Ten be by, and Pasha big among.

Their larm be laughing shout, in personal English of their burrows. Some hunkern to a flop-ear puppy, say admirations while he chew ferocious at a shoe. Some toss darts; some play at cards. One guard wrestle a kitchen girl upon a lopside sofa, while she laugh, “Your knee! Jo, mano!”

When they notice me, this noise go out like quenchen flame. Guard leap off the kitchen girl, and she sit up with panic eyes. Even Pasha look alarm, put down his shope of wine.

I get sorry inklings self, how this fiesta ruin. A moment, I magine how I leave them in their happy ignorance. Choose safety, and seek Anselm for confessions, how Simón expect. Yo, this cowardesse feel right; like every world desire this cowardesse, and call it wisdom.

But I say in faltering voice, “My children, need your help. Truth, I got no one else to trust.”

They stare back uncomprehending. Can see how Pasha’s eyes misgive. A kitchen girl look scary to a guard, then bite her lip.

“What it is,” I say on stronger, “be asking that you go tonight, tell every child about the roos. You seek the barracks first — tell any soldiers you can find. Most importance be, how roos steal children for their wars.”

They all look frightening to each other. A girl say in confusing voice, “Get prison, what we get from that. That’s stuff I didn’t even like to know.”

“Is prison for tell secrets,” Julio say.

Bean scoff nervy. “Military secrets, what they’re calling that. We was told what happens if we tell that story. Lots of details.”

“Ain’t fearing this,” I say up louder. “Soon it be no prisons left. What I learn tonight — it ain’t no search they do in Massa. They going there to sell you to the roos. Apostles want the cure themself — and only for themself. All other people here be sold like meat.”

THEN BEGIN IMPATIENT TIME of questions, ya, and scary cavils. I must explain the falsen search three times; explain three times, how good Simón been kept in ignorance. And I explain again-again what they can do in help. How they must go to every barracks. Tell the soldiers there and call them out to brave resistance.

Through this, their mood begin to quicken. Fury grow, infecting through them all in righteousness. When any child talk scary, the others badger him with scorn. Is only Pasha silent, face gone whiter while the noise increase.

Ya, sudden in this ferment, Tamara Ten ask in exciting voice, “Senyora, does the penals know?” Around, the talk go hushing, while I narrow on her eary face.

I say, “Ain’t guess they known before. But now they caught by roos themself.”

“No, they’s in Loisaida.” Tamara make a priding smile. “I heard tonight, but they was there two days at least. Down in the projects, where they are.”

The kitchen girl say in, “I heard that. In the Reese, what people said.”

“The Reese?” I say confusing.

“They’s projects,” say Tamara. “In the Loisaida River.”

“Goddamn, they here?” I say. “Is anyone spoken to they penals?”

“They’s hiding, why it’s there.” Tamara shrug. “Course you can’t speak to them.”

“Reese, it’s in the floods there. Half in water,” say the kitchen girl. She put a hand up to her waist to show.

“Yeah,” Bean say, “criminals hide out there. It’s nasty work to get them. It’s a tall old building, you know, and you’re in a boat… if they got guns, bye bye.”

I bite on my nerves a minute. Try to figure how this meaning, that the penals all escape. But can find no sense.

At last, I only say, “The penals ain’t our problems. Nor we can stand all hours discussing. Now, you go. Be losing time.”

Then Pasha speak up, sudden harsh. “Nay. Anselm’s people come for you. If be no guards—”

“That’s right,” a girl say frighten. “That could happen.”

“Yes, they come for me!” I say annoying. “Nor no few guards can help. They kill you also, any child who know. Now go! I keep myself. Ain’t want no child remaining! Go!”

They scatter then like sudden fire. Guards snatching rifles from all corners, duck to fetch their coats. Girls rush with frighten step. Tamara push behind, is giggling high with littlish nerves.

This noisy minute pass outside and dwindle up the stairs. Leave only smoky trails from cigarettes in silent air; the puppy in a corner, licking at a carpet stain. Ya, be Pasha grim.

Then the bandon quiet hurt my nerves. Feel like nothing been. And in the hush, can hear Simón his certainty, his tired despair: I’ll probably be dead inside an hour. You should just try to live through this.

Pasha say, “Come, Ice. We leaving.”

“Cannot,” I say thoughtless. “Must be here.”

“Must?” His voice catch angry. “You need to die?”

When I look, his body grown with rage, his face be empty white.

“Guards,” Pasha say. “You knowing, some be spies?”

I shrug. “Yo sho, be some.”

“You known? And where they gone, they telling Anselm. Soon be soldiers here.”

I take a scary breath, touch to the sweat along my throat. “Soldiers already coming. Spies ain’t matter.”

Then, without no farther word, he come and grab my arm. Start to the door, be dragging me behind with stagger feet.

I slap at him in angry nerves. “You quit! We leave, and then they take my Sengles? We hide while they all kilt? Goddamn, you quit!” I tug his fingers loose, pull free and stumble against a table.

He frown savage, bluish eyes be like an angry blindness. “Why they killing Sengles? Ain’t no sense.”

“Pasha, think! Do this so I come back. Anselm keep my children, and if I ain’t return—”

“Nay.” Pasha make disgusting face. “You magining. They never think this.”

“Yes, they think! I knowing Anselm! Be the first he think.”

“So Sengles hiding after.”

“Pasha, I got no moods to fight! I want to see my Driver, before they come. You can flee. Ya, go! Wish you been safe.”

He grit to this, say stubborn, “Nay, ain’t leave you.”

“There, you see? You see?”

We stare at each other for a second, breathing scary. Then his owlen face go soft. “How I can hide? Be obvious white. But if you only rid they clothes—”

“Yo deaf! You heeding me? I going to see my brother now. Go to the Lowells there! They going to know some place to hide. You go!”

He only shake his head, and I turn flinging to the hall. Trip stumbling on the stairs, and climb their second part with hands and feet. Keep expecting he will chase me, almost be a need. But I come to the top, and be no sound behind. And I go on.

IN MY IGLESIA ROOMS, be still, with heavy mood of sleep. I creep by littles, curlen in their makeshifts under chairs. Pass a tray of cocktails left undrunk, gone pale with melten ice. My heart beat in my throat, and I keep heeding by each window for the larm of cars, of soldier voice.

Come to Driver’s sleeproom, and I slip inside like hunting, careful for my rustle skirt. Be thinking how I leave him sleeping. Cannot tell him nothing, only be to kiss his face.

But as I start across the darken room, his voice come soft: “Ice Cream?”

I catch in awful grief. “Ya, you can sleep. Was only—”

A lamp come bright beside the bed, with Driver’s hand upon. He squint to me, say in his scratching voice, “You bone?”

“Yo sho.” I force a smile. “Been drinking below. For Navidad, you know how.”

“Navidad, be right. Physician said. She left for this.”

“Can sit by you a minute? Ain’t need to talk.”

“Be sure. Ain’t seen no one today.” He flinch and cough his throat. Take breath behind, then smile.

I come, sit to the bedfoot. Look nervy to the yellowing lamp, the jar of pills that shine its glass. The covers rumple and confuse their broidery of stars; his arm lain dark across. Some paper tissues crumplen, white and delicate like flowers. This scene reflect soft in the window, with the moon behind-among. Yo, I hold this moment in my need. How the room be gentle quiet, only be his breath to hear. How my brother live, and I be living. That this be our life.

In this, I go remember, when I been a foaly six, my Driver tell me that the moon be made of salt. Said it be some moon rains, when the salt come to the Earth. What salt be, is crumbs of tiny moon. For years, he never admit that this been fables. Ya, when I cry, he say I be a moon for salty rain. But he never crying nothing. Earth child, what he be.

I want to remind him this somehow, chuff him for his old lies. Tease him, how I always done, that he lose these prankish moods when he becoming sergeant. But it suffer in my mind. Can know now, why a sergeant lose his happy foolishness. Ain’t nothing for himself, and now I see — what I ain’t guess before — Driver never gladden to this work. Been always worries, and our Sengles always fewer, hungry grown. The happy year he made in ruling, he given us his last good life.

Then Driver say into my thought, “Ain’t fearing it no more.”

I look to him unready. When I comprehend, I shake my head. “Ain’t need to fear. We bring the cure. You only keep yourself.”

“Nay.” He take a heavy breath. “Be tired.”

“Shoo, I only woken you. Why you tired.”

“Nay. Been only thinking, is gratty you can have this cure.” He make a weary smile. “Give you time to get some enfants. How you shy from this, I ain’t know.”

“Be why I need you living, brother,” I say forcen light. “Myself ain’t making extra Stars. You get them for us both.”

As I saying this, I hear a carren roar in distance. It grow and complicate, be dozen cars approaching loud. Now I still watch Driver’s face, but I be heeding to the night. A grief hysterical in my chest, but I will feel no grief.

Driver say, “Be sorry, Ice. Been trying how I can.”

“I know,” I say distracting. “Truth, you keeping bone. You strong.”

To this, his eyes go cheaten. He reach his hand to me. I take it, careful for its sores. Then it surprise in me, how Driver’s hand feel solid warm. It be a living hand, can heal.

He say, “Mean something to me, how you try… the cure. It ain’t your blame.”

Be gathering to answer when a shock of gunfire come below. I startle to my feet, and Driver loose my hand in quick surprise. Then he frown toward the window, like resenting this intrusion.

“Is Navidad,” I say in skinny voice. “Why it be guns. They shoot at the sky in their fiesta times, what Anselm told me.”

“Shoot at the sky.” Driver shake his head. “Be waste.”

“Truth, they morons mostly. Yo, I got to be below.” I try to bring a smile, but all my face feel strange and false.

Driver’s eyes go disappointing. “Ain’t meant to grieve you, sister.”

“Shoo, I come back,” I lie, with guilty miseries in my gut. “Ain’t grieving me. Got work, but I come back. You only keep yourself.”

53. NOCHEBUENA ITS FIRST MURDERS

LEAVE HIM, I BE DEAD ALIVE MYSELF. THINK OF THE WINDOWS BY, if I can flee from their uncanny height. Magine how I hide beneath some bed, while soldiers kicking through. Through this, I feel how I must go. Face any guns, so they keep from my Sengles. So Driver never know.

I step inside the elevator, lean back to the wall. Doors close solid, and I close my eyes against my fear. Hear my breath come quick and angry, feel my final time departing as the elevator sink. Think how Driver hold my hand, and been like something lasting, safe to love. How I will never see him die, be safe from this forever. And the elevator gather underfoot. I frighten up.

Doors come open to the empty hall. Only a moth be flickering at a dandelion light above. Can hear male voices from the entrance hall, in Panish talk. Ya, be strangers, all these voices strange.

I go out precarious, clutching hands into my skirt. Ankles be unstrong with fright, must concentrate to walk correct. And as I come out to the hall, all soldiers round on me.

Be mostly fifty soldiers there. I balk my step, feel like my blood depart in flying dizziness. Need to run, to crouch behind some object, but I hold. I only make a throaten yelp as they all turn their guns.

A dozen soldiers run toward. Bigly child with stubble face get to me first. He grinning like some hate insanity. Aim his rifle in shooting posture, straight into my eyes.

A second, I be dead in mind. My body terrify to nothing, like it turn to absent water. Above this, I be thinking, Nay, must be some way to live. Then the child loose down his rifle, laugh in gloating voice. Another soldier grab my arm.

Be a sickness moment when I know them for Inúds. Can see it from their mustache face, their looks of wealthy feeding. Yo, they mostly wearing scarves of eagle flag like Lopez. Know this, and I wince eyes from them. Is like their looks be poison self.

Only then I notice Pasha by the doors, with soldiers round. I lose my panic then, twist my arm free. Say high, “Ain’t need that.”

Inúds raise up their guns. But when I walk toward Pasha, they only follow, waring rifles.

I go to him with every madness noisy in my head. Feel everything be right, once I can only be by Pasha. They kill us, but I lose my terror. Death be safe in comfort — and I walk to him on feet like cotton, feet without no blood. Yo, he watch me come like I be everything he fearing worst. Got marks of beating on his face — blood in his corner-mouth and reddish scuffing on his temple. His eyes be senseless bright.

When I get near, he reach to me. Then I go smiling terrify, and take his hand in mine. Some child say annoying Panish, but they never hinder.

I say to Pasha, in my slow rooish, Why you ain’t hid? Should hide.

First he stare on me unheeding, trancen with his grief. Then he say, How I can hide?

Go to Lowells. How we said.

His hand tense in mine. Without yourself? They never take me.

Sure they done.

Lowells risk themself for me?

I look to his bluish eyes, and this go desolate through my blood. Forget my rooish, and I whisper, “Be sorry. I ain’t thought.”

Then his eyes soften weak. He muttern, “Nay. Ain’t never left you, truth.”

Now come some Panish shouts behind. Our closer soldiers push at Pasha, point us to the doors. Another soldier open, and the wind come freezing in. Pasha loose my hand, and we go through, all soldiers shoving round. Come out to honest cold. The Cember wind grip in my flesh.

On the upper step, Inúds all halt in gathering. Me-Pasha caught among. Some child nose his gun into my arm, most like he seek attention. But when I look to him, he staring pointless at my breasts. I cross my arms. Dread risen stiff and bright along my sweaten nape.

Then a groaning start along the street. Is cars in haste approach — and for a breath insane, I think these cars be help. Be friendly soldiers, callen by my guards. Or be Simón somehow, with Loisaidas for our rescue.

But Inúds look toward the noise like normal expectations. Ya, three cars come driving in. All blue the same, with BARRIO DE INÚD writ on their paint. They slow up to the step.

Two soldiers trot down to the first car. Open its hinder door, and in its seat, can see a child in shadow. Their hands go in to catch him, and he move like cringing, skree complaint. But they grabbing at his arms, they haul and struggle him out. He fall on knees in snow, and be a roo.

Roo be barefoot, and even in darkness light, can see these feet be wrong. They purplish, swollen big like shoes. As the soldiers drag him to the steps, he keep on handsen-knees. Strain anyhow to hold these feet above the hurting ground. While he crawl, he looking wild around for any help. Yo, his eyes find Pasha. He rear and scream his voice in beggary.

Pasha only stare to this. The other roo start struggling, screaming, catching at the steps. A soldier point a gun into his face, and he flinch back annoying. Cry in peevish voice, Brother! What they want with me?

Now Pasha seem to wake. Gather himself in breath and yell, Fight how you can! They kill you!

A soldier beside us turn his rifle. Swing it rough and club my Pasha in the head with its thick stock. Pasha hunch, grab to his head with nuisance face. The other roo swear high.

Soldiers by the other roo now grab him by the arms. Go dragging him up the steps on knees and belly. He fight backward with his weight. Can hear his yelping breath. Yo, Pasha watch, one hand still touching to his injure head. Ain’t show no feeling, he only stare attentions. But when the soldiers drag the roo into the Ministerio doors, Pasha’s face go soft in hurt. He look to me and say, “Now they can kill you.”

It take a puzzle breath before I comprehend his meaning. Then I laugh surprising, weak. “Ya, be a Christ. Can see.”

Pasha make impatient face and look back to the cars. I want to say some vally joke, how they be morons neverless. Kill every person here, and still they fuss to make a new Maria. But cannot think no words to this. Is only skew insanities, how God survive when we all kilt. How any person worship gods, when gods ain’t even brave to die.

Then sudden, the soldiers shove us forward. The clubbing soldier point his rifle close to Pasha’s head, so it keep nosing in his hair as we go down the steps. They bring us to the roo’s car, and Pasha duck inside before they ask. His whole body be disgust now, like he hate this imbecile work. I creep in behind, and scare peculiar when the seat be warm. Look back, flinching to a touch, and find a fifteenish soldier tucking my long skirt inside. He startle back with pology face. Say whispern, “Lo siento.” Another hand go slam the door.

Car got a wiren barrier between the forward and hinder seats. Nor it got no inside handles. Be like the car that brought us to Marias first. A simple trap.

As I notice this, the driver open up his door. Stand out from the car, and walk back toward the cars behind.

Then Pasha touch my arm. Say whispern, “Ice, can need your diamonds.”

“Ho, think the driver trade for this?”

He shake his head with obvious face and gesture to the car’s back window. “Can break.”

I sigh preciation. Work the jewlerie hasty open, pull it tugging from my throat. Then Pasha wrap the diamond string against his knuckles. Put this diamond fist in pocket, then look back to me. “Can be, we jump out while they drive.”

I nod and reach down to my feet. Pasha watch this doubtful until I unhook my first heely shoe, show it to him.

“Hurt you,” he say soft. “Bare feet.”

“Be Sengle feet. They tough.”

Then he stiffen somehow, staring to the window over me. I look up scary, and find Anselm standing by the car.

He talking Panish with our driver. Got a carboard cup in hand, and as I watch, he sip from this. Look jittery, and his other hand keep rubbing at his shaven head. His pointy eyes glance to me and pass on, while he still talking.

At last, the driver nod. Come climb back in the car, clap his door shut.

Then Anselm turn, look to me straight. Through the dirty window, his chub face be tired resenting. He call, voice dim behind the glass, “I wanted to save you, santa reina. I was trying.”

Then all my terrors break in rage. I scream, “Ain’t want your saving, filth! How many people need to die so your unwanten life continue? Nobody want you living! You an unwant cockroach! Cockroach!”

While I be yelling, Anselm turn himself with tensen body. Walk to the car behind and climb inside. Slam its door loud.

Then I sit back in breathing misery. Pasha got his worry face. Ya, the driver laughing to himself, look at me in his mirror. I call to him in trembling voice, “Ho, where you taking us?”

The driver only lose his smile. Reach forward and he start the car. I scoff, bend down to rid my other shoe. Yo, as I get it free, the car hitch forward. I sit up, look back scary where the Ministerio swerve away. Its lights pass off behind and start to lose behind the parque trees.

Yo, among these trees, I see, in sudden tininess, Tamara. Is walking seriose, alone beneath the bosky shadows. My heart go strange to this. I look back to my Pasha, where he sitting tense.

He whispern, “Going northward. Metro, can be.”

“Prison there,” I whispern. “Where they killing us, can guess.”

“Ya,” Pasha say distracten. He raise a shushing finger, look back to the following cars. I look back self, and spy my Anselm in the car behind. He in the forward seat, but got his body twisten back. Is arguing something, wave one arm. His cup held stiff apart. Then we pass beneath a light, and everything erase in glare.

Pasha bring out his diamond fist. He muttern rooish, We go in the woods. Can hide, then see.

I nod and turn to brace myself. Look anxy to the passing street, how it slip fast behind.

Then the driver shout. The car pitch violent, squealing noise. Quick as punching, Pasha-me thrown into the wiren barrier. My breath chuck out, and I fling back again into the bouncy seat. Pasha fall on my wrist somehow, and I gasp rough with pain.

Car rock back, and all be still. I lain half on the seat, can only see my Pasha waring. His mouth be dripping blood again.

Then the gunshots start.

I cringe down. Yell Pasha’s name, ain’t got no knowledge why. He duck, then rise again. Punch heavy to the backward window. His fist skeer off, ain’t even make much sound. But he gather and punch again. The window changen crazy. It hold a second, webben white, then fall in shatters down. I squinch my eyes as glass wash tickling down my face. The gunfire risen sharp, like loud complaint against this wreck.

I look back panicking, blinking glass, and find the wiren barrier got a glossy wet upon. Is red in streetlight, it be blood. Got time to only notice the driver’s skewen head, his face be wrong, then Pasha pull me back. He yelling, “Ice! You follow! Now!”

“Ya, I know!” I say in brainless fury. “Yes!”

Then he go barging all his force back through the shattern window. I take a scary breath and climb out after, clumsy in my skirts. Lace catch somewhere as I land my hand down on some spearing glass. Yo, I keep scrambling on its sticking pain, I tear my skirt, be free. A soldier running past, and as he look to me, a gunshot louden. He snag in air, pitch forward.

And I pitch forward, knowing awful, this been someone shot. I slip down from the car’s hind end, land soft on Pasha’s back. He grab me rough, be hissing rooish. Push me until I comprehend and crawl beneath the carren belly.

Expect he follow, but he leap away. His shadow vanish. I lie into the slushen grit behind a wheel its scaly flank. My breath come fast in bursts, I peer out to the glistening street. Be craving to know what guns these be, to spy some face I know. That Julio-Bean be there. Simón.

First, all I seeing be the soldier shot. He curling, still alive, around his hurt. Seize and stretch and seize, like worm that struggle on a hook. A gunshot ring against the car, and all its metal wince. I flatten myself harder, fist my hand unthinking on that glass. Pain recognize in distance, but then some feet go running past, and it be Pasha’s churching shoes. I creep forward, till my face press to the rubber wheel its dirt. Try seeing where he gone. The snowy wheel be wet against my cheek.

Then a body fling down on the road. Is Anselm, scrabbling on his back. Feet seem tanglen in his long brown skirts, his throat be blood. His face be inches from my face, and in this brainless second, I take breath to call to him that he crawl under with myself. But then a soldier’s feet run in. One boot come down on Anselm’s chest, ya Anselm grab its ankle weak. A rifle nose slip into sight, and shoot in Anselm’s face three times. Blood fly warm into my eyes, wet chunks hit stinging at my brow. Be squinting blind against, is only unbelief in me. My mind keep saying loud that this ain’t been.

Then someone grab my foot. I kick in panic, yelping breath. And Pasha yell behind, “Come! Ice!”

I scrape around in panic, bang my shoulders to the carren belly. Skirt lace catch again and rip again with gratty ease. I fling into the scary open, where my Pasha wait in crouch. Got rifle now, and both his hands is dark, is red. He wave forward, and I leap with him, run quick on hurting pebbles. Be steep exhilaration now to run, to flee like I been needing. But Pasha pull me sudden back. I come stumbling, swearing. He push me at an open car door.

I yank resisting, but he force me harder, yelling rooish. I dive in, swearing madness, and he push in big behind. Slam up the door, grab me again. I struggle thoughtless as he force me to the carren floor. Flatten himself above me, and the car begin to move.

FIRST MOMENTS OF THIS JOURNEY, I be only trembling, breathing tears. Keep rubbing at my face, think how these tears wash Anselm’s blood away. I find some glass left on my cheek, and flick it from me panicking, like it be a piece of death on me. In my mind, I see how Anselm lain. How he grab the soldier’s boot like beggary. The gun come down. It flash and flash. Be trying to think of justice, how he taking us to kill. But nothing righten in my mind. Any evils Anselm done, they been enough. Ain’t want more evils. I only crave the hour before, when no killings been.

At last, I notice Pasha stroking on my shoulder. I open eyes. See the floor its dust, a flatten cigarette end there. My diamond braid hang by. Still got a speck of glass among the hair, shine brighter than its gems.

Then Pasha say low, “Ice, you hurt?”

Take a breath, and I surprise when my voice come like normal. “Nay. You hurt?”

“Nay. Ain’t need to frighten now. We bone.”

“Ain’t frighten.” I swallow at my throat, say weak, “You crushing me.”

He ease his weight away, push up to lie along the seat. I turn myself, look wary up. Car got one shattern window. Glass remain in jags, crush into sparkle toward its hole. From here, the wind come mean on my wet face. I clutch against myself and say in whisper, “Who they be?”

“Ain’t know,” say Pasha.

