The Core of the Sun

by Johanna Sinisalo

  I sighed and turned around.

  The swing was empty, swaying faintly in the light and shadow of the birch leaves.

  I didn’t see you anywhere.

  I heard a muffled voice from the house that told me that Aulikki was still talking on the phone. I thought you had sneaked into the house. Aulikki wouldn’t want you to bother her during a telephone call. I ran to the door and peeked inside. You hadn’t gone to get Aulikki’s attention; she was still in the middle of a conversation about the potato harvest. I hurried to our room and looked inside. You weren’t there, either.

  I went back out into the yard, my heart racing. Where could you have gone? I didn’t want Aulikki to know I’d been so terribly careless.

  The yard at Neulapää didn’t have a fence, but it was surrounded by a thick stand of spruce on two sides, and I didn’t think you would have wanted to struggle through there. If you’d gone down the gravel driveway that led into the yard you would be visible. The only possibility was a little path that led behind the sauna to the woods and the spring.

  You liked the spring. The clear stream of water bubbled up between the stones and formed a little pool with fine sand on the bottom. You liked to make your little hands swim in water that was ice-cold even in the hottest weather and to watch the narrow, gurgling spring that wound down to . . .

  The swamp.

  I took off running.

  No sooner had I passed a couple of turns in the path than I heard your voice. It was a scream, telling me unequivocally that something was seriously wrong.

  I tore down the path, oblivious of the roots and pinecones ripping the soles of my feet bloody. I could see a flash of Riihi Swamp through the trees, its surface covered with a bright blanket of sunbathed yellow-green moss, white tufts of cotton grass drifting on the wind. Riihi Swamp was a pond swallowed up by a bog. The layer of moss on its surface was a beautiful, deceptive shell hiding the airless black depths below.

  I saw a flash of red—the red stripe around the collar of your dress—and then I saw you. Only your head and shoulders were above the layer of moss. The rest of you had sunk into the mouth of the bog that had suddenly opened up beneath your feet. You were holding on to the tufts of moss with both hands and yelling at the top of your lungs, and I saw that you were sinking a little more every moment as your weight sucked the sodden moss with you toward the bottom.

  I was heavier than you, but I’d seen on television what to do in the winter if someone is on thin ice. Instead of trying to walk over the treacherous surface, I threw myself on my belly over the floating layer of moss and wriggled toward you. I tried to keep my voice steady, to calm you, but as I got closer you started to thrash and struggle, trying to get to me, your hope of rescue, and you lost hold of the moss and your head sank completely into the dark brown water.

  I was quite close to you by that time. I thrust my hand into the black jaws of the swamp, felt something with my fingers, and wriggled backward, tugging with all my might, and I could feel, then see, that my fingers were gripping your hair, and your head popped up to the surface and you opened your mouth and let out a howl that stabbed my ears. I don’t know how I had the strength to do it, but I got you close enough to me to get my arm under your armpits, and then partly rolled and partly crawled back to the edge, tugging us both to where the moss was thick enough to support us.

  We were both wet and dirty and muddy and you were still screaming like something was eating you alive as I led you back to the house. Aulikki came running around a bend in the path toward us with a horrified look on her face, the sour smell of fear swirling around her.

  The entire time that she was washing us up in the sauna, putting our muddy clothes in a bucket to soak, checking to see if you were hurt anywhere, dabbing medicine onto the cuts on the soles of my feet, she muttered and grumbled, not just at you