This catch me funny somehow. I laugh, and only then get conscience that I still be weeping. Rub at my face and say, “Goddamn. Been wolfen, that. Been wolfen?”

“Nay.” Pasha touch my shoulder again. “Sure you ain’t hurt?”

“Yo, my hand.” I open up my palm. Shard of glass be obvious big, and I go pick it out unthinking. Then sudden blood wash down my wrist. I laugh up thin, while Pasha swearing. He grab my hand and wrap it quick into my dressen skirt. Pull the lacy fabric tight, and close my hand upon.

Then a voice come from the forward seat, “You two all right back there?”

I shift to sitting. In the forward seat, it be two children. The first a Ministerio driver that I known, our Pepi. The other child a stranger, chub-face jones in soldier garb.

Pepi sketch his eyes back, say in anxy voice, “You got the message?”

“Message?” I say hoarse. “Nay, what you meaning?”

The stranger child laugh harsh. “Figures. Ricky’s an idiot.”

Pepi nod toward him. “This is Taco. It’s my brother.”

“Ho, Taco,” I say stupid. “Like the meal.”

Pepi-Taco laugh, but Pasha say impatient through, “Where we go?”

Taco stiffen at this. Look back disliking on my Pasha. “Just making sure we lost those Inúds. Then we’re going to Metro.”

“Nay, we in Metro now,” I say.

Taco bring his face to better courtesy. “Miss Maria, we just got to shake off anybody who’s following us. Don’t want them to know where you’re going. That’d be a whole other mess.”

“But I want no Metro,” I say. “What we wanting there?”

Pepi say, “We take you to Felipe.”

“Felipe?” I say footless. “Apostle Felipe?”

“Yeah, that’s the one.” Taco get a careful face. “So, Miss Maria, here’s the thing. Felipe wants you to meet him at his church.”

“Ain’t safe,” say Pasha.

“Oh, really?” Taco squint at him. “I didn’t know that, thanks. Now I’m suddenly scared for the first time.”

Pepi say in worry voice, “You don’t afraid, senyora?”

“Afraid?” I clutch my injure hand. “Nay, of Felipe.”

“It’s really just getting there,” Taco say. “The bad guys don’t know Felipe’s left the team. So, you get in the church, you’re good. It’s Nochebuena mass, so everybody in Metro’s there. You got Felipe’s guards, you should be safe. And we’ll just disappear, so once you get inside—”

“But hold,” I say. “You saying, Felipe sent you? This be his?”

Taco biggen eyes. “You think Felipe done this? Serious?”

“Then who?” My voice come peevish. “Who you be?”

For answer, Taco put his hand up, show its scribblen back. Black among the soldier drawings be a fatten P.

I frown, think through all burrow names I known. Taco wait with mischief pleasure — like we play at riddles, and he choose his question well. At last, my wits come clear. “Goddamn, you penals? What it is?”

“Yeah,” say Taco. “Guys back there who saved you. Penals. Remember that.”

“Shee,” I say, “but how you known to come? My people told?”

“Miss Maria,” Taco say, “we didn’t know a goddamn thing. We thought we was picking you up from the sidewalk, peaceful. And I cannot believe Ricky didn’t give you the message. That’s some limp behavior.”

Pepi say with nervy laugh, “When we come, is soldiers everywhere. We don’t know anything. We must get other men, so quick.”

I shake my head. “But how Felipe be in this?”

Taco shrug. “Do we know? We don’t know. Mamadou said to bring you to Felipe, so that’s what we’re doing.”

“Mamadou?” I say footless. “Nay, was Mamadou sent you there?”

“Yeah, you’re in Mamadou’s war.” Taco grin. “I’m sorry, Miss Maria. That’s what’s happening.”

I sit back, staring foolish. Now the car, its darkness wind, feel like peculiar sleeps. Taco go lean down, can see him fishing up a bottle. Uncap the bottle and he drink, and all these shadow motions be a disbelief to me. Only the cold seem real, the forward seats close to my nose.

Then Taco squint eyes back to Pasha. “Mister Jesus, can you be a second gun for me? Just lying there… I mean, no offense, but she’s the one who’s got to live.”

54. THE SEARCH TO MASSA WOODS

FOR LONGER TIME, WE GOING NOWHERE. PASHA-TACO KEEP THEIR windows down, ware out with guns. I shiver and clutch my hand onto its blood, press back to Pasha’s warm. Car swing us to its weight in turning, rile its engine louden-soft, and Taco’s voice continue through the wind like comfort dream. He telling the story, how the search transpire in Massa woods.

THE SEARCHERS BEEN JUAN’S GUARD of twenty men, with sixty penals. Ya, been Mamadou — Crow — First Runner, quiet kept from all. Leader been apostle Juan. This child be a young sixteen, face still got looks of baby chubness. Most every penal-guard look huge beside his ungrown self. “So, how that always goes,” say Taco. “Juan’s just got to show how tough he is. Kid’s never been near a gunfight, so don’t nobody tell him nothing. But basically, Miss Maria, that’s the definition of an officer.”

First night been easy journeys. Drive to Citgo camp took petty hours; our Massa horses there. Only been some trepidations when they choosing ponies. Marianos mostly never sat a horse before. Of all they children, only Juan be cleverish to ride.

Juan take the NewKing’s personal stallion, Beg-No-Pity. Choose this grandy horse for show, and suffer his bucking tempers. Mamadou-Crow take Army beasts; First Runner take my Money, kickety mare who dislike strangers. The others find some Lowell horses, slow to any bother. Ya, it take some sweating work before they make these animals move.

Beyond these normal mishaps, been no trouble their first days. Was only on their third night out no histories begin. This been a petty incident about the NewKing’s rifle, that he buying with my eary diamond.

From first beginnings, the child who sold this object get regrets. But his greed ain’t tolerate to trade the diamond back. Instead, he sneak around the NewKing, robbery in mind. But how it is, my Mamadou bewaring murders on this trip. Even in sleep, he leave Crow watching or First Runner.

This bring the penal — Sticks in naming — into bad frustrations. So, on the second night, Sticks wait until First Runner’s watch. Tackle her from behind and rob the rifle from her unsize hands. Then he stalk careless off. How he think, be any fight, his townie penals join with him.

First Runner stubborn as a rock, and all her mind be honor. Ain’t even comprehend no person do this wormliness. So she dog this penal’s heels, explain his fault with loud complaint. When Sticks only swearing back, her noise increase to yell. Soon every child be woken, ya the NewKing first among.

Can think, the NewKing risen angry to this stealing problem. But he laugh like the others, how First Runner read this jumbo soldier lessons on his cowardesse. When Sticks swat a hand at her, she dodge, but never quit her scold. Soon be children shouting that he give the rifle back. Ain’t no one sleep without.

Taco tell us, “I think Sticks might have just done it. But Mamadou decides to make an issue. He gets up and says, ‘I fight you for it.’ So, we all knew Mamadou had the broken shoulder, so people’s saying, ‘You can’t fight with all that.’ But Mamadou won’t let it go. And Sticks, he comes out ready. So that’s what they done.”

Sticks be burglar people. All his boxing been with stubborn windows. Yo, Mamadou scrapping every day of life, how Armies do. So this fight be quick and done. Soon Sticks be flubbering in the dirt with blooden nose and gasping breath. Mamadou kneel upon and rob my diamond from his pocket. Fling it off in yonder woods. Sticks spend the farther night in hunting for this small richesse.

After this, the penals hold the NewKing in regard. Nor they lose respects when Crow explain what Nat Mass Armies been. To them, the simpers be like sexy fantasies. Ya, tales about the feathers kilt — by roos, by Soledad — become their tragedy entertainments. They prize myself in admiration, that I save the NewKing; yo, the NewKing be like sacred heroes, that Maria save him. All be mysteries of drama, better than no boring life.

FIFTH DAY OF THIS SEARCH, the expedition catch two roos. These fled the rooish army themself, behind some crime they done. Yo, they relieve to hear the Marianos talking Panish. Like Pasha, this be languages they learnt in earlier war. Juan and his closer guards go question them apart. They be an hour away, then Juan return with pleasing smile.

One capture roo, guards shoot direct. Ain’t hide this for no decency. The other roo, they hold and break his feet, to keep him from escape. Smash them with a rifle stock, while he scream and beg his life. Then they lift him, sobbing weak, to ride behind a guard.

How Taco say, this cruelty start a time of evil moods. All hours, can hear the roo his groans. When he must climb down, land on his feet, he scream like baby agony. And now Juan take a sideward road, without no explanations. Road be thin and overgrown, is mostly lost to trees. Yo, thick along its length be bandon towns.

“That road was terrifying, serious,” Taco say. “It was just empty houses, and you could see that people’d been living there. Yeah, you could smell it. Cause we’d come through a patch of houses and, my god. You try breathing through your mouth, and you could taste it. Just dead bodies. The penals was all praying, and these are not religious people. And when you saw a body — sometimes they’d left them hung in a tree — at first, they’d look like they were moving, you know? But it was just all maggots. And that Russian crying and screaming. And all the time, he keeps saying in Spanish, No, we’re going to the Russians here. Why are we going to them? You know, he still prefers us. So, you start to think about that.”

The penals see no necessary wrong, to go toward Russians. All known, they hunting roos. But Mamadou born to evil ways. Worst guess will be his first belief. Yo, he known Deema; known what roos expect from helpful children. Start working in his mind, and ask Juan’s guards some sneaky questions. Then it take no thinking hours before he comprehend. He tell his conclusions to the penals in his confidence, with certainty of pride.

At first, they shoo his notions. But their progress through dead towns prolong a day, another day. Soon no evil seem peculiar to belief. The corpsen pue keep sickening in their breath, the Russian’s wailing scrape their nerves. Camping at night, no child can sleep, go jittering up at every sound. Yo, Mamadou say and he repeat, Juan bring us to the Russians now. We be his first payment.

Second night of this, they come to woods beyond no houses. Is dusk, but ain’t no child got moods to camp. They dread the forward path, and dread the woods immediate around; dread the road behind with all its stank of rotten death. Yo, as the sun go quenching into blackness, they hear voices.

First, they only halt their horses, irresponsible with fear. Even Juan stare terrifying round. Aim gun at shadows. But slow, they start to hear correct — these voices be of enfant children. Is littles, squeaking harmless, somewhere in the forward dark.

Then Juan trot on forward. The others follow, laugh relief. Be magining some healthy place, some company from fear.

Through the inky trees, the town be normal in its looks. Houses all sit close together, streets be trodden grass. But, as they ride in, a scream come up. All petty shadows scatter, vanish like some panic mice. The houses slam, the woods go crunching with all desperate feet. Time they come out to the clear, be only the houses with their unlit windows, dumb in silent woods.

Juan go yell, in Panish, ya in English. Promise friendship. This only bring a daring skree, “We got guns! Go away!” Penals-guards try calling also, swearing various to faith. But be no farther word. Only can see a rifle pointing from a neary window.

TACO TELL US, “So Mamadou says he’ll send First Runner, and everyone else should back off. He just says this, like he’s in charge. But nobody’s got any better ideas. And yeah, she goes, doesn’t even say anything. Knocks at a door. And they let her in, and it’s like five minutes later, all these little kids come out. There was just little kids, that’s all it was there. Nobody over ten years old.”

BEEN MOST FIVE HUNDRED ENFANTS in this clutch of twenty buildings. All be from the murdern towns beside that evil road.

Some was left by all their older children without violence. How this been, a roo appear, tell promises about the cure. Say it be one day of walking to their wonder hospital, where every jones can heal. But no littles can accompany. Place be risky for their health. So the older children leave, with only carrying enfants taken. Nor no whisper coming back. These children gone and gone.

Worser stories start alike. A roo appear with promises, but children slow to trust. His promises becoming threats, and when this ain’t succeed, the roo depart. Return a week behind, with hundred others, wearing guns.

Times they only herding jones together, shoot no child. But if people hide, they murdering for demonstrations. Will take whoever come obedient; then they hunting through the woods with hounds, kill who they find.

Ya, been one town where every child been murdern, small and big. Only one petty six survive, who hidden sneaky in a woodpile. Stay in this darkness, terrify, while shooting-screaming pass and dwindle. Come out to a world of dead, all staring, crawling strange with ants.

Now, ain’t no older child remain. In all these woods, is only brats. By fews and fews, they gather here, for comfort in their numbers. Ya, these weeks, the winter worsen into cold starvation. Now they eating moths and bark, whatever seeming most like food. Already some smaller enfants die from want.

These tales bring the Marianos into awful sentiments. Soon they given most their food away, forgot their practical minds. They sleep that night on floors, with littles cuddling to their warm. How Taco say, most penals-guards got enfants of their own. Can do some vicious manners, but they weakly for a baby.

Yo, every child expecting certain, now their journey find its end. Will bring these enfants back in rescue. Obvious be simple. With-without no cure, the city need to rid these Russians. It even be insistences, they kill their captive roo.

But in the morning, Juan say they must ride on. Enfants ain’t their care, they must continue with the search.

“NOW, IF WE DON’T DO what he says, we can’t go home. That’s the thing. It’s a disobeying orders thing, I don’t know if you know that. And it’s weird. That point, we all believed — the penals done — what Mamadou said, how they’d sell us to the Russians. But we all started down the road again. It’s habitual or some shit, I don’t know.

“So I don’t know how far that would have gone. If we would have done something. Cause then Mamadou starts to come to us, and says he’s going to take Juan out. And we were, okay, that wasn’t no problem. That was good. And he says, when he does it, we should go back to the town. He’ll meet us there.

“Well, we started hanging back right off. Cause we didn’t know what the guards were thinking. Nobody’s happy, but what are they thinking? It could have been a whole firefight.”

How Mamadou rid Juan safe, been neater foxeries. He take a piney stick. Peel it particular to hurt. Then, in their normal progress, he trot up behind where Juan ride Beg-No-Pity. Raise arm and land this stick with force in Beg-No-Pity’s tender parts.

Horse hit out like bullet furiose, Juan clinging on. Ya, Mamadou gallop after. Guards startle footless, take some time to even know their eyes. At last, they go pursuing, but they all be stupid riders. Only lose themself in trees, their horses sluggish to no chase.

Penals never wait. They turn back to the enfant town. After a minute’s ride, they hear some gunshots from the hinder woods. Get to the town at their slow trot, and Mamadou be there already. He riding Beg-No-Pity, and he raise Juan’s rifle in his hand. Pass this off to Sticks while all the others laughing wild relief.

And Mamadou say, “Whoever fear rebellion, go and find they guards. Ain’t need you. But whoever want to make this right, you come with me.”

From this moment, he been telling orders to them all. He leave some children back to bring the enfants to Marias, ya First Runner stay in trust. Others ride home quick. Infest the projects in the flood. Been there eight days, done every spying work, prepare their secret war. Now, how Taco boast, they take the city, rid these wrong apostles. Then they go to wolfen combat, kill all Russians born. Be histories to write about their missions wonderful. “Seriously, what we’re doing here? Who else ever done that? I’ll tell you — no one done anything like it, Miss Maria. What I’m saying.”

55. THE METRO SPEECH

WHILE THIS TALE CONTINUE, MY HAND QUIT ITS NUISANCE BLEEDING. Taco reach us back his booze, and Pasha clean my face with this, rub with his inside sleeve. He find a cut above my eye, and I try to gladden, how I maybe get a bragging scar. But, ever Taco rest his voice, I see my Anselm in the dirt. See the rifle nose come down. His dying blood hit on my face. Then I push back toward Pasha’s knees, gone shivering awful through myself. Once Pasha hunch and arm me round. We huddle in the dark, my head press into his warm throat, while shadows slipping over us, the cold wind ache its voice.

Taco’s story finish, and I be lying half in sleep, skirt wrap around my freezing arms, when the car come slow and stop. I open eyes to friendly lectric lights, good nighten softness.

Pasha say, “We here, Ice.” He put his palm down to my forehead, like he check my fever.

“Ya, I bone. Is Metro?”

“Should be okay here,” Taco say. “Unless you go in and Felipe’s dead all over the place. That’d be a bad sign.”

We all laugh scary to this. I sit up, touch my head. Feel like it going to ache, but it be only weighten wrong. Pasha open the carren door, and I crawl out behind him, feeling bruises stiff down my left side. Step out on snow concree that ache into my naked feet.

Pasha slam the door, and our good car go driving off in roar. I look back startling, feel some cheaten nerves that Pepi-Taco gone. Then Pasha touch my arm reminding. I come hasty on my painful feet toward the churchen steps.

At the doors, there be three Metros, perfect in their wealthy clothes. Do stooping reverence as I come. A fourteen girl in blackish furry coat hold out a cup to me. Say Panish, touch her chest. Male beside her say, “For warm, senyora.”

I take the cup. Is gratty hot in my stiff fingers. I think of poison, but I drink it neverless. Is heaten wine. Pasha fussing at my skirt, brush something from its cloth. Stand up again with worry eyes. I hand the cup back to this girl and whisper, “Gracias.”

Then we pass into the softer cold of this big church.

Be lit with thousand candles, set in spidery metal tachments on the ceiling and the walls. Still the church be gentle with good brown darkness. Seats be full, ya children standing thick behind-around. All be in everycolor finery gowns and churching suits, and when they see me, they all kneel. Look like wildflower grass that flatten in wind. Yo, from this thousand, come a sigh. Is like the church itself moan wishful. Can hear a girlish sob among, and mutters of Maria, Maria.

Felipe waiting in the forward church. He shaven off his crafty beard, and he gaze naked on me, eyes religiosen weak. Silver robe hang like a mood of passion, fit his love. He beckon hand to me.

Pasha stay back by the door. Ya, I step lonesome through the hall, go forward conscious on bare feet. Skirt brush against the Metros, who still bow their heads unseeing. My sleepiness be gone, and now I feel myself a dirty fear. Can smell the blood on me again; the booze where Pasha try to clean it. Any Maria grace forgot. Be walking like a tired scratcher, come back sick from war.

As I come close, Felipe kneel. I know this ritual now, and I reach out my unhurt hand. He take it, kiss its ring, and rise up easy to his feet. Eyes shine like heavens, and he muttern soft, “Tell them, santa reina. About the cure, the Russians.”

“You ain’t told?” I whisper weak.

He shake his head with worship looks. “Don’t worry. I’ll translate for you.”

Then he turn to the kneeling crowd, rise somehow in his height. Cry up, and his voice sound heroic big, he ring the hall. Is Panish, wrong to comprehend, and I be only thinking desperate, feeling for my needful words. Yo, too soon, he turn to me. I take a scary breath and face the crowd.

SPEECH BEGIN FROM NOTHING — Massa woods its quiet, finding Pasha in the burning house. I tell about the cure, tell every evidence that drive us to our journey. Gather in passion as I tell about the clausen signing; how I ask apostles for a war against the roos. Yo, my voice come ragged when I tell the search its treachery. How Simón kept ignorant; how Anselm come to kill myself for only knowing what they do.

Ya, turn and turn, Felipe repeat in Panish, like a songly answer. Our voices echo, thin and full, the candles change their light.

Last, I say feroce in need, “Can know it be a wrongness to you, that I be Maria. But no one sell my people to their death. Ain’t going to be. And ever I be a stranger, I ain’t leave you from the cure. You all will live, or I ain’t live. I fight by you to my last blood.”

While Felipe repeating this, I gaze out to the spaniels. Their faces now be wondering stark. Is like they witness some impossible change — a moon that speak, a sky that part to show a face. Yo, I feel my heart again. Feel how I come on tired feet from Massa with this message. And in their scary faces, these rich worshipers be like myself; like all bad children callen to a goodness past all hope.

In sudden change, Felipe hush. Raise both his arms like victory.

Then all these Metros leap up to their feet, yell heart’s approval. Shout come exploding huge, then break in differences of voice. Be weeping, ya, and laughter. People hug each other wild. Can see some mothers pull their enfants up to stand on stumble feet.

Ya, Felipe gazing at me footless, ravish lost. His face besweaten bright. His eyes be tears. Here I remind uncomfortable, this child believe that I be god. Magine how he say some prayer insane, and I must answer.

But when he speak, he only say, “I’ve got a car waiting, santa reina. We decided it was safest that you come to my house.”

56. FELIPE HIS RELIGIONS

FELIPE’S RESIDENCIA BE A PALACE HUGE IN WHITE SIMPLESSE. Got garden trees around, and lights of Navidad along its brow; is sprucen decorations to its pillars. This night, be any dozen guards around the outside wall. Ya, while we coming up the steps, we hear the guns of our young war, a battering in distance. Shots thicken to a cicada trill of noise, then switch in hush.

Pasha walking by me, and I catch on to his sleeve. A moment, he only watch on me, is like he love my face. Then he say hoarsen, “Ice, we safe here.”

I shake my head, let go his arm. Been feeling how these warry murders mine, I ask them into life. But I got no words for this. I look unhappy to Felipe. He halten tense before us, his silver dress swing into stillness. Say low exhilarate, “You know, all Loisaida’s come out for us? I just got word before you came. Simón Zelote’s with us, he’s got five hundred men out fighting. And all the midtown barracks — I heard you sent your guards to raise them, senyora?”

“Ya,” I say distracting. “Guess I done.”

Felipe shake his head like wondering miracles. “It’s really happening.”

Then clack footsteps sound behind the door. A light flash on inside, and tall Felipe shrink somehow. Flinch as the door come open.

THIS PROBLEM BE FELIPE’S WIFE. Girl be prettieuse as heavens, clad in lily garments complicating pink with lace. Is showing pregnant, and even her pooch belly seem an ornament. Ain’t help but wonder if my El Mayor done love with her.

She lead us in with showing manners. Kiss my ring, do stooping courtesies to Pasha Jesus. Say we must call her by her name, Carola, like this be a gift. She take us to their tree of Navidad, explain its ornaments — and all these be some flatteries on Maria and her Christ.

But in this, her smile discomfort. Ever she look at Pasha, all her face go stiff like tasting mud. Keep skitting eyes toward Felipe, like she ask some needy question. Can guess without no words, she wish we never coming here.

When all emptinesses done, she take Felipe by his hand. Say something low in Panish that make Pasha frown his eyes. Then she-Felipe bicker soft, their voices habit bitter. At last, he woof up loud, make stopping gesture with both hands. Carola take her breath, step back. Heely shoe clack loud, is like a stubborn last objection. But she force decency to her face. Say to Pasha thin, “My husband wants talk with our lady still. Please, you come with me, I find you a room for sleep. You want some meal?”

“Sí, gracias,” say Pasha shy.

Carola beckon her hand and turn with sour glance at Felipe. Roo grimace to me in by-salue. I muttern, “Save me food.”

THE ROOM FELIPE BRING ME to be prettieuse bizarre. Walls cover entire by jumbo pictures, showing sleeper children easing in a parque woods. They romp on swings and hug each other in some puffety clothes. Room be lacy green with painten trees.

As we come in, Felipe pause. Unbutton his silver robe and sling it careless on a chair. Beneath, he wear a fashion suit, elegant in blackness. He tug this straight, sit on a sofa. I sit by with curiose mood. Be woken from my tired, like war bring its own feary morning.

“Santa reina,” he say soft, “I know this has been a difficult day. But I’ve been wanting to talk to you so badly.” He cross his arms against himself, eyes shining. “And now I don’t know how to start.”

“Shoo, you talking bone.”

“It’s just, I’ve been praying to you so long. It’s strange.”

I flinch queery. “Sure, your faith.”

“Oh, I know you don’t believe that. El Mayor told me.” Felipe smile. “I’ve figured out how it must be. Really only a true Maria would deny she was a true Maria. If you felt that you were acting for God, you would be eaten up by pride. It would corrupt you. So paradoxically, the fact that you don’t know is a proof that you’re genuine.”

“Foo,” I say discomfort. “I been God, I going to notice.”

“No, it’s the spirit that’s in you, that I can see and you can’t — that’s the gift. It’s obvious — only not to you. That’s the essence of your purity.”

I fidget nervy at my skirt. Find the patch of blood from my cut hand, gone stiff along the lace. Then I say low, “You known the other apostles’ plans? About the search in Massa?”

He flinch, look guilty to the floor. Nod with misery face.

“Yo, why you never told me?” I say. “If I being God and so.”

“Anselm told us that you knew. Of course, I see it now.”

“Nay, I sent El Mayor to ask you. Why I asking, if I known?”

“But El Mayor…” Felipe look up nervy. “I didn’t trust him. The way he appeared and wanted to be my friend, I thought he must be Anselm’s spy. And anyway, Mamadou came right after that. Did you get the message from Ricky?”

“Been no message, shee. Ain’t even got no Ricky there.”

“No, he’s mine. He’s…” Felipe catch his voice, look miserable back to the windows. “Of course, you’re right. I should have seen. But you have to understand, it’s how we are here. It’s like we’re all asleep. We grow up, we fall asleep, and then the horrors that scared us before — we’re doing them. We’re the monsters in the nightmare.” Now tears grown in his eyes. His knitten hands be clenching hard. “It took you to wake me, Maria.”

The gunfire sound again, come louder. I ware to this with almost love, how it be solid real. Start wishing I been by this fight, free from these talk insanities.

When I look back, Felipe’s face be bright in need. He say, “Did you know that this is all in prophecy? The cure, the Russians — it’s all foretold in the Bible.”

“Foo, Bible got no roos. Nor it got no posies neither. WAKS, whatever you calling it. Ain’t be.”

“No, listen. In the book of the Apocalypse, it’s there. In the time of WAKS, Satan’s brood — the whites — were cast into the abyss. But in the last days, Satan returns, leading the armies of the unrighteous. You see? That’s the Russian army, now. And after their defeat, the children of God who remain — they live forever.” He look seeking in my face. “They live forever, Maria. It’s the cure, that’s what it means.”

When Felipe argue, be a beary force of certainty. Ever he talk nonsense, get a weak suspicion that he right. So I only cavil, “Ain’t be no forever cure. Pasha definite to this. Can live seventy years or so. Seem like forever to us, but it will end.”

Felipe shake his head. “Many Bible passages have to be interpreted metaphorically. Yes, it seems like forever to us. And so the Bible says: ‘forever.’ It’s written in poetic language, there are hundreds of instances like that.”

“So how we win this war? The Bible telling that?”

“That passage is short,” he say with knowing gladness. “When Satan’s armies come, they surround the city of America — obviously Quantico. And then God sends a fire from heaven to destroy Satan’s armies. You see how it all corresponds? The fire from heaven — that’s our army.”

Here my patience ruin entire. Known these metaphorical tales. Metaphorical mean, the story be stupidity beyond. So they pretend it meaning something else, whatever they like most.

“Easy miracles for God,” I say. “We do them while He sitting lazy.”

Felipe smile. “Yes, El Mayor thinks it’s funny too. And don’t worry. No one expects you to come to the war. You’ll stay here. If necessary, we’ll evacuate you to the north.”

This catch me unbewares. I crush my blooden lace into my fist. “Shoo, meant no insult to our war. Be certain that I come. Should be out fighting now myself.”

He startle bad. “No, santa reina. That’s — of course you can’t. No one would want you to put yourself in danger. You’re the city’s soul.”

“And the city warring now. Be natural I going to war.”

“No,” he say, in straining voice. “We could never let you risk yourself.”

“Ain’t let me,” I say thin. “You keep me here in Metro. Ever I want.”

“Metro? Is that it?” He shake his head with easing smile. “But you’ll be restored to the Ministerio, as soon as it’s safe. And did you know that Anselm’s dead?”

“Ya,” I say in sour voice. “I known.”

“So it won’t be like it was before. You’ll be restored to your proper place.”

Now he gone gazing at a painten picture on the wall. Show a boyish child in weirdo suit of shiny blue. Child kneel by a girlish sleeper, hug his arms around her waist. I watch along and magine myself back in the Ministerio. Life be papers and receptions, always in some skyless room. Yo, be some Metro ermano, give instructions in Anselm’s place.

At last, I sigh my misery out. “Felipe? You know, where be El Mayor?”

Felipe frown. “Why? He’s upstairs.”

“In this house?” I rouse in hope. “He knowing I be here?”

“I think so. But he’s been there sulking ever since Mamadou came.”

“Ho, Mamadou come here tonight?”

“A few hours ago. He came in the middle of dinner.” Felipe smile like funny stories. “He appeared in the dining room, and just started telling me what to do. El Mayor actually dropped his fork.”

“Sure, he will surprise. But he ain’t sulk for that?”

“No.” Felipe shrug. “I think it was something Mamadou told him.”

“Something — nay, what Mamadou said?”

“I don’t know. Before Mamadou left, they talked alone for a couple of minutes. And then El Mayor came back and asked to stay. That’s all I know.”

“Foo, he ain’t said why?”

“I did ask.” Felipe laugh. “My guess? He’s being a little childish because he was left out of all the conspiring. He was obviously upset, but he insisted there was nothing wrong.”

I grit into unhappy thought. Truth, El Mayor ain’t preciate that Mamadou boss this war. But that ain’t give him houry sulks. I try other possibilities — that Mamadou said some insult, or had mally news of Lowells — but these fitting poory also.

Can only be one answer, what this conversation been.

I swallow at my nerves, say soft, “Where Mamadou being now?”

“I don’t know exactly.” Felipe narrow eyes in thought. “By now, he could be back in Loisaida. He’s got a sort of headquarters in the projects. It’s the Reese, a building in the flooded—”

“Ya, heard this. And El Mayor… can see him now? He waking?”

Felipe make discomfort face. “It’s probably not a good time. When he heard you were coming here, he specifically said he didn’t want to see you.”

“Ain’t want to see me. Right.”

Felipe smile indulgent. “Anyhow, it would have to wait until tomorrow. He’s not alone tonight.”

57. TO LOISAIDA BY OUR WARRY NIGHT

BEHIND THIS, I BEG WEARINESS. FELIPE PLEAD ME TO SOME FOOD, but I lie that I got no hunger. My best wish be loneliness and sleep. So he lead me up some stairs of whitish stone to his wife’s sleeproom.

Ain’t tell me it be hers, at first. Only when I notice heely shoes left by the bed, I ask. Then I got no words to argue. Ain’t like to rob Carola’s bed, but I be wild beyond no patience. All myself be like a waiting scream.

When he gone, I sit down on the bed, collect my problems. Fret on Driver, on all my Sengles, left in chances of this war. Guess at the fray in reckless night, and if it can accomplish. Worry how Pedro still alive, can tell about my murdern enfant. Then mad Felipe change his love like blinking. Join in murdering me, for insults to his weirdo faith.

Through this, I keep distracting to the room where El Mayor be with some girl. These walls be catching his familiar sounds, his breathen flatteries. And likely, he know I be here. Take this naked girl against him, and his mind be vengeance.

What Mamadou told El Mayor, must be the history of our loves. Ya, soon as they two talk alone, can know this secret find its mouth. All it need, one mentioning myself, and both will change their face. Then El Mayor begin suspicions. Nor the NewKing slow for hints. Will guess I done with El Mayor, insulting to his wolfen heart.

And, first in all this yeary day, I think of Mamadou right.

I stare into my bloody heart, and see a clean ungiving love. Been what we done, a truth beyond all painfulness. Our last spring before these hells, we torn each other out of life. And his scorning furies find me, even in this city’s hundred thousands, in its thronging soldiers, ya in havoc war.

Then my desperations join into one red decision.

I stand up from the bed and strip the diamonds from my ears, my wrists. Unhook the murder dress and let it drop in heavy slump. Still the room be warm to my bare sweat.

Be thinking every twisty plan, but my first hope come right. Sleeproom got two closets and these all be rich with clothes. Is like an evac in a dream, where every marvel loot be whole. I find some blackie jeans, knit sweater. Pull on some socks with greedy love, goods I ain’t had these weeks. Scratch a jacket coat, is thick for winter, light for task. Last I find some shoes that mostly fit — zip boots without no heels. These I keep in hand, and I go listen to the door.

Be only muffle voices, closen far into some room. Ya, when I open careful, hall be black. Only be a line of light below one door. From there, can hear Carola-Felipe, arguing unhappy dim.

My hand be cramping sweaty on the boots as I creep down the stairs. Come in the empty size of the Residencia frontroom, gray in snowlight. Only movement be some shadows troubling at the windows, branches tugging in unheard wind. Tree of Navidad stand lonely, like a hostage from these trees.

As I crouch to put on shoes, more gunshots come outside. I pause and try to feel their fear. Remind Felipe’s arguments about my necessary life. But I still be Ice Cream Star, last of the Sengle sergeants. Be kin to warry plight and forests. Got no careful heart, nor I will live beyond my pride.

Door’s locks undo in one loud second. Open into grandy winter. Steps got fraily snow upon, is thin as paper tissue. Be witchen quiet, cat hours of our war. The only life be guards, stood on a scrabble of footprints by the gate. These look up questioning to me.

As I come to them, I duck my head, put one hand bashful to my face. Say in my best sleeper English, “I was visiting El Mayor. I go home now.”

Then I haste past, cold freshening in my breath. Guards watch without no cavil. Only when I reach the street, one call, “Senyorita! You want a car?”

“No,” I call back nervy. “Need no car.”

“Is dangerous tonight,” he say in disapproval voice.

I nay my hand and go on hasty. Feel their eyes until I turn into the Avenida. Then I go on in stride, my body thankful like it weep its capture. Night be like a self I walk into, my good belief.

First blocks, ain’t no people by. When I come near Quinta borders, I sprint some way from passion, skidding careless in the snow, and only hold up when I see the Ministerio. Got its usual vanity looks, the windows golden lit. But in its yard be trucks of the Defensa. Soldiers crowd the steps, ain’t tell if they be ours or enemies. I look to the iglesia’s height, scout for my Sengles left, but only see its same bright windows. Hear no fight. So I turn eastward from this risk, go toward the evac street of Madison.

This farther walk through empty Quinta be a glory rest. I stretch my legs in horsen stride, and all my body wake joyeuse. Even the seldom bullets bring my heart big in my chest. Between the towers show the stars of every night enorme, and sometimes come the glitter sound of breaking glass, like starry voice. In one passing street, I see a band of scouting soldiers. They startle to me, raise their guns, is like a fluttering clutch of birds. But when they see me better, they ease. Got eyes for only risk, and they give no attention as I pass.

Then be minutes walking south before I see no other children. These coming few, and all be raggity boys. Some stealth by alone, some going loud in swagger groups, but all got sacks of goods. One child push a wheelen cart, fill with all clothes and instruments; a tall lamp nod its head atop. Begin to comprehend, they thieving loot, in chance of war.

One clutch of boys stare after me, call filthy invitations. But even this be pleasure, how it ain’t no guards protecting me. Any terror can be mine. Here first I remind my Pasha, miss him in my joy. Be conscience, how I left him with no word in their unliking palace. But be late for this regret. I only swear myself to fetch him out, when chance become.

My heart relieve again when I come in the trash of Loisaida streets, their stanking life. Here be every people noisy. Is streetfires set in barrels, with all children gathern round; vendedoras selling cakes or salty fish from tables. One orfanato home got all its scarum littles in the road. They play some snowball game, fight crafty among the heapen trash. Wear plastic coats with their home number, 224 E. 10th, writ scrawly on the back. This mind me of the enfants left in Massa by the penals — how they travel slow afoot, First Runner in attendance. Must wonder who be ruling in the city when they come.

After this, it be a quiet stretch with only inside life — voices in the blanket windows, shivering lights where there be fires. And here, a raggity sixteen boy begin to follow after me. Ever I turn to look, he make a face of unconcern. Stop by, pretend he checking something in his jacket pocket. But when I go, he follow. Is there and there and never rid.

I swallow my impatience. Hurry my step toward some gathern people — a vendedora of pepitas, with a straggle of littles by. These be skinbone eights with shaven heads, talk Loisaida foul. Words be mostly shit and braw, with hooting laughter, swiping fists. Fourteenish vendedora heed them nothing. She only fret her fingers through her moppen hair, sing underbreath.

As I come toward, she look up hushing, hopeful for a sale. She check my clothes, speak out some greeting Panish.

“Senyora,” I say nervy, “can tell me, where the projects be?”

She ease disappointing. “Projects? Which you after?”

“They projects in the water, ya. The Reese.”

She check my clothes again with queery frown. “You looking for someone there?”

“I got to go there, all it is.”

“You go straight down.” She point. “When you hit the water, you’ll see. But it’s not worth it, whatever it is.”

“Nay, I know children there, be right.”

She pinch her mouth in disapproval. Muttern some comment on my brains and turn her face away.

I head down, feeling jittery. Haste through a block of darkness, and I come into a mess of children, gathern in a street fiesta. They cooking meat on streeten ovens, standing plate in hand. Girl on a step play bow-guitar. Some males sing boozen loud. Remind to me it be their Navidad, is normal joy around.

Behind this be another quiet. Hear laughter from the higher windows, but they show no light. I keep to the middle street, clear from all hides among the trash. Be waring into darkness, strain my ears at every sound.

Yo, as I reach the cross-street, come a skitter of feet behind. I wheel toward a flailing shadow that grab my coat and yank. I skid on ice, catch to an arm. It knock away, and something kick my feet from underneath. I scrape heels, hit jarring on my back, as someone jump upon me. Sit a heavy dig into my gut. Only then I see him — the sixteen boy, face twist in panic. And a flashing shape, a knife, come big toward my face.

He say strangling low, “You make a noise, I kill you.”

Blade press against my throat. His face be straining furiose, while I breathe stiff against his weight. A hand start seeking round my body, push into my pockets. Knife shift thin along my skin. Draw a stinging line of fear.

He swear against the nothing that I got. Unzip my coat and seek beneath. Dig rough into my jeans. Yo, in this, his face begin to change. Hand slip beneath my sweater. Face sluggen into need, his fingers close ugly on my breast.

Then I take ragged breath, say quick, “I got a ring. Is gold.”

He look to me dull, already distant in his want. I raise my hand up sharp, show him the gold ring from my proof.

His fingers fasten harder on my breast, then slack reluctant. He say impatient rough, “You take it off.”

I bring my hands together slow. His eyes turn to this gesture, as I breathe and brace my strength. Think of Army wars I known, of knives and bigger children; Pasha’s tricks of rooish fight. And I break sudden. Hit his knife away with all my force. Ya, with my other hand, I punch my thumb into his eye.

He make a strangle yell as I twist wild to shove him by. But his knife find me. Hit straight to my chest. It catch my collarbone, and its point dig, burn through the skin and by. I bring my fist up lucky, meet his forward weight with knuckles in his unguard throat.

He skitter back on knees. Make strangle cry, as I come to my feet, kick solid in his nose. Then he fall back, and I chase quick. Kick at his knifen hand. Knife fling away, go skittering noise and flashing in the street. He scramble after, but I kick his jaw in flying hatred. Then I only see a flash of him with blooden face, eyes shut and tearing, as I break running, dodging ice.

I spy the knifen gleam. Skit to, and snatch it by its blade. Then I be only fleeing, running hard with gaspen breath. Tardy fright be mad in me, how this been stupid lucky. Feel the burning where the knife caught in my upper chest, gone softer with its blood as I sprint on.

I ONLY QUIT when I come to the water. Stop by its icen margin, skidding in the wetter snow. Hand grip the knifen blade, my fingers gone unfeeling with the cold. I breathe myself back into semblance, while I scout for risk. The only people be two eightish littles by an unglass store. One carry a moppen handle. Swing this against a dead streetlight. Make a ringing sound that carry high across the empty night.

I unclutch the knife. Find petty cuts into my palm where I been gripping careless. I touch my collarbone, check at the brightness hurt of blood. Is only pain, ain’t damage much. The cut be thin across the bone. Ya, Carola’s sweater ruin right.

I shove the knife in my coat pocket. Look to the water, while half my conscience heed for sound behind.

A fringe of ice lie flat upon the street, crust white with snow. Beyond, the water empty black. And in this tarry water, dull like tired maginations, a building greaten in the sky. Ain’t showing fires, is dark. Is like a blackness hole in starry night. And now it reach my stupid mind, it be no means to get there. Be freezing river between.

I stand, grinning consternations, staring at this obvious water. Projects in the water, said this like I got some notion. Ain’t never wonder to me how you swimming to this place. Sure, be a clever hiding. But it ruin Ice Cream Moron’s night into catastrophes.

Almost be thinking how I straggle back. Meet any robber child, can fight with better luck, got my own knife. But then, in tiny distance, I spot a boy stood by the water. He staring, nothing-doing, and my habit feel a recognition. Be a guard. I sigh away my panics, start toward.

As I come, can see he ain’t a soldier by his garb. Wear wool hat and double coats, but still he stamp against the cold. Behind him, drifting loose on darkness water, be a boaten shape. Is small and look dishevel right. Even in weak moon, can see it lose its scrubby paint. Look like a story of sinking, but I watch on it with every love.

Child watch me coming, and he straighten, toss his cigarette. Eyes notice my nice clothes with disrespect.

“Yo, brother,” I say polite. “How I can get that boat? Be for the Reese?”

He shake his head, laugh nasty. “Where the hell you from, girl? You don’t get that boat.”

“Then how I getting to the Reese?”

“You don’t. Where you from?”

I look to him, the boat, with sick unliking. Touch my knifen hilt, but all my braver feeling gone. Start magining how I dive in water, swim toward some open window. If this Cember water kill me, or be only miserable.

Then he speak careless through my thought. “I tell you what. You want to go to Reese?”

“Been asking.” I look to him sharp.

“Give me a hundred dollars.” He grin.

“Foo, I got no money, brother.”

“You got no money? Pretty girl like you, I don’t believe that.”

“Your belief ain’t going to change my pockets.”

He grin again and shake his head. “No money. That’s a shame.”

I look frustrating to the boat. Magine jumping, but sure he fight. I end in water neverless. Start to guess, how I must wait till Mamadou passing by. How sorry-tail I going to feel for hours in this place.

Then some feeble brains wake in me. I say, “You work for Mamadou?”

“Well, that’s a question. Thanks for asking, I don’t think I’ll answer that.”

“Heed, he going to want to see me.”

“Really?” He shake his head like pity. “Girl, you’re not as interesting as you think.”

“He want to see me, truth. Can ask him.”

“So what’s your name?”

I catch reluctant. Glance to the boat with sad discourage.

“Don’t know your name and got no money. You in one pitiful way.”

“Damn,” I say riling. “You want my name, be Ice Cream Star. You tell him that.”

“Oh, yeah?” He raise eyebrows. “There’s a lot of Ice Creams in the streets these days. I’ll tell you something, he is most of all not interested in that. Go sell it somewhere that they want it. Seriously.”

Take me a breath to comprehend. Then I laugh up sharp. “Girls use my name for selling love? You people sick as something, shee. You sick as rat disease.”

Now he get a trouble face. Say hard, “You crazy, girl?”

“Nay, you ignorant, be our problems. Cannot know what you been told.”

“You’re saying you’re Maria? That’s what you’re saying?”

“How it be, my brother.”

He scout uncertain to my clothes, my face. Muttern, “Accent that you got.”

“Yo right. Known Mamadou, you know this accent. What it be, you guess?”

He narrow eyes. “Serious, you aren’t who you say, you coming out in pieces. This isn’t no night for games.”

“I know what night it be, more than you know. Now get that boat.”

58. THE ROOFEN CONVERSATION

BOY OARING FOR US BOTH. I ONLY SIT IN WETNESS, SMOKE THE cigarette he given me. Boat draw a tail of moon behind, quivering restless on the black. Ya, when we come into the building’s shadow, all be blindness dark. Is only the reaching splash of oars, the tarry pue of river wet. Near the building wall, its size feel heavy in the air. Then we float past the corner and the moon light on its brick. Show where a line of greenish moss rise furry above the water’s shine. Yo, from a lower window, be a knotten rope hung down.

Boy ain’t come with me. He only tell me how I go. Climb in the window, then be twelve floors of stairs. The NewKing’s people at the top.

This be no special craft. Scut up the rope, come down inside to scrabble noise of scaring rats. The steps be pissen miserable, ain’t only stank but sting your eyes. Is sticky underfoot. At every floor, be some bust window, and its light show clops of trash, a tiny haste of roaches. But as I go, I feel some foolish happy, how I done this wildness. Touch my cut chest and laugh through breathlessness that I be here.

At the stairy top, a child lean to the final door. Be stood above all light, show only as a living darkness. His rifle watch me sharp as I come up. When I pass the moonlight from the last bust window, he flinch hard. Loose down his gun and say, “You’re kidding.”

I stand breathing rough, touch careless to my diamond braids. Behind the door, can hear some laughing voice. Girl say a shooing word, a boyish voice go yell return. Then the girl be talking longer. The other voices hush.

At last, I get some breath and say, “It be Maria here.”

“Yeah, it’s Taco here. I don’t believe it. All that work.”

I laugh thin. “Taco, right. Our people took the Ministerio?”

“Who’s asking? Yes. Why are you here?”

“My people in the Ministerio, they ain’t hurt?”

“They’re fine. They stayed where they was told.”

“Need no speeches, brother. Let me by.”

Can see him shake his hatten head, a troubling in the dark. Then he reach to the door. It drift away to smoky light.

In the room behind, the windows cover up with boards. The light be only scattern candles, stuck to every flatness. Air blurry with undrifting smoke. Stank be of beer and feet. Got a dampness warm, like sweaten heat grown under blankets.

Be some ten children, sat on lopside chairs and wooden boxes. All gather round a science instrument, is glowing faint with heat. Be mostly penals, drinking Sirena beers, their jackets open sloppy. Even in this muddle light, some recognize myself. They startle, biggen eyes. Go whispering among till every boy stare curiose.

Ya, be one girl, in boyish undershirt and loose blue pants. Sit straight as grass. Got flatten nose, but still is prettieuse goods. A daisy face, how Sengles say. She look up friendly, then turn to the tallish jones beside her. Shove his shoulder and laugh.

Take a second before I know this jones be Mamadou. This be the second he look to me with fear.

Then he come standing to his feet, and be himself in scorn bellesse. He wear a soldier jacket. Hair cut close, got stubble beard grown on his face. And everything in him be right to me, as ever was. Is like the world remember its evil goodness.

His children look to him, to me. Fascinate like littles spying curiose on jones affairs. Only the girl sit easy like she been. Scratch at her neck and frown.

Mamadou say low, “Got blood on you.”

I shrug. The cut pull stiff. “Sure, some fool stab me. Want my ring.”

Penals all go flinch. Look to my chest, the ring.

“Ain’t bleeding much,” I say defensive. “Ya, he sorrier now.”

A queery restlessness pass through. Now the girl be smiling curiose while all the others frown.

Mamadou shake his head. “Come by, Maria. We best talk on the roof.”

BE A LADDER TO THE ROOF from the bepissen stairway. Come out, you standing on some street material, open to the sky. Low concree wall around be cresten white with lumpy snow. Below, the river draw its blackness past, slow under coursing moon. Ya, the city by — its bandon towers standing with a gentle dust of light around their feet.

I come up first, go breathing to the stars in curving night. Then Mamadou climb out behind. Rise graciose with easy strength. Walk to me, and before I can expect, he take me by the shoulders. Grip hard feroce. Then we looking one to one, with all familiar war.

“Hope you ain’t lost me Metro,” he say quiet.

I scorn my eyes. “This why you given me to Felipe? Be some pay for him?”

“Given you to no one.” His hands take deeper in my shoulders. “Put you where you need to be.”

“I needing that? No sho. I done my prisonment, it finish.”

Mamadou shake his head. Loose one shoulder, and feel along my collarbone, find the sweater’s tear. Then he go unzip my coat, while I grit hot despair. Yo is other mysteries, how his face good in my eyes. Is like a meal of wanting.

“Ain’t going back there,” I say weak. “Felipe mad as rotten eggs.”

Mamadou only watch my chest. Tug and unstick the sweater from its blood, a jarring hurt. He pull it by, seek for my wound.

“And heed, I going to fight this war. I going to goddamn Quantico, ain’t keeping like a goddamn hen. Shee, leave that.” I catch Mamadou’s hand.

He look impatient to me, while I grip his wrist. His fingers still touch light on my bare skin.

“So you go to Quantico,” he say. “Who said you ain’t?”

“Felipe, ain’t you hearing?”

Mamadou grimace. “Ever Felipe say, got no significance.”

“You ate a book? Significance? What sleeper words they feeding you?”

A moment we be staring at each other, cold farouche. Then he twist his hand free. Reach and pull me hard against him. His other hand catch in my braids, and we be kissing wild in need.

Kiss be a feary knowledge, where the world of coldness fly around us. All the blackness city and the stars grow huge and they be nothing. His hands stroke over me, reminding. Tell me quiet honesties beyond no words that pride can say. My body brighten with insistence, love him burning good. I touch his face, his neck, and hold to his right strength with all damnations in my blood.

Then, in moment’s change, we both remember where we be. I pull back soft like taken breath. Mamadou ease his arms. He sigh and rest his lips down to my throat.

“There you be,” he say low. “What it is.”

I form my hands along his back. Can hear the river’s voice again, like every pestering that ain’t this love, that cannot hush. Feel my heart beat small to him, and want him perilous for one final breath. Then I see the city dark behind, and shiver from his warm.

He loose back and scout my face. His eyes be glad feroce, is like a victory he see. Ya, I tense. Say soft resenting, “What you said to El Mayor?”

Sudden, he rid me from his arms. Step back, disgusting in his face. “El Mayor? Shee El Mayor.”

“Ain’t got to say it then.” I hug myself, feel sorry bitten. “Who going to lose you Metro, be yourself. Go to El Mayor with that, be lucky Felipe ain’t hear all they histories that same night.”

“Gone to him with nothing.” He shake his head, like marveling my stupidity. “Digger want to weep his problems. Ain’t asking for this pleasure, sure.”

“Love problems?” I scoff breath.

“Sort of problems he can have.”

“So you share alike.”

Mamadou squint his face, like he defending from some mally smell. “Interest me, when his love been starting. Thought it may interest him, what other loves you had this day.”

Take a breath, before this figure. Then memory come ugly, when I first done sex with El Mayor. Night of that day of murders in Army camp. Same day I tangle last with Mamadou in our fear amours.

I force my careless voice. “Who counting hours? Was children kilt this day. Found what be insignificant.”

“He going to cry for what be insignificant, ain’t my trouble.”

“So you rid him from me? Easy notions.”

Mamadou insult in his eyes. Grit like he bear down on pain. “Sengle, you mine.”

I take an empty breath. It come a trembling sadness out of nowhere. “How? I be your queen or so?”

“You mine. All it is.”

“Law be, I ain’t your queen no more. I left. Must be a simper.”

“We past laws now. This be reality.”

“Reality.” I force a laugh. “Was in that book you ate.”

He shake his head in some disgust. “You need to eat that book.”

Then we staring evil to each other. Both be breathing rough. I think to spit, to punch his face. But every notion pass in nerves, and Mamadou still stare his cold belief into my eyes.

“Ice Cream Star,” he say, “you never caring for that digger. Same day. What this going to mean?”

I pooch my lips. “You ain’t make much impression. What it mean.”

“Learn this, fool. I ain’t him.”

“Ya, I notice this. And so?”

“You want to ruin some digger’s feelings, be yours. I got no feelings you can ruin.”

“Got no feelings, right. You made of cheese.”

“Ain’t his sort of feelings. Nor you stupid to miss this fact.”

“Fool and stupid coming brave from Mamadou Cannot Read.”

“Same day. Be paltry, girl. Ain’t never like that digger myself, but nobody deserve that. Next time you want to tell me insults, talk.”

“I write a note. Somebody read it to you.”

His eyes widen to this. Then he laugh. Shake his head and laugh into my face like easy pleasure.

“I been with him months,” I say. “Was all about yourself, I guess. Every person living just for you. Ya, I be yours. Been yours these months.”

“Goddamn. Ain’t Sengles allow to tell the truth?”

“I guess that girl below, she also yours?”

Mamadou startle eyes. “Patricia?”

I get uncertain feeling, but I hold my scorning looks. “Girl got a name? Where be your Army morals?”

He bite his lip and grin, his anger gone in admiration. “Ice Cream Star.”

“Ya, I also got a name. Known this.”

Mamadou laugh short. His shoulders ease, he look back to the city’s blacken heights. Ya, my anger weaken sudden. I follow his gaze and find the moon, its paring shape particular white. Can hear the guns again, so distant, their clatter weaken in changing winds. And I love the NewKing, like exhaustion of bellesse. Be stars, and be himself, in lonesome stretching of my heart.

A burden cloud touch on the moony edge, begin to hush its light. Moonlight swallow, and the city’s towers lose their shape. Dark settle against my eyes. Then we be watching into blackness.

I say soft, “Was vally, what you done. They penals.”

A thick explosion rise in distance, lose into the wind. Can hear my breath, the stirring river. I look to Mamadou, but he be only a shadow in a blackness.

“Can comprehend,” I say on thinner, “why you putting me in Metro. Only, ain’t been needful.”

He sigh out some tired thought. “Ya, can be bone you come. Can use you here.”

I swallow, say braver, “Think we keep the Ministerio?”

“We keep it. Problems with Inúd.”

“Guess we ain’t fight the roos without Inúds. Soldier people.”

Be a troubling in the dark as he turn toward me. I tense, expect his hands. But he only say, “They come to us. Come to Maria, how it be.”

“Ain’t no right Maria to them.”

“Face them how you done, Inúds respect that. Bravery.”

I cross my arms low on my ribs. Hug deep into myself and say, “NewKing. Be something you should know.”

Then my heart flinch queery. I square my hands in fists, hold painful into my cut palms. And I say soft, “When we come here. I been pregnant.”

Can hear him breathing in the dark, but he ain’t speak. Be his breathing and my frighten breathing through the grandy cold.

“They kill it,” I say whispern. “Anselm’s people. Ain’t know how, some surgeries they do. They give me pharmacy, I ain’t known. Now Pedro sure to tell this story. Threat they always make, so they can burn me for a false Maria.”

I hear his breath, gone harsh like mine into this blinden nowhere. A tear slip down my cheek, and I hold, shivering. Expect, he mention El Mayor. Say insults on this baby, got from father unbeknown.

But when he speak, he only say, in thicken voice, “You hurt?”

“Hurt?” I swallow, try to think. “Nay, been weeks before. Ain’t hurt.”

“Bone. You ain’t hurt.”

Can hear him shift again, and then his hand touch to my arm. I ease to this, my tears come looser. “Told you sooner, if I known you doing this. But only Pedro know, now Anselm gone.”

“Pedro,” Mamadou say in almost whisper. “And the simper known.”

A moment, I cannot remember who this simper be. Then I say low, “Nay, she ain’t… be Pedro who will tell. She vanish anyhow.”

Mamadou’s hand go gentle to my cheek. It say his angry love—you mine, no morning come before your enemies die—while Mamadou say quiet, “Patricia fix that cut for you. Ain’t guess I coming back tonight. Best you stay in my room, no one messing with you there.”

“Sure.” I swallow at my tears.

“Will send for you when it be right.”

Then his hand be gone. His shadow retreat with crunching footsteps. Only, as he come to the stairy hatch, he pause his step. Look back in untelling darkness. Then he bend hasty and be gone.

I stand a longer minute, faltering in my tired courage. Be thinking, Sure, he kill whoever it need. Is war we do. But still it pinch in misery that Pedro dying for my ask. Like I murder Karim with one small word.

And the cloud slow from the moon. Light give back its silver grief. Empty towers sharpen, like a goliath monument of loss; a burial yard of giants left upon the fearing world.

59. OF QUANTICO ITS WARS

WHEN I COME DOWN TO THE SMOKY ROOM, THE PENALS GONE. BE only the Patricia girl, sat on the floor to clean a pistol. She stand up quick when I come in, this half-gun in her hand, and her long body fine like prettieuse rifle. Then it remember nasty, Mamadou never saying she ain’t his.

“Sorry for all negligence before.” She smile, correct in friendship. “Didden know who you was, ma’am.”

“Need no special manners,” I say shortish. “Ain’t those times.”

“Well, thass very kind of you to say, ma’am. Very kind.”

I look by to the room. Floor be beery cans and bootprints, cigarettes and tramplen clothes. It seem a home of usual things, too shabby for no harm. But in my corner-eye, Patricia smile, reminding like a sting.

I say unliking, “Mamadou said, you fix my cut.”

“Well, certainly be happy to, ma’am.” She nod like gratty news. “Idden going to be like your doctors, though, should warn you.”

“Ain’t science none. Be skin hurt, mostly.”

“Thass fine. It’ll be an honor, ma’am.”

She go off to a grandy pack, set in a darker corner. Pick through, and she talk friendly nothings, how she keep her things together in this den of bandits. Tell stories of their thieveries, while I watch her slender arms unhappy. Ain’t heeding sense until she say, “Of course I mean no disrespect to your soldiers, ma’am. But things is facts.”

“Ho.” I narrow to her. “So you ain’t a penal self?”

“Wadden no shame, ma’am, if I was. But no.” She stand up with a metal case in hand. “Like you say, we all past formalities, so I’ll introduce myself. I’m Captain Patricia Mason, ma’am, United States Marine Corps.”

I take a startling breath. “How, you from Quantico?”

“Yes, ma’am.” She grin. “Here two days now, enjoying Mister Mamadou’s hospitality here.”

“Goddamn, how he fetch you? Someone got into Quantico?”

“Well, I unnerstand the boys he sent had some experience. They was smugglers, make a story short.”

“Wolfen.” I shake my head, admiring. “So, you being here, it mean your people trust us on the roos?”

“Well, sorry to say, Mister Mamadou’s boys did get a mosquito’s welcome. But it don’t need trust now, ma’am. The Russians are there, they’re live in color.”

This chill through all my pleasure. “There? The Russians be in Quantico?”

“Not in, ma’am.” She frown light. “We all sticky on that little distinction.”

“Ho, cannot get in. Your land mines.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Patricia say with mischief grin. “Quantico welcome mat. Now, maybe I should look at that cut, if you feel comfortable. Truth to tell, my folks all believed you Marianos was soft. But it’s a pleasure to meet a leader that do close combat right. A natural pleasure.”

WOUND SEEM NOTHING FEARY, but Patricia say it wanting stitches. She offer that she go and threaten the drunks downstairs for booze, but I reject this help. Be my vanity now to show no weakness. So I sit on a box with LICENCIA AGRICOLA 62—TOMATES on its shabben flank. Patricia perch beside. Then I hold reluctant, gritting against her needle’s hurt, while she explain the Russian war at Quantico.

Quantico be three parts: District, Arlington and Washington.

District be a city of ruin. All streets got ugly barricades, and every window show a gun. Arlington be forest, with only fewer living homes. Got trenches dug instead of roads, and land mines scattern like bad acorns.

Between these go a grandy river, full of ruin bridges. Along this river, be the secret city Washington. Here be President’s house and old museum palaces. Ya, be Arlington Cemetery, where all ancient soldiers bury, when it been America.

Roos invade at Arlington. Yo, can guess, they known about the land mines from some spies before. Before they setting foot, they bomb a path of ruin through the forest. Smash the land mines best they can, to clear a road that lead across to Washington itself. Road be made, the roos come in. Bring more artillery trucks and tanks than sorrow ever known. But still be land mines somewhere. Soon their tanks begin exploding, block the road for all behind.

Ya, Marines be waiting. Begin all shooting backen forth. And how it is, the smart Marines be free in all directions. They still know where the land mines be, can use all crafty hidings. Roos must use the path they made, without no covering safety.

So soon the roos depart. Quanticos plant new land mines hasty, while the planes begin to come. Game start again from zero.

Roos do invasion trial four times, then bore from this unhappiness. Now all their visiting be planes. These spread poison gas and burning, every scaring awfulness. The Quantico enfants now be living underground, in concree tunnels.

Yo, along their bombs, roos dropping papers overhead. These invite the Quanticos to surrender. Tell the roos’ demands.

“All they’re asking,” Patricia say sarcasty, “is half of our grown Marines. Marines fighting for the enemy, would you believe.”

“Right.” I flinch as she tug needle angry through my skin. “Ya, then they take the other half Marines, without no asking.”

“Thass the truth, there.” She pause her hand, a plastic thread strung curly from it to my throat. “You see the position now. We all die together before that happens. Hoping you can make a difference to this outlook, ma’am. I do hope.”

“How their bombing road be useful?” I say, watching on her needle. “They only wanting children, why they head to Washington self?”

She grimace as she pinch my skin together, aim her needle. “Well, all’s we know, they left Washington alone so far. She’s pristine. So how it looks to us, ma’am, they want to take Washington intact.”

“Nay, why?”

“Well, it idden no land mines there in Washington. Thass a thing. But I think it mostly is, they know what it means to us. Thass our heart, ma’am.”

“Ho, they wanting it to trade. If Washington be whole, they trade this for your soldiers.” See Patricia’s frown, and I add quick, “If they can take it. Guess they never can.”

“Well, the truth being,” she say, nosing down to tie a stitch, “if they wadden afraid to bleed, they could maybe do it. Been on the radio back to Washington, and Arlington’s looking pretty effed. But we’ve been trying to let them know that would be a supremely dumb idea. They do not want to set their nasty little white feet in Washington, no.” She take a scissor, clip my plastic thread. “And thass your last stitch, I’m sure you are not sorry to hear.”

“Gratty.” I sit back, breathing better. “But how you mean, they ain’t want Washington?”

Patricia snip her scissor shut. “Ma’am, our laws are crystal on that point. Foreign power takes the city, thass an Article 57. And I’m sorry to say, nobody walks away from that.”

“Article 57?”

“Suicide Article, in our founding charter. You see, we have three nuclear devices. Don’t sound like much, but it’ll take out the city and most everything around it. Yes, ma’am, the day a foreign army enters Washington, we hold a little rematch in hell.”

60. LAST MEETING OF THIS NIGHT

BE PATRICIA QUANTICO WHO TAKE ME TO THE NEWKING’S ROOM. Way be through a hallway where the light be only cobweb moon, come faint from parten doors. Ain’t heaten, and the Cember cold feel like a death in indoor stillness. To the end, we come into a darkness closen as a fist. I follow her soft footpats, find a doorside with my hand. Then she strike a match, and reddish shapes fit sudden in their place. She light a candle on the floor. Say her longer courtesies of Marine, and go off with dark looks, still warring Russians in her mind.

Room got only a mattress bed with blankets neat bekept. Window boarden blind. One wall be thick with hanging objects, and I recognize the NewKing’s leathern jacket from Army days. I go to it with sneaking wish, listening uneasy that Patricia ain’t return. Hold it to my face, but its good smell gone dim with freezing. I breathe this disappointment, then I put the jacket hasty back. Crawl into the bed, and I pull blankets overhead.

I think two lives of misery in this hiding. Go from the Quantico nuclears to Pasha left in Metro. My mind distract to Mamadou’s kiss, and I be whispering curses to my own cold hands. And Anselm’s voice say flat, I wanted to save you, santa reina. He stalk away while I skree hate, and then he fallen in the street. His last blood hit my face. And I want a cigarette, and curl my knees up, shivering queery. Last, the Massa enfants wander sleepy through my mind — five hundred littles in the hungry snow — and I be thinking, half in dream, we got to feed them, when the door fly open.

Candle flame skit out. A boyish voice swear underbreath. Booten feet come toward, and I pull down my blanket hasty. Peek my hot face to the winter room.

Crow’s voice say, “NewKing, you sleeping?”

First I only hold, surprise. Then some perversity wake in me. I say careless, “Think he gone.”

“Shee.” Crow laugh unsteady. Be a wait of fumbling, then he scrape a match alight. Squint funny past it to myself. Is wearing clothes of penal, with a rifle slung low at his waist.

I tense, prepare my sarcasms. But Crow grin, say in laughing voice, “Ice Cream? Thought you been in Metro.”

I narrow on him wary. “Left. Can see that.”

Then he bend careless, light the candle. Shake his head, still grinning. “We been at the Ministerio. Damn, that Asha Badmouth never change. She see me, first words from herself be, ‘Foo, you ugly in that brown.’ Was shooting all downstairs, yo I been mostly pissing terrify. Come up, think how I find them dead. But they all eating nuts, sat on the floor. And Asha, ‘you ugly in that brown.’” He laugh, stretch out his arms.

“Ya, she discouraging somewhat.” Smile begin reluctant in my face.

“Shee, this building made of ice. How they rats survive? Skinny fur they got, think they all dying frozen.” He look to me friendly, hugging chillen to himself. “Can get under with you? Truth, I freezing here.”

I catch on plain surprise. “Can, if you want.”

He slip his rifle off, and scramble to. Be clumsiness while he come in, the blankets flying, lose their warm. Crow laugh anxy, shoving. At last, the blankets tuck, his shoulder settle cold against me.

Then be peculiar feeling, Crow beside me, like all foaly years. Even how he bigger grown, his elbow shape still fit my arm. My heart gone weirdo sweet, but I keep wanting to object, he hate myself.

“Gratty, damn,” he say. “Foo, guess we going back there. Now you here.”

I shrug against him nervy. “To the Ministerio? Why?”

“Put you back in ruling place.”

“Ruling? Shee, ain’t ruling much.”

“Nay, be symbolic, what the NewKing say. So children see we win. Then they all join with us.”

A moment, I feel plain resistance. But Crow nestle to me, shivering, and my contradictions fade. Truth, I ain’t complaining if they bring me to my Sengles.

“So,” I say, “it been your penals took the Ministerio?”

“And Simón, his soldiers there.” Crow get his grin again. “Foo Loisaidas, they insane. I been screaming when it all begun. Ain’t seen the air for bullets.”

“Sengles ain’t been hurt?”

“Nay, no one shooting there, upstairs. Ain’t no one there to fight. All we done, we clean out they Inúds. And kill the roo.”

I seize with awful heart. Then I comprehend, say jittery, “Roo with broken feet? This roo?”

“Been the only roo they bring from Massa. Mamadou kilt Juan before they get no others. How it been—”

“Nay, I know.” I take a better breath. “Know this.”

When I look, Crow frowning on me skeptical. I try to make my face correct, but only see this sorry roo. How he crawling from the car, his feet all purple wrong.

Then I cannot help my mouth. “Ain’t need to kill him, ya.”

Crow scoff breath. “What that Simón said. ‘Keep the Jesus, he be useful.’”

“Shoo, useful. Child ain’t got no goddamn feet. Ain’t harming peoples so.”

Crow wave dismissing hand. “Is politics, what Mamadou say. So no one make a new Maria.”

“So Mamadou shooting him?”

“Nay, some penal doing this.” Crow get admiring smile. “The NewKing, he fought where they fighting back. Foo, he run out of bullets once, and this Inúd come at him, shooting. Mamadou, he come straight back at the man and grab his gun. Same gun that fire at him! Inúd surprise so much, he trip his feet, and Mamadou shoot him straight. Child vally, damn.”

I narrow sideways to him. “Thought you ain’t like Mamadou.”

To this, Crow hush. Frown soft, like trying to remember distances. “Sure, then,” he say uncertain. “Ain’t like no one then. Hate everything for being.”

Can feel him start to bob his toe in nerviose habit. Want to kick him, make him quit, but I still be shy from this. I shift away, say cautieuse, “Hate me for being, I guess.”

“Yourself? Ain’t mysteries why I hating you. Thought every person seen.”

“I ain’t, sure.”

I look to him and find his eyes unhappy on myself. He swallow, say in clumsy voice, “How you was.”

“How I was?” My voice break strange. “Ain’t been so nasty then.”

“Nasty, shee.” Crow look away. “Lucky, what you been. Every person loving you, best genius ever made. Yo, how Driver favor you, it give me other malice. Shoo, when he given you that horse, remember to you?”

“Horse been from El Mayor. Driver only let me keep her.”

“El Mayor.” Crow grimace. “Right. All males be one big ball of want for Ice Cream Perfectesse. Myself…” He catch his voice. Crow’s foot keep bouncing nerviose, while his face pinch resenting.

I want to cavil, Crow’s life been no awful differences. Had all I had, except this pony. No person force him gunpoint to be skew. But when I look to him, his unchin face be its own argument. Froggen looks be poory luck enough for seven lives.

“Been harder years for you,” I try. “Fourteen and so.”

“Shee right. Fourteen.” Crow huff his breath. “Fifteen was worser anything. But been my foolishness, that I expect the world be fair to me. How Mamadou say, you only got what justice you can make.”

This crush my pity whole. Ain’t comprehend how Mamadou’s sayings turn to no religion. I kick Crow’s niggling foot and say sarcasty, “So he making justice?”

Crow’s foot halt. He tense beside me. “Sure he do. You ain’t dead, is you?”

“Only be thinking, maybe you make his sayings to a book. Be a chapter all on slaving.”

“He been an Army, how he going to do? Children change into their circumstance.”

“Guess Mamadou saying this?”

“Whoever saying it, be truth. I changen.”

Crow flinch clear from me, and we grit at each other sideways. But, as I think our yeary hatreds wake, Crow ease his face. Smile to some funny thought.

“Sure, you got other feelings,” he say. “Like how Mamadou be about yourself.”

“Nay, what you saying?”

“Saying, it be familiar shee, you stanking on him in his bed.”

I start to cavil, this ain’t what he think. But Crow begin to laugh — his bravo laugh, big like his singing. Then it come funny to myself, how I been sniffing at the NewKing’s coat, but cannot hear him praise.

I laugh along with heaten face, and Crow shove teasing at me. He say, “Goddamn, I wish you seen him when he got to say ‘Maria.’ Look like he swallow a whole potato. His face gone all—” Crow try to make this face, but cannot change his laughing mouth.

“Guess he hating me this time,” I say with moron smile.

“Hate you? Mamadou glad to hate you, once he use you seven years.”

“Foo. It need that filth?”

He squeal a worser laugh. “Right, you a virgin. Pudy for no sex.”

Then Crow go telling humor tales about my virgin self. How penals asking Crow on me, and he must lie about my purity. “‘Oh, nay, she innocent right.’ I get a nosebleed, how I choke my laughter. And Mamadou gleering at me, like he eat my head if I say wrong… Ya, once, this penal Donx come telling stank on you and Pasha. Mamadou gone as green as paint. Go pounding down the stairs, can hear him down there shooting rats. And Donx say, all confusing, ‘Didn’t think Mamadou was religious.’ Shee, it mostly kill me. Swear, the rats was laughing while they shot… And when we plan your rescue, some child tell Taco, ‘Watch yourself. She going to be afraid with penals. Don’t say no bad language.’”

Here, Crow lose his final brains. Laugh till he bringing tears. He see that I quit laughing, and go leap on me and tickle my armpits. Become a squallen fight, both yelling, giggling twenty-forty. I only rid him when I find my knife and ware it at his face.

After this, we slump in bed, go talking townie memories. Is nothings of our robbery tricks, and scraps we had in tennish age; winters in the Tophet barn, and wars we fought among their hay. Be the conversation that I always wish to have with Crow, all years he keeping spiteful. But now every remembrance wisty, how this life be gone. Ya, be sadder hearing, when he talk about Karim their love. He mention this in shy half-sayings, watching careful to my face. Then I begin to weep my shame. Ain’t brave to tell confessions — it be no forgiveness in this crime — but my eyes keep dripping sorry.

Crow say soft, “Should tell you sooner. Ain’t trust no person in they times.”

“Nay, you was right,” I say. “I been some fool to judge. You right.”

And we gone in dreaming sorrows, smoking Mamadou’s cigarettes by the candle’s final gasping light, when footsteps come loud down the hall, and voices rough joyeuse.

Be Taco and a band of scrabble penals, calling me back to rule.

61. THIS MORNING ITS BONESSE AND EVIL

IS FOURISH DARKNESS WHEN OUR CAR START TOWARD THE MINISTERIO. Who come be Taco-Crow, ya Donx. This be a long and skinbone child, look like he made of elbows. We take a car that been “donation” from apostle Pedro. This meaning that the penals rob it from his dispatch yard.

As we pass through Loisaida, streets be empty strange. Is only seldom cats and rats, all scuttling hasty in the cold. Yo, worse in my discomfort be the city’s warless silence. Ain’t notice when the gunfire quit, but now its missing voice be awful. Feel like the city kill itself entire, leave only stone and sky.

And we pass from Loisaida’s ruin onto cleanly road. Come up Madison, where the stores all lost their windowglass. Some goods spill messy in the street, but most be gone to thieves. Donx drive slower here, keep squinting forward at the road. Only noise be our car’s groan that grow and wash out small in echoes from the closer buildings. Somewhere be lights of Navidad, shine heedless to the warry mess. And no one there and no one. Now ain’t even rats to see.

Then, in the forward darkness, rise a boiling thrill of voice. Ring strange among the towers, cannot tell if it be rage or joy. Seem like it raining from above, and shiver in the air. Be thousand children yelling, breathless long like cricket voice.

Donx stamp the brakes in fear reaction, slow the car to creeping. Crow swear, crouching low. I start guessing brainless, how our soldiers give up shooting. Solve this fight with shouting argument.

Donx say low, “It’s not guns, anyway.”

“Ain’t mean we got to drive into it, damn,” Crow say. “Best we turn back.”

“No,” Taco say. “I want to see.”

Donx stop the car, half to the crossway. “Look there. There they are.”

In the forward street, can see a mass of thicker dark. Is moving toward us slow and various like drifting smoke. Be a crowd of children, shifting gradual down the street. Can hear, the voices come from there; can guess its shifting shadows. Yo, as they come into the crossway, and moon lighten them, can see they all be walking backwards. They watching to the farther crowd, in ignorance to us.

Thick among be soldiers, but is also brown ermanos. Even be some orfanato littles in their number coats. Some thirteen girls be stood in nighting dress, with blankets round their shoulders. These strain on tiptoes, scouting past the other children’s heads. One girl notice our carlights. Squint to us, and shout some word. Then all the thirteens wave like they inviting us to festival.

Yo, through the ferment come a horsen neigh, particular like music. I sit up, waring breathless. When it whinny up again, my heart go weirdo bright. Then I be fumbling for the doory handle, running from the car. Crow shout behind, but I go sprinting heedless. Come to the mass of children as they break apart, shift toward the roadside. First, I think they recognize me — give Maria room. But then I see the littles coming slow along the street. People be stepping back to let them pass.

Is any hundred littles there, in dirty clothes of moth appearance. Their coats stuff fat with paper; heads be mostly lost in scarf. Got packs upon their back, so each look like a shamble bear of cloth. Bigger tens be pushing wheeler-carts with nests of baby twos, who skree appalling to the crowd. And down the street, as far as eyesight, be more littles come the same. All dragging in exhaustion — but soon it realize, they also slow because they eating food. Yo, as I watch, a Mariano girl come from a house with bread in hands. She pass this to a scruffety eight, and soon the bread be torn in pieces, stuffing in all enfants’ mouths.

Then, tall among this littlish mob, I spy my pony Money. Her spotten flanks be queer like maginations in this muzzy light. Before I think, I yell my voice. Then she spark feet, come barging glad. First Runner small astride — is yanking at the reins, while Money scare all littles from her path. They skeltering in all directions, like a splashing wake. Then Money nosing in my face while I reach to First Runner, laughing, my blood spectacular with joy.

First Runner cry in high frustration, “Leave my mare! She biting peoples!”

I call brainless. “You ain’t hurt? You bone?”

Now she recognize my voice. Go startle, gape her mouth.

“You bone?” I cry again.

“Ice Cream?” she say in breaking voice. “You all alive? And Mamadou?”

“We bone! All be the same!”

“Then why—” She look to the littles, who be pausing back, uncertain. An eight yell something to her, but she wave a nay ferocious, frown to me. “Truth? You ain’t lying?”

“Swear my head, they bone!”

She cry perilous mean, “Why no one come? Been walking days, and no one come. We starving there!”

“My ten, we never known!”

“But — El Mayor be bone? Ain’t lie!”

“Ain’t lying! Bring these to the Ministerio! Be all rooms there empty.”

Now she recollect her pride. Snuff nose, and say in pickety voice, “Thought this ourself. But where it be?”

“Can follow our car! We going now!”

As I turn to point, Crow be there, crashing to me huge. He grab my collar scruff and yell, “Damn, what you doing? What you thinking? What?”

“Shee!” I yell back hot. “These be the littles come from Massa! Ain’t you see?”

“Ain’t only littles here! Is every people! Damn, come back!”

He start to haul me by my collar, while my Money startle. Pick her feet, neigh warm and smelly in our face. I laugh and call back to First Runner, “Mind, you chase our car!”

Then I turn, go jogging back with Crow, while he still swearing mean. But by our car, now be some dozen soldiers, gather to Taco-Donx. Crow balk, throw out an arm to stop me.

“Crow, it’s good,” call Donx in boring voice. “They’re ours, it’s cool.”

Then Taco saying something low. All soldiers startle awful. Go stoop a hasty courtesy to me, while Taco grin his face.

“Come on,” call Taco. “You got to hear this. Jimmy, tell the story.” He nod toward a bigly soldier with a bandage hand.

Jimmy look up shy. “Yeah, I was only saying, it’s over.”

“No, the story.” Taco shove his shoulder, grin to us. “Jimmy was with Simón’s boys uptown. They was shooting it out with Inúds from barracks there, when all those kids come through.”

“Yeah.” Jimmy make a nervy smile. “We was in the park up there, just killing each other, you know. And suddenly, a thousand little kids walk smack out into the middle.”

“And it all stopped,” say Taco.

“So it start again, now they all past,” say Crow. “Ain’t nothing!”

“No, mano.” Taco flap his hand dismissing. “Think. What do they do, those Massa kids, whenever they see grown people?”

“Ask for food,” Donx offer.

Taco point to Donx and nod. “And then it’s a conversation, what it was. One second, people’s shooting each other. The next second, it’s a mess of kids. And those kids go up to Inúds, to anyone. They don’t know the difference. Beg for food, and the next thing, they’re telling their whole sad story. Well, our enemy, they got real confused. Jimmy, tell them.”

“Yeah, the best part,” Jimmy say. “Then Simón, he jumps up on a car and gives a speech. Somebody shoots at the man, he doesn’t even shut up.”

“That’s what he’s like,” say Donx.

Jimmy nod. “So he tells them how the apostles was planning to sell us all… you know. The whole thing.”

“And you realize,” say Taco, “these guys all fought with him before. He’s the goddamn general.”

“That’s what it was.” Jimmy smile. “The enemy, they just listened like they come there to hear a speech. And then they marched off after him like ducks. Barracks of Inúd, who these guys were. The faithful.”

“The last of the faithful,” Donx say.

“People, it’s over.” Taco draw a finger across his throat. “We won.”

THEN ONLY BE TWO BLOCKS to drive, but it take careful minutes. Always be some littles, wandern stupid in the road; be soldiers climbing on the car joyeuse. Yo, in this petty time, I start to feel my tired body. Cut palms begin to itch; my stabben chest feel sorry hurt. But all these pains be gratty now, feel heavy like a gift. Keep thinking how I go see Driver. Sleep by him in company. Can tell him how we get the cure in petty days, all problems done. Say this, then we both sleep like heaven.

And we stop to the Ministerio steps. They litter spectacular with glass from gunshot doors and windows. We step out in a throng of soldiers who skit back, gasp blessing words. I drowse afoot as I go up. Look back for Crow, but he be bickering still with Taco in the street. They mix into the thousand littles coming slow like clouds. I go on toward the entrance, where the dandelions still be lit — yo, now their dangles stir from wind invading through the broken windows. Come to the door, duck through its missing glass.

In middy hall, it be a clutch of my own redcoat guards. I start toward them, grinning mouth, but they all look away. Their manners be severe, like they uneasy for some problem. I hold my step, considering sudden if some guard been kilt for me.

Then Julio step from them hasty. His reddish coat unbutton sloppy, face gone panic bright.

I say confusing, “Julio, you bone? They never catch you?”

“Senyora,” he say hoarsen. “Is your brother.”

My heart stop cold. “Nay, Driver? What it be?”

“Hospital, he go.” Julio look frighten to the door. “Hour past.”

“He — nay, what been?”

“His sickness. Bleed inside, they say. Take him for help.”

A moment, I cannot take breath. My heart fill all my chest. Then I gasp somehow, “Can be, my car still there. We—”

“Yes, senyora. I stop them, yes.”

Julio run out the door. A moment, I be only frozen, staring into nothing. Want to shout some argument, how hard it been, ain’t justice. Then terror rise, and I go run. Come out on the steps, and dodge through littles coming up. Be this careful movement, and be the blackish sky tremendous overhead, its dull, uncolor moon. As I see the car, with Julio waving by, a red distress, my terror bite into me worse. Be like no feeling that I known. Is like a killing sickness. I catch my hand up to my throat and go on with this terrify evil breaking in my heart.

QUINTA HOSPITAL BE THE HOME where this white terror live. Come in a bleary whitish hall, and Julio shout his Panish at an enfermera there. She scramble to find papers, while I grip fingers sweaty in my pockets. Then we go down halls with rubber smell of pharmacies and illness. Be blue medicals scrambling past us, like a pulling wind; be tear-face children leaning to the walls. Our enfermera talking feary Panish, until I ask in fright, “What she saying? Driver worse?”

Girl hush at this, look down with shamen eyes. “No,” Julio say hasty. “She say, is sorry, they busy from the war. Too many sick here.”

As he say this, we come to the elevator hall. Here stand two medical children with a rolling bed between. A fifteen boy in soldier clothes lain there, got redden bandages to his throat. He breathing scary fast, stare at the medical boy beside, who muttern over-over, “Tranquilo, tranquilo.” Our enfermera start explaining to them, waving hands. Then the medicals stare to me, stoop courtesies with muttern prayer.

Ya, the injure soldier make a face of beggary. Struggle a hand toward me, make a breathen noise without no voice. His body straining while the medicals hush him nerviose.

Julio say soft, “He want a blessing, senyora. Is scare.”

I nod without no mind. Step toward him, and he ease back, tears beginning in his eyes.

I say what Panish prayer I remember, voice dim from its fear. Injure child watch on my face, eyes gentling. When I finish, a medical whisper, “Gracias, bendita reina.” I look to her, and she be weeping — a scary fourteen with lips blooden from their winter chapping.

Then the elevator open, and the soldier shut his eyes. Face clench back to its hurt.

Two twelvish girls come staggering from the elevator, sobbing awful. One be wailing, “No, if he’s not here — they said. He got to be here.” The other hushing her, look shame to us as they push by.

Then we all shove in this elevator, be no moron courtesies. Ya, all its floor be footprint blood. I shut my eyes to this, my terror sharper. Pray to the nothing I believe that all these children save. Pray that this war forgive, or that I die for any guilt. If any person die, it be myself. Ain’t Driver die for this.

Injure soldier and his medicals leave on second floor. We go upward to the fifth. In this petty time of waiting, our enfermera talk again. I look staring to her, but now I only think of bleeding inside. How this happen. How any person stop this, once it be. And Julio say, unmeaning in my fear, “She say, these floors be only for sarcoma. Good help they give. You not worry, is good.”

Take me a breathing minute before I remind, sarcoma meaning posies. Then my mind start babbiting Panish—sarcoma, bendita reina, gracias—in some reaching madness.

Elevator open to another hall, is white the same. The enfermera go up to a door across, stop quick. She whisper another endless fear, and Julio say to me, “Is here, can go. Only, you are quiet for him. He need sleep.”

I nod, try to relieve. But my heart stuck in that terror. Be like the world become a brainless light, deep in my eyes. I reach to the doory handle with this terror sprinting past and past.

Inside, is dimmer light. Driver there in gentle darkness, lain into a bed with rails beside. I close the door behind and feel its petty noise in all my blood. Then I go terrify to my brother.

Bed be clean as enfant snow. His sore hand bandage white. With the heapen blankets, his body showing healthy size, and even his shut eyes look happy, like they drowse in good content. But he be dead.

Cannot tell how I know. But when I look into his face, my whole self scream that he dead. I reach my shaking hand up to his nose and feel for breath. Touch to his neck, feel for no heartbeat. And my mind be running fright, how Driver breathing loud these weeks. Ain’t be no quiet in his life. He dead, is dead.

Come a moment lost while everything shrink hard in me. I sit heavy to the floor. Feel like I going to die myself, my heart be like some crushen mouse. In my mind, I say to Driver, Brother, no one seen you dead but me. You can come back, nobody ever know. Clench eyes shut and make a prayer to my nothing god — whatever god it be, whatever ghost can hear this prayer. Yo, can almost feel a listening there — a sympathy like sunlight on shut eyes. I reach out to this feeling, beg and beg with gritten teeth.

But this spirit hear me with a sad refusal in itself. All my magination cannot make it answer yes.

And I open eyes on Driver’s stillness, cold the same. My fear turn somehow, and I comprehend, it ain’t been terror. Been grief too big to know. I whisper, “Damn, I love you worse, my brother. How this got to be?”

At last, I take a corner of his sheet and wipe my eyes. Look to the door. Be like I never seen a door before, its shape look some ridiculous. Wonder how doors be even useful. Why no person making doors when it be children dying. And I stand up weaken, feeling sore in all my body. Bend to Driver, and kiss him on his forehead — cool and dry and gone — and kiss him again, and stand up frightening, how I never kiss him another time. But I make myself turn to the door. Come out, and Julio leaning to the wall, face blank in weariness. Enfermera by, is looking at her fingernails. They both startle up, grit into worry at my sight.

I say soft, “Julio, he dead.”

“Dead?” He look confusing to me.

“Ya, he dead, my soldier.” I swallow on this saying, taste a bitter something in my throat.

Julio narrow to me, clutch his hands up into fists. Glance frighten down the hall and whisper, “Sengles are there. Was wait by him.”

“They ain’t know he dead?”

He make a gentle grimace. “No, senyora.”

I breathe out long. “My Pasha ain’t here? Jesus?”

“No, senyora. Don’t know where is Jesus.”

I nod weak, feel some unknowing love for Julio, how he helping. But then a bitter hurt seize in me. I say hoarsen, “Julio. How many floors it be here, for sarcoma?”

He look uncertain. Turn to the frighten enfermera, ask low. She frown with seeking eyes to me. Say careful, “Senyora, eight.”

“Eight floors. Right, you see this?” I say. “Why this war been. We going to end this now. Goddamn this, cannot be.”

Then I turn unthinking, start to walk back where we come. Julio follow, saying, “Senyora, you don’t want Sengles? Is good, people help.”

“Nay.” I pause my step. “Ain’t nothing help.”

Then my tears come blinding, and he lead me by my arm. I stumble in the elevator, thinking of that moon rain. Salt that last forever, grief that live beyond all life.

62. OF NAVIDAD ITS FINAL GRIEFS

BE ONE MORE MEETING IN THIS EVIL MORNING OF OUR VICTORY. I ride back seeing only tears, hands clutching in their cuts. And when I step out to the Ministerio, El Mayor be there.

He waiting to the steps, and when he see me, all his body change. He start toward, then halt uncertain. Raise a gloven hand.

First, he look good familiar, and my heart reach to him in its pain. But as I coming to the steps, I reach down for my skirt, how I will lift it climbing stairs. When it ain’t there, I shock peculiar. Remind Carola’s clothes and all disorders of these hours. How Mamadou tell El Mayor our loving histories. How Felipe say, with shaming smile, He’s not alone tonight.

Then I see El Mayor again — his bitter mouth, his hard respect. And I know, I cannot even tell him on my Driver. Ain’t brave to say this news to his unlove.

With this, my hurt be by. Is like I step out of my awful heart. And I walk up the steps without no conscience, why my legs be weak. Why I must wipe my face. Come to El Mayor and I say plain, “Salue.”

He say, “Come from Felipe. Business, ya.”

“Can tell me quick? Should sleep.”

El Mayor’s eyes hurt fresh at this. A moment, I expect he going to start in accusations. Yo, all my body sicken sudden. Be only breathing, concentrating how I keeping on my feet.

But he collect himself, say stiff, “What it be, the Quantico girl come to Felipe. Now our rebellion done, Marines want you at Quantico. Negotiations, what she said.”

I nod without no mind. “When I will go?”

“To middy day. Felipe send a car.”

“Foo.” I make a weaken laugh. “Felipe send me there?”

El Mayor frown. “Felipe want to go for you, but Quanticos ain’t want him. Ask for yourself, and that Simón. How Simón be general, can see. But for yourself…”

“Right, why they wanting me? They ain’t believe Marias gods.”

“Ain’t know. But it be only talks. Can think, you coming back tonight.”

“Be bone. I going, sure.”

Then, from nothing, we both catch into precarious silence. He narrow to the steps, the glass and ice in trails of glittern blue. Yo, I stare empty at himself. He dressing fine, like all these days — coat smooth like pony’s flank, boots perfect in their leather shine. But his face be hurt precaire. Look like he live ten years in hell, and come back younger somehow, foaly for no difficult life.

At last, I say, “My Pasha here?”

A moment, El Mayor stare on, unheeding. Then he say, “Nay. He at Felipe’s, talking with that Marine girl. War informations, you know how.”

“He ain’t resenting how I left him?”

To this, El Mayor frown. “Sure he resenting. Cannot do like that.”

“Do how?”

“Using people. And then they rid. Forgot like nothing.”

“Nay, I — ain’t like that.”

Now El Mayor look hard to me. “People here, they want to kill him now. Guess you ain’t heard? This morning, been a crowd out by Felipe’s, calling for his murder.”

“No sho. Why anyone kill Pasha?”

“He Russian. Ain’t a bony day to be a Russian here, no sho. Felipe’s own guards want to kill him. Ya, that Carola want to give him to them. Fear her life.”

“But they ain’t—”

“Nay. But Felipe had his work to rid them. Nor it help, that you been gone.”

I nod stupid. “Been wrong to leave him, sure.”

“Ya, first they find you gone, roo swearing Anselm’s people took you. Say you never left him without force.” El Mayor smile like bitter jokes. “Then this morning, Mamadou come and said you gone to him. Roo suffer this, be sure.”

A moment, our eyes meet precaire. I say, “Nay, Pasha blame me, truth? Ain’t be… from yourself?”

For a risky moment, El Mayor’s face fill with rage intentions. But he grit against. Put hands in pockets and say cold, “Ain’t want to know why Mamadou come?”

I shake my head. “Be tired. Can like—”

“Was bringing news. Who he murder.”

We both tense to this heavy word. Can feel my terror start again — the whitish evil growing big — and I say quick, “Yo sho, been war.”

“Been murder,” El Mayor say cold. “What Mamadou done, he gone up to Inúd, their Residencia. Bring some Quinta soldiers, say he got a message for Pedro. No one known him there, he go in straight. Shoot Pedro, and they shooting Pedro’s guards. Then he find Soledad.”

I flinch. “How, Soledad?”

“She living there. She gone there when you rid her.”

“Ain’t rid her. It—”

“Ever it been. She there. And Mamadou seek her through all rooms. You comprehend, this killing ain’t been chance. He saying this.”

Now my mind go vicious black. Remind the roof at Reese. How I told Mamadou of the threats to kill me for unvirgin god. How he say, And the simper known.

Then El Mayor take ragged breath, say like his final strength, “I know she kilt his feathers. He an Army, need his vengeance. But—”

“Nay,” I say without no breath. “You wrong. He killing her for me.”

“For you?” El Mayor grit his face. “Be vally mad, ain’t for yourself.”

I shake my head, a blank exhaustion gone through all my blood. “Kilt her… sure I ask him. I ain’t name her, but…”

“Ain’t name her, but you ask him? Ain’t no sense.”

I think without no mind, Been for my safety, El Mayor. Mamadou thought she telling how I done with him at Army camp. But Soledad never even known. I lying to her, and she trust me like an easy fool.

Be standing now with tears gone helpless on my face. “Cannot explain. Been something she known… he thought she known. But ain’t been his.”

Now El Mayor’s eyes weak in ruth. “Ice, nay. He doing this, ain’t yours.”

“You wrong.” I clutch myself, gone shivering. “Yo, I should sleep. But tell them I will go to Quantico. Be bone.”

“Nay, heed. I know I said some nonsense, all these weeks. But truth, you blind to trust. This secret male of yours — it been the NewKing? How this even been? And Pasha, he your friend? Ice, you ain’t seeing what you need.”

“Ya,” I say rough. “Should sleep now, truth.”

“Ice. You watch yourself.” His eyes fix to me, sad uncertain. “Whatever been between us, cannot want you hurt.”

I say quick with aching voice, “Be gratty, but should sleep.” Then I turn sudden, dash up the steps. Can hear him call behind, and I run faster, gasping breath. Duck through the broken door, and look back frightening through its jags of glass. El Mayor stood footless. He got one hand out, reaching toward, like he can catch me still.

Then something in me know, I never seeing him again. Feel Quantico’s distance, and the warry deaths around us both. How he eighteen. How children dying real. Ain’t only fears, is real.

My heart stab hard, and I call foolish, “Ever it been, I love you! Ain’t never quit to love you, never!” Then I turn again, go hasty like I flee my words.

Yo, as I reach the elevator, I hear his voice, small like a thought: “I love you also! Ice? Ain’t risk yourself! Ain’t need to risk yourself!”

MY FARTHER DAY BE LOST TO ME. At the iglesia, I go stumbling wild to Driver’s bed. Weep into gratty sleep — and wake again to Keepers talking something, sitting on my waist. Hate You come and lift her off, but I say, “Nay, she good. Ain’t like to be alone. Ain’t leave me.” Someone try to tell me Driver dead, and I turn harsh away. Curl to my pillow, ain’t got the bravery to say I know. Then through my sleep, be Sengles whispering by, sat on the floor. Sometimes I wake and talk some nonsense sadness that I ain’t remember. Hold to Asha Badmouth’s hand or take a cigarette from Jermaine. And always be some children weeping with the sorrow that I know.

Ya, they keep me company in dreams. Be reveries of snakes who taking Driver off to live with them, of caverns where he trap in ice — and always be a Sengle in my dream who whisper help. Once, I wake to find Crow sleeping by, curl on the covers, face beweepen like the rest. Then I dream into a burial yard where Crow be saying, “Driver living underground. Come back, once they explode the city.” I look and see, this burial yard stretch past all long horizons. And Crow show me a greenish gem, which be a magic weapon, kill all roos. I say, “But Pasha be a roo.” Crow say, “Is right, you got to choose,” and I wake panicking in tears. ABC stand up, put her wet nose against my nose, and Keepers look up from the sofa saying, “You ain’t going to die, now you be sergeant?” Then I wake from this, and Keepers sleeping on the floor, my ABC be gone, and I ain’t know if the question been a dream or real.

At last, I wake alone. Clock be eleven, and my task remember. I rise in brainless weakness, wash myself before I start to think. Clad a murder dress and diamonds. Go sit weary to the mirror, but forget to look. And I smoke two cigarettes, sat blind before this mirror. Think how I parley to the Quanticos, while Driver dead. And Driver dead.

In this, my Sengles start to gather again, ask scary questions. I rouse my wits, go call them round. Try to explain my leaving, but my smalls object in voice. Mustafa Five begin a game, where he announce I coming back tonight. I say, “Can be tomorrow,” and he shout, “Tonight!” and it go on, till all my scratchers yell “Tonight!” together with exciting rage. In this, Keepers go and bring Kalash, huge on her shoulders. I say with weaken laugh, “For killing roos,” and she say strict, “Only must kill them if they mally. Or shoot they feet, be better.”

Then it be clocken twelve. I clad my furren coat, and Jermaine go down the elevator with me. Kiss my cheek in by-salue, and I go out the door. Julio follow with my journey case. Be two trucks, then be my car, a grandy sort with bigger wheels for riding on rough ground. Got some child driving I ain’t know. Ya, in the car’s backseat be Pasha.

ROO LOOK UNBESLEPT AND GRIM. One lip still swelling from our violent yesternight, is lopside red. When I shove in beside him, angling Kalash sidelong, he flinch away.

We ain’t say nothing. I close the door, the driver say some Panish courtesy, that I repeat without no mind. Then we driving, and this motion take me in accustom tiredness. Be like my warry night continue, but I feel how Driver been in it somewhere, and now he ain’t. Ya, the chill feel like this absence, how the windows bloom their cold. And Pasha by, in strange unsympathy, while we drive away from every other child I love.

Riding down through Loisaida, we sit in this porcupine silence. I watch dumb how Loisaida pass, its shamble homes and trash. Feel Pasha watching by, but got no bravery to look at him. Think to speak, but all I got to say be Driver dead. Yo, now my grief begin to gather teary. I think away from it, go bite my lip. But they nuisance tears come on, until my breath hitch up and gasp. Then I be only leaning to the window, sobbing in shamen misery.

“Ice?” say Pasha cautieuse.

I wave a shooing hand. Rub eyes and swallow feroce, but nothing help. At last I say, between two sobs, “Why you be here?”

“Ice, ain’t got to cry.”

“Yes, I got to cry. Why you be here?”

“Quanticos ask.”

“Yo, why you got to be like that?”

“Ain’t being… Ice? You cry for this?”

I take a ragged breath and turn my ruin face to him. He look almost tears himself, is clutching scary fists.

Here the driver ask some worry Panish. Pasha answer soft, then say to me, “You needing something? Driver ask.”

I shake my head, mind gone in awfuls, how this be a driver. How the city full of drivers, like this word been chosen for my pain. And this grief dabbit to its end, while Pasha frown his apprehensions.

At last, he say in hoarsen voice, “Ain’t mean to be no way. Was sad myself, Ice. All it be.”

“How you been sad?”

“Sad.” He make a face. “How I being.”

“Been wrong to leave you. Sure I know. But I been only stupid, Pasha. Ya, I got nothing left to grieve with. Be finish, be too much.” Tears start again in this, while Pasha watch with strange attention. Is like he work some problem while I rub my messy nose. I wipe my snotten hand off on the seat, and Anselm’s voice say in my head, That really is disgusting, santa reina. New heights.

Then Pasha say into my thought, “Ice, I going back. Why I be sad.”

“Back how?” I keep eyes toward my knees. “You ain’t go to Quantico?”

“Nay, heed… Ice?”

I take a ragged breath and nerve myself. Look to Pasha where he sitting tense with shamen eyes. He got one hand upon my coat, clutch in its fur unhappy.

“Heed,” say Pasha careful. “Quanticos got capture roos. Patricia going to put me with them. When they trade prisoners, I go back.”

“To roos?” I scoff a disbelieving breath. “Marines ain’t rid you there. Ain’t theirs to rid.”

“Nay. I ask. They promise this for my help.”

Now I stare at him with only fright. “What help? Nay, what you saying?”

“Help. Give informations. Yesternight, I do already.”

“But — you go back real? Ain’t for some tricks?”

“Go back.” He shrug. “I stay by roos.”

“Nay, you cannot. Why? Why you even saying this? Cannot.” My whitish terror back, hard in my chest.

“Ice, ain’t right I being here.”

“Ain’t right? Ain’t say that. Why it ain’t?”

“Seen, when you left from Metro. Ain’t right.”

“Nay, I need you,” I say breathless. “How this happening? Now you going to leave me? For… been for they fools who want to kill you? Because I leave you there?”

He look down to his fisten hands. “Ain’t nothing that you done. I only want this. Cannot stay here.”

I think desperate, but can find no sense. He go back to his roos — the murdering children who he hate. Left him in Metro for one night, and this be his insanities. Ain’t even justice he decide this, I ain’t known this going to be. And I seek in memories, why Pasha want to leave me so. Seek, and feel this terror blind against my searching thought.

At last, I say in feary breath, “What El Mayor think — he always think you wanting me for love. Ain’t this somehow?”

Pasha tense, frown to his hands. Face show his pink embarrass.

My heart beat jags, but I say on, “It be no sense. You love a person, why you going to — shee, this driver comprehending?”

“Nay.” Pasha smile, look sidelong to me. “Quanticos want no English driver. Hear secrets.”

“Bone. Nor I want this, right.” I say softer, “Pasha, if you needing this, I do… ever you need. Should know. But why we ain’t continue like we been? Ain’t see how this be awful so. A month, can go on for a month. I only need some help.”

He clench against this. “Nay, ain’t so simple. Be nothing you will comprehend.”

“How?” I laugh up weak. “It be some rooish feeling we ain’t get?”

“Can be.”

“Shoo, been a joke. What feeling? Seem like you be a mammal, mostly.”

A long time, Pasha hush, but I can feel his answer gathering. We come up on the bridge, and the sweep of battern Marias City widen everywhere around. Car rise among its hundred towers, jag and windowless, then we break into sky, with only steely webs of bridge above. Be children working at the edge, and they all turn to watch. Pasha put his hand up to them, smiling weak, then rub his eyes. We come out over sparkling water, bridge posts blurring past, and he look back to me in his blue grief.

“Ain’t told you, Ice,” he say. “I had a daughter.”

63. PASHA ROO HIS WARS

PASHA GET HIS DAUGHTER IN AN AFRICAN PLACE CALL LAGOS. BE a city for boats, set scattern to the sparkling ocean. Time Pasha come, the roos been ruling this for twenty years of peace. Keep soldiers there to hold the city, but got no killing war to do.

He been eighteen self, young by their rooish definitions. Been soldat four years, but he ain’t scarcely use his gun. Only fighting he seen was in the European wars, and this been careless battles. His roos kept safe, and blackish Europeans been no people to him. He felt their deaths like hunting sorrow — going to pity, but can sleep without no bad reminders. Nor he try no gero yet. Still was glad with foolish life.

Ain’t posies left in Lagos, gratty to the rooish cure. So the girl who bear his daughter been some twenty-four years. Already got one walking enfant. With this son, she selling corny cakes around the rooish camp. Girl be a backward something like my Hate You, shy bespoken. Pasha friending with her, ya, his townie soldats friend with her. Name be Ekuah, but they call her Kusha, rooify her name.

What Pasha say, he been some prettieuse goods at eighteen years. So, how it begin, this Kusha love him with her eyes. Say nothing, but she start to gift him food and trinket goods. Will hold his hand in rooish greeting, and her scary eyes go unpredictable at this touch.

Soldats be ungentle mouths. Soon they teasing Kusha ugly. Ask if she using Pasha yet, and swear they do her better. Warn her about his rooish love diseases and his unsize parts. Ya, Pasha start defending her. This bring her into worser love, and ain’t no waiting time before he lose his seldom morals. Got no love for her himself, but this be hanging fruit.

Is histories of soldat, and all his use of her be fickle. He visit in itchy moods, and scratch, and leave without no care. His talk to her be all excuses, and he watching other girls while she cling frighten to his arm. Yo, when she go pregnant, first he only blame her carelessness. Enfant be no interests to a male, how Pasha ever thought. Only be a natural litter soldats leave behind.

But soon an inkling pain begin. When roos make greasy jokes upon his fathering, Pasha suffer queery. He start to notice enfants — ya, these mostly being beggars, asking by the rooish camp. Nor he can ignore, that many of these got rooish looks. Be soldat get, from girls of Lagos, took for rape or money. See these enfants’ misery, and soon Pasha sleeping guilty. Watch Kusha’s belly like she grow some judgment on himself.

But when his enfant born, these contradictions be forgot. First he see his daughter Femi, was like he recognize this creature from prediction dreams. In second’s thought, he know all certainties of her important wonder. Then he ain’t care how no one mock. He only live to help this enfant. His heart become a happy pain, and every other world be a surrounding to this love.

THIS FEMI GROWN SIX MONTHS, when Pasha’s roos call into war. Be in farther Africa, where children fighting bellicose to rid the roos entire. First battles be no circumstance. Roos kill some bellious children, and come back to Lagos dirty, booze their wretchen nerves away. But the Africans’ fury grow. More children joining in rebellion, until the deeper country be a stew of thousand wars.

Wars lengthen into years, and worsen into ugly cruelties. Worst fights been in nefasty jungles, ripe with all infecting sickness. Is poison snakes and giant ticks and spiders, every nightmare creature. Yo, is times they war in thirsty desert, lost without no goods. Here is rains of burning sand, like breathing broken glass. Be places God made in His days of hatred.

Now Pasha’s warry crimes begin, in hells of always killing. Be towns where roos kill every person various, for angry sport; be towns they blinden every child, and leave them to their slower death. Ya, Africans do liken tortures, and leave these frightening dead by rooish camps. Pasha’s townie soldats mostly kilt. He sent among some new soldats, and they be kilt the same. He see so many deaths, he feel familiar with a body’s guts more than its clean outside. Come time, is only one soldat of his close people still alive, Seryozha who been fighting with him from their first beginnings.

And in this terror, soldats use any pharmacies they find. Drink booze and they drink anything that smelling half like booze. Pasha start with gero, dust that can besleep all fear, make any conscience dumb. So these be drunken horrors, a sleepen blundering through screams and bombs and mutilation dead.

IN INJURY OR FOR RELIEF, soldats be sent to Lagos. Pasha come there any dozen times in these bad years. To him, this city be a home, a shamble heaven safe in peace. And there, he always seeing Kusha quieteuse and Femi.

This baby born with normal skin and hair, but Pasha’s bluish eyes. Look like she seeing something wonderful blue. Is gentle shy, ain’t got no fight. Love her brother and her mother; ya, all other people be a frightening problem to her. And she love Pasha simple. Will tell him hours of nonsense tales; draw pictures on his whitish arms; sleep riding on his shoulders. She always begging, he live with them. Ain’t want to comprehend there can be reasons that he leave. Yo, he love her with a stupid madness. All his hours of freedom be by her, or buying gifts to her. He bring Kusha’s family to a better partment, feed them all. Buy a camera and fill his pockets with his Femi’s photographs. Believe these keep him safe in war.

Now, in his wars, he fighting to survive for her protection. Care only that he live, and hate these children who will kill him, leave his daughter to the world alone. He breed some fever longings that he murder every person living, only to keep his Femi in this safer loneliness.

Be eight years of these African wars, and Pasha changing evil. Gone vicious to the new soldats, ain’t bear their bragging innocence. Is shrunken skinny, lose his teeth from accidents and hungers. Ya, gero be like air to him, his need for waking-sleeping. For gero’s sake, he townie with all children who got pharmacies. Physicians be his favorite joy. These, with his soldat Seryozha, be his only friendship.

Other Russians joke on him, but give his evils some respect. Is warry changes, known and known. And every gossip tell, in battle, Pasha trusty certain. Will fight like seven rabies, save these people he disgusting at. They call him vampire, and they leave him to his angry misery.

HOW THIS FINISH WORSE, Lagos self break in rebellion.

Been Pasha’s normal barracks night, of gero and unfriendly silence. He gone in pharmacy sleep, and dream blind through the first explosions. Only know of anything, when he drag from his bed to fight. Then he grab his pack and gun. Go out in wild confusions where his soldat gang be joining. He thinking first, they taking to some sudden war beyond. Mostly frustrate how his pack fill wrong, with every peaceful object. Got cooking grain and camera, but ain’t warry gear enough.

But then a close explosion come, shake bad familiar in the earth. All soldats laugh or swear, call speculations where it been. Pasha hear the gunfire rise behind and comprehend. War be here. His Femi be among these bombs alone.

Then he ain’t even sneak. He break in run without no care. Push through soldats, like every child will comprehend where he must be. Ain’t hear if no one yell, ain’t heed. Dodge through the trucks, and he sprint breathless to the havoc streets.

Worst slowness of this journey be its danger. Pasha been soldat too long to risk no stupid death. Ya, this night be every desperate child out in some hunt. Some be only thieving, but is also angry rifle bands, gone seeking roos to punish. Nor he dare to start no gunfight, how he be alone. Must creep by hinder streets, must duck from every moving life.

Be twice, he caught into some hide, while battles deafen close outside. Then he fish out his gero, how he craving since his woken sleep. First time, he risen stronger from this. Go with clarity bright, and even gladden to the risky dark. But when he catching next, is houry time, inside some pen of goats. Only is bullets maddening outside-above, the squeal of beasts. Then he finish all his gero out of hate frustration. Hunch in a dream of screaming goats, and farther screams of men; the stank of warry fire, that always find some poison thing to burn.

Time he leave, his mind be smoky as the ruin town. Then he wander lost and lost. Ain’t find no place he recognize, and times, he ain’t believing this be Lagos. Drift in memories of awful cities where he war, when every world destroy to figments, and his people all be dead.

Pasha scarcely notice when he find his way again. Only is following streets toward his heart, without no thought betook. But it be clear and vicious to him, how the war die into quiet. Guns choke into hush, and only can hear the seldom cry, the frighten voice, of their results. Then Pasha run without no mind. Be thinking terrify, he miss the war. Ain’t killing who he need, and Femi left.

So he run through smelling smoke; run past the dead, lain skew and red. Sometimes, by these, be children weeping. Sometimes, children rob their pockets. Once, some gunshots follow him, but Pasha lost his mind for risk. Be flaming cars somewhere, and buildings, and these be only brighten ornaments to his one fear.

When he come to Kusha’s place, the edifice be whole unhurt. Is even lights in windows, voices muffle in the upper floors. Door open normal like a dream. Kusha’s partment be on bottom floor, and he hold stiff with clamoring heart to see a light below her door. Hear someone walking there, and he go yelling, gratty wild.

But when the door come open, it be his soldat Seryozha. Child step out to the hall and close the door behind himself. Pasha try pushing past him, but Seryozha hold and block him stubborn. Yell till Pasha heed.

First Seryozha explain some pointlessness — how he come behind the fighting, seeking Pasha self. Tell news of battle while Pasha stare, gone trembling through his flesh. He got no courage left to ask, and only watch Seryozha’s face in terrifying need.

He ain’t remember how Seryozha say that Femi dead. What he remember be what he ain’t seen, the killing self. For years behind, this strange unmemory come to him at thoughtless moments — the knife, her choking scream, the blood that always frighten him again.

BEEN IN THE EARLY NIGHT, before the fighting even start. Some Africans come for Kusha in a vengeance demonstration, what become to girls who go with roos. They drag her to the street for rape, be yelling filthy mockeries. Femi running after, while Kusha scream at her to hide. But the enfant chase until she trip akimbo in the street. Then some worser child catch up this Femi, see her bluish eyes. All finish in a moment’s rage.

When Pasha’s memory return, Seryozha stand against the door. Got sickness face, and Pasha struggle to remember why. Is like they standing there for hours, and Pasha seek his mind, confusing, how he can save Femi. Remember again that she be dead, like he forgotten this a thousand times, and keep remembering unwanten.

And Seryozha say, like offering comfort, Kusha still alive. Rapists frighten at Femi’s murder, leave her mother there unhurt. Now Kusha be inside. Is with her sister and her son.

Pasha only repeat, They leave her.

Seryozha say, They leave her, yes. Ain’t done her nothing, brother.

WHAT HAPPEN NEXT be strange again. He know he fighting with Seryozha, though he ain’t know why, nor he remember how this struggle end. Ain’t remember how he coming in and seeing Kusha. But he remember shooting her. Been certain in his fever mind that Femi kilt for Kusha’s dirt, her shamelessness. He even glad as she fall down in blood, relieve to rid this evil. And he shoot Kusha’s sister, Kusha’s son, without no thought. Shoot them like a natural thing — like someone throw a ball to you, and your hand rise to catch.

Then some time, he roaming in the partment, raging blind. Break a window with his fist and laugh hilarious at his blooden hand. Kick at the murdern son, then break in tears when his Seryozha cavil. Try to hit Seryozha, but he got no strength. Can scarcely breathe. This seem funny also, and he laugh until Seryozha laughing, wrestling him to peace.

Next memory be, he sitting on a sofa by Kusha’s blooden body. Is weeping while Seryozha talk some useless noise above. All he knowing, Femi gone. Her body taken to the church, and Pasha cannot comprehend how no one do this cruelty. And he weep there in Seryozha’s noise for countless time. Be like he fall forever, ya forever, in a single hour.

But at last, the gero weaken. Leave him in this actual room, the bodies splay and still. Then, in some loathing need, he get his camera from his pack. Make the photograph I seen: Seryozha before these murdern children, holding a pistol to his own head, grinning desperation.

TIME PASHA TELL ME THIS, we be in bosky country, past no houses. Both is crying somewhat, smoking with the windows open. We got the furren coat across ourselves, but still be shivering. And we hush some time, watch out the windows at the woods — the icen branches glittery to the clouds, a fuzzy sun. A winging crow stop on the snow and fold into a blacken stitch. Be the bellesse of all my younger days, but now it seem like maginations. Life now be wars in broken cities. All my futures be like Pasha’s pasts.

At last I say, low in my voice, “This when you try to kill yourself?”

Pasha shrug like obvious questions. “Yes. Was right.”

“But you ain’t meant this murder. Be something… like it happen to you, ya?”

He shake his head, eyes tired beyond. “Ain’t want excuses. I only explaining how I been with you. Was Femi somehow. Keep thinking like you Femi, if she grown.”

“I be like her?”

“Nay.” He smile funny. “Been only something that I need. Thought I can keep you safe.”

“Done this. You save me, fact be simple. Yo, how this make you go to roos?”

“Ice, comprehend. Ain’t right I be here.”

“Nay. By roos, ain’t right. Think what you only telling.”

“I be a roo. What I be.”

“Foo, how this mattering any? Been a roo this time, ain’t matter nothing.”

“Matter,” he say painful. “What I seeing yesternight.”

“Nay. Be only notions, Pasha.”

His eyes fix to me seriose. “Marianos hate myself. You never see this? How they talk?”

“Nay, ain’t every person so. You friending with they guards. They never caring how you be a roo.”

He shake his head. “If I ain’t friend, they kill me sometime. Why I friend.”

“Foo, you magining dooms. They never done.”

“Yes, and kill you also,” he say in rougher voice. “Like Femi.”

“Shee. Marianos murder me, can be. But ain’t for this.”

He shake his head. “If you been at Felipe’s yesternight—”

“Then I protect you better. All that been.”

“Ice, you ain’t know. Seen this before, in Africa. They hurt you also.”

“Nay, they ain’t even hurt yourself,” I say with choking breath. “Felipe keep you.”

“This been one time. It be again.”

“So we can leave this fool Marias. Do this war, then we skit to some woods. Think Keepers hate you? Any Sengle?”

He take breath to cavil more. But then he only fret his mouth, look past me to the window. “I be older, also. Ain’t natural I be there. Cannot explain.”

Here I frustrate, how I got no knowledge I can argue. Never been no thirty years myself. Try to think how it will be, to always be with eights. But it never feeling so with him. We talk like animoses always. Risk our life together, plan our war. All be no sense.

Then he say soft, “You still get cure for Driver. Now, ain’t need myself.”

I flinch. Clutch hand into the coaten fur, my throat gone tight. “Nay, Pasha. Driver dead. My brother dying yesterday.”

He startle up, look his blue grief to me. Be a moment that we linger in this closer misery, while the snowy rumples of the land be always huge around. Then his eyes pass into shame. He whisper, “Be sorry, Ice.”

“Ain’t need your goddamn sorry!” I break out in sobben voice. “Need you to stay. Ain’t want to live myself, you all be… you all gone. Cannot do this anymore!”

“Ice?”

“Ain’t know what I even doing now. The cure, these wars. Why this all been? Be begging, Pasha.”

He reach out then with helpless ruth. I take his hand, cling hard and say, “Ain’t let you leave. You mine, you hear this?”

He laugh rough. “Your roo. Like Keepers.”

“Nay, you be my person. You like my other self. Ain’t right you leave. You got to feel this, Pasha.”

“I feel this. I love you, Ice. But—”

“Nay. I love you also. Damn, you leaving nowhere. Will not let you.”

I grip tight to his hand. Be thinking madness, how I keep this hand. Ain’t loose it for no circumstance, give him no freedom for escape. Already begin to worry how I sleep, to think of handcuffs, when he say in unbreath hurt, “Will think.”

A gray relief run through me. I say weak, “I chase you to these roos, you do no foolishness. I will.”

He make a face. “Be sorry for Driver. Sorry I ain’t been.”

“I look for you. Thought you must be there somehow.”

“Be there, if I known.”

Then we fall, in sad exhaustions, to our hunting silence. Keep holding hands in thoughtlessness, and stare out at the farming yards of Jersey, their houses few and far. Yo, as we stare, the houses thicken. Become a broken city, scarren black by ancient fires. Its ruins decorate with perfect snow. One street become a brook, grown pale with ice. Ain’t no showing people. Can only see a lonely deer gone nosing in an evac yard. Yo, all this winter got a ghost unbeing from our warm inside.

Be scouting in this wealth of evacs, magining their loot, when something bother in my mind. I look back to Pasha. Find him watching on me sorry. His hand change in my hand, and we both smile.

“Ho,” I say, “you hearing on their nuclears at Quantico?”

To this, he grimace like bad taste. Before I can react, he rid his hand from mine, stretch out his fingers.

I watch this hand with superstitions, crave to snatch it back. “Yo,” I say nerviose, “they wrong to you?”

He shake his head disgusting. “Be no nuclears.”

“Patricia never told you? Got three nuclears there. They losing, Marines explode the city.”

“Ya, she told. Is lie.”

“Foo, lie.” I laugh. “How you will know?”

“Is obvious.” He shrug annoying.

“You ain’t even been in Quantico. How it can be obvious?”

Then Pasha start in explanations, how these nuclears cannot be. Best I comprehend, this need some weirdo metals no one have. Must make these metals special, and this need expensive miracles. Nor it be any chance, Marines keep nuclears from the older past. These never last in health. Be only poison garbage now.

“Think she known, is lies,” say Pasha at last. “They lie to fear the roos. Lie to you also, so you tell the same.”

“Roos even hear these tales, I wonder?”

“Hear from prisoners, yes. But ain’t believe.” He nay his hand. “Been nuclears using in Russia, real. We know what this be.”

I think on this a minute, watching on his owlen face. He frowning into nowhere, like he still resent this nuclear lie. Gnaw fretful at his swollen lip.

“Is better,” I say uncertain. “If we lose, still can escape somehow. Ain’t everyone explode.”

Pasha lose his griping face. Get delicate looks and reach back for my hand. I give it hasty. Get a shiver at his friendly warm.

“Ice,” he say soft impressing, “you ain’t stay in Quantico?”

“Now? Why I will stay?”

“Nor you staying in Marias? You hide in forest, how we said?”

I laugh uncertain. “Nay, you saying this. I never said this.”

“Said.” He press my hand until I feel its yester cuts. “You mind, we fight one day? Said then.”

“So, was lies. Ever I said.” I look nervy out the window. The bosky country start again. Be unleaf forest where the pines among look fat like bears.

“Now Driver gone…” He take a difficult breath. “Ice, you heeding?”

“Nay, ain’t heeding. Cannot hide. You know I never done this.”

“No person blaming, if you hide. Felipe—”

“Be insane. Is mad as flies. Ain’t need his fool opinions.”

When I look to Pasha again, his face be strict in misery. He swallow hard and say, “If roos come to Marias… cannot be safe.”

I say in almost shyness, “Nay, be safer, if you only stay. Think all we done, and I be bone. You be my lucky shadow.”

Pasha try to free his hand again, but I cling fast. He startle, then begin to smile. “Will think.”

64. BY QUANTICO

WE TALK OURSELF INTO EXHAUSTING SLEEP BEFORE THE CAR arrive. Both dozing, topplen clumsy to our windows, when we fetch to stillness. I waken to a camp of tents, all green the same, set neat in rows. Behind-around be forest trees, with evac stores among. Can see, these trees grown up to bigness through some older city.

Around our car, be watching soldiers, dress in dapple clothes. First I see this garb, I think of roos and sit up frightening. But these be blackish children, normal made — Marines of Quantico.

Pasha turn to me with drowsen eyes. “Think we walking now.”

“Yo right.” I look unnerve around. See where Simón climb from his truck, and I take up my coat.

We step out our different sides. Come in the air of Cember, silvery cold with playing wind, and clap our doors shut with one sound. Around, it be the shushing woods, the bigger sky of life. Sting bright on my cold eyes. Ya, Marines watch curiosity on me, on Pasha Roo.

Simón walk to in dull exhaustion. Say short politeness, then he only stand and rub his eyes. Remember now, he fighting our rebellion yesternight. Ya, from a forward truck, Patricia climb out, stretching glad. Come striding to us, breathing misty puffs as she approach.

“Ma’am, sirs,” she say. “We’re picking up a couple folks here. Purposes of getting you to Washington with life and limb.”

Patricia wave three twelves to us — two boys and a girl. These say friendly courtesies, but all be strange to comprehend. Got slur pronouncing, like a hound that try at human speech. The girl say last, “If yaw loosen sight of us, keep tight. Idden wort yaw life a guess at a singular step.” She say this three ways before we start to understand, we ain’t to move without a Quantico by, to show our safer footing.

Then Patricia form us in a line, a Quantico between each stranger. We go off so, Patricia leading. Shoes already start to fret me as we cross the last safe ground.

FIRST LAND MINE PATHS be forest. We pick around the trees in crafty loops, though ain’t no risk to see. Be even squirrels dashing careless. Land mines show nothing to the eye, nor it be no exploding squirrels. Must wonder if these mines be like the nuclears, fables for belief.

We duck into an evac store, go down stairs to a basement room. Its one wall got a blasten hole, lead clear into the dirty ground. This be the starting tunnel of the underlands of Quantico. Marines pause here and turn on handlights. Shine these forward as we step nervy in.

Be an earthen burrow with wood supports along the walls. Lead downward through a chill of neary dark. Go ducking here, then we step out into a cold enorme. Ain’t see much in the skittering lights. Is only scant expressions of flashing wet, a metal rail, concree. Be one unhappy step in water that seize cold into my shoe. Then we walking normal on loose pebbles.

Quanticos keep pausing here, say, “Watcher step.” Flash their lamp upon some obstacle — a chunky rock, a snaggle of wire — that show like an important ghost in this white spot of light. Last watcher step be when we come upon a grandy table object, blocking our forward path. Here we must climb up, myself the clumsiest in heavy fur. On this height, the Quanticos scatter, wander from their finicky line. Patricia call up, “Now the gennlemen will give us a ride into Foggy Bottom, yaw be glad to know. Sit wherever you like, it don’t matter. This cart here’s all safe.”

Then I see in the various lights, the boyish twelves crawl down beside. Seat into some steel devices, fasten along this table. Come slow to my mind, is weirdo bicycles. Be a cart we standing on, these bicycles pull this.

Patricia come beside me, say, “Go on and sit. All due respect, those shoes have got to hurt.”

“Foo,” I say. “They twelves can move all this?”

“Don’t you wonder, ma’am,” the girlish twelve say at my elbow. “One dies, we got a hunnert more.”

Be some laughter in the dark, and slurren backtalk I ain’t get. I sit myself obedient. Pasha’s face flash in a passing light as he sit by. Then all these lights extinguish, and the cart creak forward, hitching gentle. Find a breeze, then it coast on.

Cart be longer time in journey, and Pasha start in talking to the girlish twelve — Sharice in naming. In the dark, we all heed soft. Is like an entertainment that they doing for our boredom.

So Pasha say, “You living in District or in Arlington?”

“Living, sir? Well, thass depending.”

“Depending?”

“Sir, I think yaw thinking of my position. Thass in the District. Position in the old German Embassy there. But, not bragging but, I did ready some street in Arlington myself.”

“Ain’t been staying in tunnels?”

“No, sir, thass for baby children. Lessen we get an air raid. Then we go. Yoller going to see it, at Foggy Bottom where we disembark there. Thass my home shelter there, sir.”

This pass to conversation on these air raids. Sharice explain the warning siren, and the twelves all do an imitation of its howl, echoing queery in the blackness. She tell how they do pack-and-duck — a drill for running to tunnels — in one minute twenty. And times, they go out during raids, to put out fires from bombs. When Pasha ask her if she fearing then, she laugh her scorn. “Who you asking that? Guessing you don’t know much about Marines.”

While her voice go on, we start to see a gentle light before. First it be a yellow muzziness, feel like a blur mistake. But slow, it sharpen into details. Can see the concree walls, the snaky brightness of the rails we ride on, opening to this light.

Far off, a child call out a muddle word. Patricia answer loud. Then we slow into this lighten place, and be a dozen soldiers waring from a shelf above. As we stop beside, can see these all be petty eights. They give hand-salues, and stand back tasky seriose.

We climb up to their concree shelf. Be long like inside street. Floor be covern with some thousand mattresses, particular in rows. Ya, each mattress tucken, perfect square, with greenish blanket. Look like a decoration to the floor.

Here Patricia halt us, say in loud instruction voice, “Going up top now. So please do keep in mind, there is some chance we get an air raid while we’re walking. You hear that siren, you do not run. Keep in line, keep your eyes on that person in front, and we go back orderly. Very small chance they hit us. But if you run yourself along that street, you will be instant dog food. So hoping you keep that thought foremost.”

She form us back into our line, and we go off again. Be stairs, a rubble floor, and stairs. Come outside, and be surprise that day be waiting normal. Got a fisher sky that promise rain without no storm. Sun be a whiter nudge in hazy cloud.

City beneath this sky be every sort of leering ugliness. Both sides is bricky buildings, seven floors, and all their face be harm. Some walls be torn away, and rooms be showing black within. Is edifices scabben burnt, and places shaggy with dead moss. Windows be a gross confuse of boards and rust barb wire. Here and there among, can see the poking noses of guns, but cannot see no person face behind.

Street self got no roaden skin. Instead, is various trash. This be set in careful patterns — squares and lines and circles, made of pebbles or broken brick or planks. Ya, one nearer patch be bones, and outline all in skulls.

From a bar set high across the road, be three big roadsigns hung. First is English, and it read,

HOW TO SURRENDER

Stop where you are. We can see you.

Put both hands in the air to indicate your intention.

Slowly remove all weapons and drop them in front of you.

Step over them and put both hands on top of your head.

Wait for directions.

This be painten black on yellow, faden with long weather. Next sign be Panish, and the last be rooish, fresh in brighter color. Another sign below, set on a pole like normal streetsign, read, BLOCK I-23 NW—544 CONFIRMED KILLS. Number on this sign been painten out and rewrit, over-over, is showing lumpy fat.

Patricia look back pologetic. “Hope yall excuse the decor. Unnerstanding, I do hope, we get very few invited guests here. Had our share of the other kind, excusing present company.”

Simón Zelote say behind me tired, “It’s fine.”

Only then I realize, some skulls here be from Marianos. This fasten in my mind as we go forward in our zagging line between land mines unseen.

Be a minute’s walk before we come to our first barricade. I been dreaming sorry, and ain’t notice till we be upon. Barricade be two layers of rusten cars, with various junk among — brick and bicycles and wood. Patricia call back sharp, “Like to ask our guests to wait and only climb with instructions. It’s a little persnickety here.”

Then she leap up squirrel quick. Pause light above, stood on the rusten belly of an upturn car. I glance where she gone, and see a skeleton hand thrust out beneath all cars, splay on the road. Beside it, sans no useful sense, be various boots, stood like they wait for feet.

Then Pasha climb up slow, Patricia pointing where each foot must go. They pass out of sight, and my Quantico twelve skip up. I watch his steps and go the same, while he frown worrying at my skewen weight, the dragging coat behind. Come thankful to the ground and he say fretting, “Worry about those shoes, ma’am.”

I shrug discourage. “Guess they boots ain’t for that.”

“What boots? The boots…” Child catch my meaning and glance back peculiar. “No, they’re from dead folks, ma’am. You won’t like that.”

“Shoo, most my clothing always been from people who was dead.”

He look flustering to Patricia, who say, “Thass the worst, ma’am, you’ll be fine.”

Pasha frown, but when he see me looking, he smile foolish. I catch mischieviose, call low, “Ain’t finicky when they kilt them.” Roo make a face, nay slightish with one hand. Then the others join behind, and we shift on again.

Ain’t much farther that we go. Pass two more HOW TO SURRENDER signs, and various posten warnings: DO NOT ENTER: CERTAIN DEATH, TRESPASSERS WILL BE BURNED ALIVE. On one wall, be painten big in letters worn with age: WELCOME TO QUANTICO — ROACHES GET IN, BUT THEY CAN’T GET OUT. Ya, always be the faceless rifles poking out above. One follow us with its black eye, and Patricia call up strict, “You know better than that, I do hope.” Then it be funny how this rifle get a hangdog look.

Be only one more barricade, and I take this barefoot. Is easy going so, though I must tread on bones with naked feet. Come down a final street, with usual burns, rust wire and misery skulls. But forward, it change to perfect grass, still green in Cember month. Ya, all the grassen blades be short the same. Is laken in its smooth. Come up to this with easing breath, and when Patricia step out on its healthiness, she move aside. Wave us forward, saying, “Okay, you can move freely here. I’m sure thass like to be a relief. Now, where you see this grass, you’re in Washington. You can walk like home. But do not venture into the maze there without one of us. You keep that difference foremost, please. Sergeants, thank you, and you can now rejoin your positions. Seen some paramount work today, and I hope you three will appreciate this historical memory.”

Before they leave, these twelves all come up separate to Pasha-me-Simón. Shake hands and thank us for the opportunity to serve. Then they sprint off, zagging careless back through wreckage streets.

We continue along the grass, while Patricia explain our privilege, that we get to see their White House. Come past some trees, and soon we find this edifice grandiose. Patricia talk on in friendly boomery, naming Presidents who been here, like these be bragging definitions any person know. Ya, Simón Zelote cavil, how black children all been slaves and prisoners of these mally Presidents. Then be entertainment, how Patricia choke polite. “Sir, as you say it,” she say thin, “must be a measure of truth. But I hope we all agree to disagree today.”

We head up to a shorter mansion, callen West Wing by Patricia. She say our parley there, in Situation Room. We enter in a hall morose, and halt before a normal door. Patricia give some whispern hints of our behavior, skitty grown. Take Kalash from me, in strictness to their parley manners. Then, with forcen smile, she open the door.

65. THE SITUATION ROOM

PARLEY ROOM BE DRAB, AND GOT NO WINDOWS. ALL ITS LIGHT BE false. Be a longish table, and three children to the farther end, all twentyish in size. They all come to their feet respectful, ya, all wear the same — blue soldier clothes with whitey belt.

Patricia doing introductions, hasty in her voice. Child at the enden place be leader, callen Commandant. He taken with his posies, got all crusting sores along his brow. Next be the general ruling Arlington — tallish stick with prettieuse mustache callen Hatter Diaz. Last be a girlish general, Verna Mitchell, lead their telligence work. This be a child with biting face, hair braiden back so tight it give her head a snaken look.

When this courtesy done, Patricia rid herself away. We sit with heavy scrape of chairs. But before no parley start, Simón start speeching on their older wars, and how all wrongs forgot. Yo, he mention every wrong the Quanticos ever done, in saying how they be forgot.

When Simón exhaust his speech, the Commandant say nice, “Well, we certainly do appreciate that, General. Hoping we keep that spirit. But getting straight to it, we all like to know what conditions you placing on your help.”

I say quick, before Simón can start again, “We want the cure. Be glad to rid they Russians, but we mostly want their pharmacies.”

Hatter general make a friendly smile that perk his mustache. “Well, thass okay, if they got anything. You know, ma’am, wooden be no surprises if it wadden even true.”

“Yeah, their miracle cure,” say Verna Snakehead. “Our opinion, it’s a ruse. Russians started out here offering us that medicine — with one small condition of total surrender. Well, I’m still waiting for a reason to believe it’s there.”

“Ain’t your worries,” I say shortish. “We know it be there.”

Verna scorn her lip. “Well, I’d thank you not to go saying that to my Marines. Get our kids believing that, you can kiss morale goodbye. We’ll have people deserting to the enemy — which I do believe was the Russians’ whole idea.”

“Now, wait,” say Hatter. “Assuming it’s there, which I guess the lady’s got her reasons. Still, there’s the problem, how you get it. Situation now, we hadden got in their camp, except as prisoners. But saying that changes, saying we even win. Well, they all likely to pack their bags and go. Why it’s no guarantees, being honest with the lady.”

“Maybe the gennleman could comment on that.” The Commandant nod to Pasha.

Pasha get bewaring face. Say slow, “Cure be on boats.”

“Well, thass it,” Hatter say exciting. “Boats, they’re way off down the coast. And they never come anywhere close to shore, we all been watching that. Even getting a shot in, I don’t see a way.”

“Ya.” Pasha nod. “Cannot take boats. But Russians trade for prisoners. What we plan.”

Verna huff infuriating. “There’s a fine idea, I’m sure. Begging your pardon, but we trade our prisoners for prisoners. While there’s one Marine kept in captivity, that’s what we do. Trade prisoners for some potion you’d be a fool to drink? Well, thass a great idea — if you’re a Russian.”

“General Mitchell,” say the Commandant, “asking you to remember where you are.”

“Sir,” she answer cold, “I’m hoping you don’t listen to this with any credulity. I do hope.”

“Well, there’s trades and trades,” say Hatter with impatient smile. “That Russian colonel you got, Verna, he’s worth something to them. Supposing we all winning, you ask anything you want for him.”

“Not guaranteeing he survives the duration.” Verna scorn her mouth. “But if he do, yall certainly can trade him for magic beans — when my people are all back home.”

The Commandant say sharp, “You’re forgetting circumstances, Generals. We don’t win this war, we’re losing all our people, without exception. So, in the interests of concluding this alliance, interests of winning this war, I want to personally promise our guests, we will cooperate in any reasonable means to get this medicine. Thass including use of future prisoners, if thass what the situation calls for. And, Generals, I do expect you abide by that.”

Hatter-Verna heed all this with looks of stiffen conscience. Then both muttern, “Sir, yes, sir,” and give each other mally eyes.

The Commandant cough in his hand and turn with tired smile to me. “Now, we certainly do appreciate you coming, in what’s an hour of need. But I’m hoping it won’t be any surprise, we got a request our own.”

“Request?” I say unready. “Ain’t enough, we help your war?”

“Now, ma’am, if you hear me out. So, unnerstanding you believe in the medicine, thass a thing we knew and expected. But what alarms us there, it gives the enemy a place to drive a wedge. They get nervous, they just offer you medicine — if you join up with them. Then we got two armies at our gates, and whatever intelligence that we shared, necessarily shared…”

“Concern being, you change sides.” Verna narrow eyes at Pasha. “Particularly seeing you got your Russian sympathies, preexisting.”

“Excusing the general’s frankness,” say the Commandant. “There it is.”

“That won’t happen,” Simón Zelote say with insult face. “If you knew anything about our city’s history, you’d know that.”

“Well, sir,” the Commandant say, “thass very reassuring to hear. But my request is for the lady here. Ma’am, all we’re asking is that you’d stay with us for the duration of the war. You’d be a very honored guest in the White House here, that’s my own home.”

Hatter smile to me with sweeten eyes. “See, ma’am, you staying here, we don’t believe your folks will abandon you. It’s a pledge of faith, how we see it.”

Before I think no answer, Pasha say, “Cannot.”

Marines all flinch then, look to him in various dislike.

“Sir?” the Commandant say short.

“You asking, she stay here?” say Pasha. “Maria stay herself?”

Simón Zelote add in stiff, “You’re proposing to keep Maria hostage.”

“Well, hostage, thass a word,” say Hatter, touching his mustache nerviose.

“It’s options we could have, if there’s that trust,” the Commandant say. “Hostage, that sounds nasty, but you think about our position. Can’t plan much, if we expect that information goes to the enemy.”

“It’s maps, it’s anything,” Verna say. “Use of that tunnel you seen. Cause those tunnels’ whereabouts, that cannot fall into enemy hands. Thass an area where I’m already unhappy.”

“Maria cannot stay here,” Pasha say, eyes furiose on me.

“Ma’am?” The Commandant nod to me. “We could have your thoughts, we all be thankful.”

Then every child fix eyes to me. Their faces grim in overlight.

First, my thoughts be easy yes. It always been my expectation, I war here myself. But how Marines be gleering on me, something trouble in my gut. Remind that I be here alone, without my Sengle children. Remind the land of skulls and bombs around.

“Nay,” I say nerviose. “You thinking wrong. We help your fighting, then you asking asks. Is backward somehow.”

The Commandant take slower breath. “Well, ma’am, I’m hoping you give it thought. It’s a thing we really appreciate.”

“Cannot,” say Pasha straight to me. “Cannot.”

I frown to him unhappy. Yo, when I see his white disquiet, I remember sudden, how he going back to roos. Said he will think, but never sworn he stay. All been some arguments.

Then a mally conscience whisper: If I stay in Quantico, he never leave me here alone. Must stay for my protection. This thought go scary and it pass, leave shivers in my blood.

“If I ain’t?” I say unsteady. “We still fighting, with-without.”

The Commandant cough and swallow at his throat. Say in thicker voice, “Well, you seen our streets, ma’am. Your troops can’t help so much, if they can’t set foot. Thass only a first example.”

Simón Zelote look back to me feroce. “Maria, there’s no necessity for our troops to enter the city. We can attack the Russians from the rear. We can attack supply lines.”

“I’m sorry to disagree there.” Hatter give a shortish laugh. “Supply lines, you’re talking helicopters. So good luck with that. And I was thinking myself, your boys come in on the rear. But if—”

“Excuse me,” Verna say in harsh. “If we’re discussing tactics, I’d like to ask that the Russian gennleman leave.”

This catch my temper, and I say, “Shee, better you leave yourself.”

“Now, I wonder what your interest is, ma’am,” Verna say with skinny eyes. “Why you want the gennleman to hear all this, I certainly wonder.”

“Oh, Verna, learn a different tune,” say Hatter sudden sharp. “We wadden discussing tactics. Hardly got to any discussing at all. Personally, I’m here to win a war. If I wanted a catfight, I’d get cats.”

Verna give him ugly looks. “General Diaz, thanks for your maturity. But if we’re talking disposition of troops, I think we better do it without a Russian representative. If thass catfights, fine.”

“Now, hold on,” say the Commandant. “Is that acceptable to the lady?”

All faces turn to me again. Even Simón give me some hinting look.

“Nay, he helping us these weeks,” I say unnerve. “Ain’t needful.”

The Commandant begin to speak, but cough into his starting word. Swallow and say breathless quick, “Excuse my saying, General Mitchell does have a point. Thanking the gennleman for his help, but it’s getting into an area that wadden anticipated. Hope you all can see.”

As he saying this, I feel it clear. Truth, Pasha being Russian self. Is natural suspicions.

But when I try to think agreement, something narrow in my chest. Get superstition feeling, Pasha go to roos if he leave now. He take among all Quanticos, beyond my watching eyes, and lost.

When I look at Pasha, he lost his rage. Stare to me weak. And in my mind, that mally whisper come again, insisting.

I say, lost in fear, “I stay here. If it be a help, I stay in Quantico. Be right.”

Pasha sit back sharp, while Hatter say in voice of big relief, “Well, now, thass something! Ma’am, and I’d say, thass brave of you, I was going to say that.”

“Yes,” say Verna softer. “That is a help.”

“Makes it a different picture,” the Commandant say with easing grin. “I do thank you, ma’am, and we’ll try to make your stay very pleasant. We certainly will.”

Then Pasha stand up sudden from his chair. All startle back. The Commandant say footless, “Sir? You all right there?”

“Can go,” he say in absent voice.

“Nay, Pasha,” I say. “We ain’t said—”

“Well, thank you also.” Verna stand up ready. “I certainly appreciate that too.”

Pasha push his chair back clumsy. Verna pass along, she open the door with quick impatience. Pasha start behind, then hold. Step back to me and bend down hasty. Kiss me on the forehead. Then he turn and he be gone. Door shut against my frightening look.

This kiss stay wrong in me. Ain’t Pasha manners that he do no kissing, ain’t himself. Ya, in my wrong feeling, the Commandant begin to cough again — a longer trail of coughs with fretten swallows in between. I grit sharp, look to his posy face with struggling heart.

Simón Zelote start to talk now, how my safety can assure. “You’ll need to make us comfortable, if we’re going to work together… regular communications and some means…” and he say on, while Verna coming back, without my Pasha. And someone answer shortish, and someone answer glad, and all be voices. I try to heed correct, but then the Commandant cough again, and my mind deafen in unsense. I only see the harshen light, their faces looking skully ill.

I see Hatter frowning worry at the Commandant before grief swallow me entire. Room become a smaller darkness. Feel weakly cold, like all my blood be tears. Be gripping in my dress — their voices babbiting around me — swearing my heart that Pasha cannot leave. He know that Driver gone. He going to know I need himself.

Then this confuse to Driver dying lonely in his bed. How he pologizing that I try so hard, and still he die. All times I dare myself, all sweating work, a city’s ruling — and still I cannot save one life. And this new war will spend its blood, and Driver still be dead.

Ya, my mind recall a rhyme I known in littlish years. Be about a boy was lost, and every creature work to find him. Birds fly seeking, and the foxes sniff, and moles dig underground. Even the sun go look for him, and water hunt in all its brooks. But he never found, and every part end with the rhyme:

These are the creatures that live in the world,

And these are the things they done.

Uppity busy, and everywheres,

But Mannity still be gone.

Through this, I hear Simón say low, “Maria?”

Look up, and all the generals frown on me. The Commandant say, “Ma’am, do that sound possible to you?”

When I take my breath, feel like it cut into my chest. “Sorry,” I say. “I be tired. If Pasha—”

Then I sob out hard. My tears come helpless, and I skit both hands up to my face.

Can hear in shamen awfulness, how every child be saying “Ma’am? Ma’am?” Someone touch my arm, ask something, but I cannot think. And they standing up. All noising with their slurren courtesies. Close through this, Simón say low, “Please understand, Maria’s brother died yesterday.”

I look to him, surprise. Be like I ain’t remember any other child know this. Then it be some comfort, how his eyes be sharp feroce. Look like he ready to attack no child who tell me wrong.

But they give sorries courteose. Hatter reach a cloth to me, and even Verna saying they never guess, and be good courage that I come. I use the cloth to wipe my face, say choken, “Nay, be right. Can need a cigarette, all it need.”

Hatter’s voice come near beside, “Now, ma’am. We can carry on without you until tomorrow, the very least. There’s Mister Zelote here. I think you’ve done everything anybody can ask.”

The Commandant say kindly low, “Ma’am, I think we can all use time to gather thoughts. Maybe I show you to your room, you can rest. And anything else you need, you just speak up.”

Ain’t comprehend this well, but I say, “Ya, be gratty right.”

“Thass fine,” the Commandant say. “We’ve all lost people, everyone here. You’re among friends, ma’am, forgetting all politics. I hope you appreciate that.”

This bring my tears again, and I say thoughtless, “Sure. Be gratty, brother.”

THEN BE A STRANGE WALK to the White House self, all generals fluttering round. Must concentrate on seeing where I walk through always tears. We come into a hall of whitish luxury, ride an elevator, yo all is sobbing and confusions. At last, we stop beside a door. Here Simón and everyone be gone. Is only the Commandant. He say pleasant, “This is the Queen’s Bedroom, ma’am, what they call it. Thinking it be appropriate.”

I say soft, “Where Pasha be? My… Russian child.”

“Ma’am, thought you knew. He’s talking to some of our folks now. And then, at his request, he’s going back to his own people. Thass the arrangement that we made.”

My mind go struggling feary. “Nay. He change in this.”

“Ma’am?”

“He promise, ya. He got to be with me.”

The Commandant look discomfort. “Ma’am, I’ll certainly ask him. Can’t exactly have him in the White House here, but… well, you leave that to me.”

I shake my head. Look past him like my Pasha going to be there. “I cannot stay alone here. Sure he know.”

“Hoping you won’t feel alone with us, ma’am. But I’ll ask him, you don’t worry at all.”

“Ya, send him here. I need him.” I say this peevish like a little, then I go inside. The Commandant stick in the doorway, explaining how is empty here, tell pologies on his missing staff. “Everybody’s fighting now. So things got a little dusty, but I’m hoping you can see it’s no disrespect.” He linger in this till I lose my strength, sit on the bed. Say rough, “Be thanks. But send me Pasha.” He make this promise again, and go at last.

Some time, I stare into my blindness, heeding for my Pasha’s step. Keep swearing he must come. Cannot be Driver gone and Pasha both. But all the house be dumb. Be dead. At last, I curl onto my side, gone weak from useless wish. Hug my knees and wait my misery into nothing sleep.

66. OF ROOISH PRISONERS

I WAKE AGAIN IN NIGHTEN CLOSENESS. ONLY A GENTLE YELLOW LAMP be lit beside the bed. Gone sweaty in my dress and coat, and I sit weak confusen while my every griefs remember.

In this, the room begin to notice. All be ickety pink. The walls and rugs and every other object pinking various. Pink and pink, like sitting in a mouth. Only unpink object be my blackish journey case, brought from Marias with all packen clothes. Some child must carry it here while I been sleeping. Now it seem queer familiar. Is like an actual object that appear inside a dream.

For longer time, I only sitting, restless in despair. Think how I can ask to leave, pick through the land-mine streets again. Beg a car, can get back to my Sengles by the morning. But then a notion hold my mind.

Pasha still be here. Is somewhere in the city, with all Russian prisoners waiting trade. Can even be, he never meant to leave. Verna took him, and he gone obedient to help our parley. Only must fetch him out again, and he remain with me.

I go to the door and open hasty. Call up, “Ho? Be someone by?”

Answer be silence, dumb as ice. I breathe my courage up again and step out to the hall.

Their elevator work like ours. I ride it down and wander lost through luxury rooms, all fade with dust. Keep calling, but my voice be only a strange intrusion in the deafness. Get superstitions, every person kilt while I been sleeping long.

At last, I find an outer door. Then it be relief to step into the good outside. The air be living with bright wind, the sky as huge as feeling. Is darken trees before, all shushing happy with their leafen voice. Cold seize into my face, my eyes. But ain’t no child to ask. Be no one there and no one there.

I stalk across the grass, come through a spacen line of trees. Can spy a bigger field beyond, still clean with no explosion patterns. A tickle of movement there come hopeful. I haste my step toward, pass through a clutch of heavy pines. Here I halt in staring.

Center of this field an artifact rise, white gigantesque. Is tallish like sky towers, but ain’t shapen like no building. Be skinny long with pointen top, and got no windows all its height. Look like goliath stake, made out of moon. Around it, be a ring of poles with flags of old America. Look tiny there, their stripen rags twitch pitieuse in wind. To every side, the grassen field go widening out to milen distance.

First my nerves wonder if this be a nuclear weapon that they keep. Guess how its poison kill the trees around, leave only grass. Yo, as I stare, a child come striding. Follow around this flaggen circle, holding a rifle loose.

I speed my step toward him, breathing funny with my spookery. He still be tiny in his yonder when he pause in noticing. Straighten up and ware his gun.

I halt, yell up, “Salue! It be Maria, from the north!”

Child hitch his rifle wary. Beckon to me with his hand.

Last walking be a long impatience. Face numb and sting with Cember wind. Ya, always be that artifact, moon weapon in my eyes. It grow overhead, while the ring of flags seem always small the same. But truth, these flagposts be four times the height of the watching child.

At last I come to talking distance. Can see the soldier’s troubling face in moonlight, how he tense his gun. Frown at my furs, my diamond head — can see he worry in duty, I be beasts beyond his knowing. I guess him at fifteen, and all my spirit be a thankfulness. At last, be someone by. Can ask.

“Hello, ma’am?” he call. “You all right there?”

“Sure, be right.”

“Guessing you do have a pass? Didden catch what you was yelling.”

“Know no pass. Been saying, I be Maria. From the north.”

“Oh.” Uncertainty go down himself, a pology in his body. “Do beg your pardon, ma’am. We was told, but I didden expect to see you here. Hoping you aren’t lost?”

“Nay. My brother, what be this building for?”

He look to it, puzzling. “Well, thass the Washington Monument. It’s for… I don’t know how to tell you. Memory, I suppose.”

“Ain’t a weapon?”

He grin up sweet. “Oh, no, ma’am. Lessen it falls on us, the old boy’s harmless as a sock.”

I look unhappy to this monument, try to feel it harmless. But closer, it be only worse unnatural in its white.

“Dang,” the soldier say beside. “Thought you was a ghost, first saw you. Thass funny about the monument, you thought that. Hope you don’t mind me saying.”

I look back at his friendly smile. See where he growing scrabbity beard, still seldom on his cheeks. “Brother,” I say, “you know where they keep the prisoners? Russian children, what I meaning.”

“Well.” His face ease seriose. “They’re the other side. But these aren’t children, ma’am. They’re fully grown, for certain.”

“Other side?”

“I’ll walk you. Guess it idden any harm you seeing.”

He set out at lagging pace, while I keep by impatient. And as we walk around these flags, the child say nerviose confusions — how this look irregular, but be telligence reasons, what they do. “If the Russians know these boys are there, they’re thinking twice about where they bomb. Plus, we want to get these boys talking. Don’t know what information’s there.”

“Ain’t talking?”

“No, the Russians who’s cooperative, they’re not down here shivering. They was down at barracks, if they hadn’t been traded home. These folks have got to earn that soft bed.”

As he saying this, I spy a shape by farther flagpost. Seem a heap of clothy trash, like I seen in Loisaida sometimes, frozen to a wall. Come walking, and can see another, another. Then it tweak in sense, is people bound against these poles. Ya, all be slumpen queery, like they fallen there from beating.

I stalk angry forward, while the boy call out his frighten, “Ma’am?” Be only thinking, I free Pasha now. This nonsense finish right.

Only be six children here, bound against six flagposts. Sit curlen to themself, arms caught behind. All wear dapple suits, and nest their faces in their collars, ducking from the windy cold. Still, can see in second’s glance that Pasha ain’t among. Most is darker furry, and the yellow roos be smaller than my Pasha, most like normal children. Come to the end and I look forward to the empty flagposts, helpless lorn that he ain’t here.

Soldier fetch up to me, say breathless, “Now, ma’am. Please don’t go running off like that. I’m responsible here, what happens.”

I shake my head, come staring at the nearest roo. Got weirdo hair, ain’t yellow but is white. Ya, like the others, he sit heedless dull. Ain’t look to us.

I say, “At barracks, the others be?”

“If anyone’s left, they’re there. Thought, you come here, it must be these you want.”

I look back scary to the roos. Now it realize strange that these be Pasha’s natural people. All furren like a hound, their faces squarish made, pink in this cold. Been talking all these weeks of roos and Russians, known was thousands like. But it never realize correct, they all be looking so.

I say thin, “Where be this barracks?”

“Truth is, ma’am, I think those guys is gone from barracks. They done an exchange tonight. Pretty sure it was everyone who’s not here.”

“Tonight?” A knowing misery rise into my throat. “Is done?”

“Well, it’s getting on to midnight now. Best I know, they gone at eight. And it’s a short walk, when nobody’s shooting at you.”

A moment, I get screaming feeling. Want to grab this child and shake him. Make him find they generals, and insist they fetch my Pasha back. But this fever pass and leave me weak with nonsense feeling. Stare brainless to the monument, its goliath flank of moon. Feel somehow it be evidence — should know when I first seen it, Pasha gone.

My eyes stray to the white-fur roo again. A wind gust sharp, and he clench through his body. White hair blown and blown.

I sigh my breath. “Need hats.”

“Hats?” The soldier follow my gaze. “Well, I guess thass not for me to say.”

“Ya, gloves. They losing fingers so.”

“Thass their own choice, ma’am. Like I said.”

“Nay, how long they keeping here?”

“See, it’s five days, and they won’t help us at all.”

“Five days.” I take a nervy breath. “They dying so. Is Cember month.”

“Don’t think they’ll die. But they do, it’s themselves to thank,” he say stubborn. “Barracks is nice.”

“Foo.” I shake my head. Go toward the whitish roo and hunker. Soldier dabbit nerviose behind.

I scout the roo’s face best I can, how he ducking in his collar. Skin be strange like Deema’s, though his face ain’t uggety much. Is only wrinklen fine, and chap from cold. Ya, can see his ear been hurt. Mark redden black with scab.

For a perilous breath, I only know that he ain’t Pasha. Seem worse injustice, how he be a roo, but still ain’t Pasha. Like he only be this different roo for spite, for selfishness. And in this moment, I remind the murders in the Massa woods. Can know why someone leave him freezing. Beat his ears, do any hurt.

But this pass like chills. It be a child who clench and suffer. And I try their rooish salue, how Pasha teaching me. “Privyet.”

A moment, he ain’t stir. But then the child’s white head come up reluctant from his collar. Now can see, his mouth be bruisen fat, like punching injury. Hurt lips move like speech, but ain’t no sound. He frown and swallow slow.

I roo to him, What be with you? But this bring only more bad swallowing. A humor look come in his eyes, and he duck back into his collar. Shut his eyes again.

I stand up shaking somehow. Look to the soldier child where he be frowning disapprovals.

“Ma’am,” he say, “I don’t think you ought to be doing that. It’s interfering in an ongoing program, see.”

“Why he cannot talk?”

“I wouldn’t be in a position. Please.” His eyes turn blaming to the whitish roo. “Ma’am, he’s probably only thirsty.”

“Thirsty how? Ain’t talk for this?”

“Well, I’m guessing. I said to you, I am not in a position.”

“Look like you got two hands. Ain’t water nowhere?”

“Ma’am, I’m going to ask you to leave the area. Please, you can talk to my commanding officer about this in the morning. Colonel Rocher, he’ll be here at eight.”

I look back at this row of slumpen roos, my guts reacting hard. The monument enorme stand over like a god of cold. And I turn without no words, go stalking past the roos, the flags that stutter on the wind.

IT SEEM LIKE TEN FOREVERS before I reach the White House door. Then I go hunting, quick with rage. Will open a door, grope to its light. Switch on a sudden room of golden ornaments and fatty chairs. Scout quick, then I stalk on. Seek only water in this dry richesse.

At last I open to the cookroom — steely place with metal cabinets covering every wall. Here be a sink with faucets. I scratch around the cabinets till I find a jumbo brock, is glassen sort with useful handle. Faucets working right, and I start filling it with colder water. Then I figure better, change for hot.

While this brock fill slow, I go through droars and find a scissor. Fit this in my pocket. And I be breathing gratty, watching the water rising in the brock, when the skree begin.

Be deafen loud. Is like it shrieking huge inside my head. I jump, grip to a table, as the skree go shriller high. It hold this shrillness for unbearing lengths. Wail down and rise again, and here at last it recognize. Is warning sirens, how the Quantico twelves sung in the tunnels.

I feel my different sweat of fear, a shivering in my coaten warm. Magine planes and bombs, and my bad nerves be raw, be white.

But I take the brock and hug its heaten weight against my chest. Grit my fear as I go stubborn out.

On the frosten grass, scream fill the air as thick as drowning rain. The cold join to my fright, and I hunch to the brock its warm. All I can think be that old rhyme: These are the creatures that live in the world, and these are the things they done. Repeat this like a superstition while I stalk the milen grass. And I be hurrying tense, a sweating detail on the huge blank field, when the explosions come.

Be like neary thunder, trembling loud. It hit again, again, and shudder awful through the ground. Ring in my guts. Soon I be trotting clumsy, water splashing on my coaten arms. I argue to myself, roos never bombing Washington itself. But cannot rid my body fear. Be hunching terrify while explosions pounding all directions, flash the dull horizon.

Be almost to the monument before I see, the soldier gone. Then cowardesse insist that roos be bombing here. He known and fled. But I force my footsteps onward. Come where the flags be easen loose and limp, despite all battering noise. The roos be woken now. Tense various, like they guard from different blows. They watch the flashing sky.

One and one, they startle as I come. Look after me with open mouth, as I go without reason to this last white roo. He sitting sharper now, and from his swollen eyes, he look to me with courteose surprise. Is like I be some older friend who visit without expectation.

I kneel to him, feel glad to crouch myself below the noise. No rooish word for drink remember. I only raise the brock. Arms tremble, and a neary explosion shiver the earth beneath my knee. Ya, the roo frown doubtful, like he consider what new punishment this be.

But when I touch it to his mouth, his eyes catch telligence. Then he drink greedy, shutting eyes. Spill some slightish dabble down his chin, and he lick after this. I give him to drink again, and now another roo be shouting, dim into the ever siren. I rise up, heave the brock against my chest. Be breathing hard in nerves and wishing I can hear this breath.

Become a straining task, this ever lifting, ever care. Some roos speak, but any word be mysteries in the noise. The air begin to stank of smoke. Times the sky shock grayish, fickle to orange, then be black the same. Ya, once a clutch of planes tear over and deafen the sirens self. And I keep on, lean toward another whitish face. Tip this aching weight up to a mouth is straining open, feary that it miss its chance. Yo, all they faces be like mistaken tries at Pasha’s face.

Next task be worse, of tearing up my coat. Ain’t no scissors made for cutting fur. Must figure a means to stab into this, rip and scissor and force. Nor I can do this with coat on. Must sit freezing on its tail, work with shivering arms. But at last I cut away a raggity length of sleeve. Carry it to my white-head roo, who now watch curiose. I roo to him, hands, hands, and show him how he use this fur. To this, he laugh. When I reach the fur back to his hand, his fingers flinch, but cannot catch. They dumb from cold. Must form his hands inside myself. Hold them in my hands until they warm to better use. Then his body clench at the returning feeling, sweat his pain. But I rise away, ain’t got no time for sympathies.

And this continue till my mind stray foolish. Be gratty to the bombs that they continue well, give time to work. Wish the sirens quit, and wish these roos quit saying things I cannot hear. Cold take until my selfen hands go stupid, hurt like naked bone. Be breathing smoke sometimes. The sky gone smutten, lose its stars. World burning while I freeze; I shiver bombs and shiver cold.

Ya, in this ever pain, I realize these be prisoners. Be what we trade for cure. Been sensible reasons that they cannot die. Almost, I wish the guard come back, can tell him this with righteous face. But underneath, I know like shame, I save them neverless. Ain’t brave to kill. Ain’t brave for war, ain’t brave.

Then sudden, the noise wail down. The sirens droop their screaming into hush. Explosions gone, and in the quiet left, can hear the rooish gabble. They talking each to each, in louder voices from their deafness. When I give the final child his fur, he roo in dazen curiosity, What you be? Be tired for foreign answers, and I only roo, Ain’t know.

Then I go walking backen forth. Tuck hands in armpits and stalk quick to wake my warmer blood. So I be pacing, shivering, when that fifteen guard come striding back.

I stop in my footsteps, tense. His face knit in worry, and when he come up near, he say, “You was out here through the raid, ma’am?”

“Sure, can see.”

“They was looking for you. They—” He catch his voice. Notice the furry scraps, the brock left empty. “Oh. I see you been busy here. Thass… I don’t think that was right to do, ma’am.”

Then I take breath, and he take breath, and we begin to argue.

SKIRMISH OVER THESE FUR SCRAPS go on till whisker morning. Guard argue, then he find a child of better rank to argue. And this go on through ranks and hours, while roos watch on joyeuse. Ever an officer leave in rage, roos call up cheers together — though I tell them, in my stumble rooish, this be mally help. Ya, between this bother, I keep skitting to the White House. Take covers from the beds and bring these back with stubborn fury. Wrap the roos from head to foot.

In this last work, I start to roo to them with better luck. When I tell them what Maria be, they gladden entertaining. One child seem ready to believe that I be godly mother. Another offer filthy that he give me better Jesus. All start to call me Masha, and they get some curiosity, how New York fighting now. I say friendly, “Yes, all cities here fight now. You Russians finish.” They answer back with laughing insult — and we interrupt again by some new angry Quantico.

Last come the Commandant himself. He start in sadder disapprovals, how they all been seeking me. Was fearing I run to the land mines, skitty from all bombs. He bring a coat — a grayish object, sizen for a bigly male. Settle this around me fussing, and he beckon me some steps apart, to talk in privacy.

He say, “We all was thinking, ma’am… not going to say we stop our interrogations. These boys stay right here. But if you want to bring them water, basic needs — well, it’s possible we accept that. We’d only ask, you put that to some use. Thing is, you got a good start here. It’s every chance, these boys will trust you. So if you could get them talking, ask some questions we provide you with…”

“Ho, be spying?”

He make stubborn face. “Can’t always have perfect honesty in a war. I know your religion maybe tell you thass a sin—”

“Foo sin.” I laugh up tired. “Sure I do spying. Be no problems.”

“Well, thass fine.” His face ease softer. “And any information you get, we all be thankful. But our main priority there. I know Patricia told you about our nuclear program. Now, the problem we got, the Russians are determined to find that out the hard way.”

“They ain’t believe.” I nod unthinking.

“Yeah, thass it. Now, these are all men of higher rank here. Why they’re assets. So, expecting they do go home sometime… it’s paramount they go back with the right information. The Russians have got to know, there is no victory here. There’s no good ending.”

I think to ask if nuclears be fables, or is real. But I got no strength for more disturbances this hour. So I only say, “Be right. I try.”

“Well, I am grateful, ma’am. Hoping you appreciate that we all want to make this work.” The Commandant sigh, frown to the roos, like he guess what I see in them. A moment, his face be only sad in worry. Then he flinch hard. “Ma’am — you took those blankets from the White House?”

I shrug. “Ain’t known no other place to rob.”

“Rob,” he say in thinner voice. “Thass nice.”

“Need hats. What they need most.”

Roos watch back with nerviose disliking in their eyes. Look sorry in their shamble wrappings, various with flowers or stripes. Can see they worry, why I ain’t fight with this newer child. Be thinking how I say in rooish, I ain’t bandon you, when the Commandant say grim, “Goddamnit, I’m standing here, and the Russians are coming into Arlington again. That’s what that bombing was. This — well, this could work. But it wadden a thing we appreciate much, and you are not very popular with my people this morning. Now, I expect you to return those blankets where you found them, and anything else you robbed. And I’ll ask you to show more maturity, from now on. I hope thass clear!”

Then he turn sharp and stalk away. Unhelpful roos call out a cheer of mockery to his back.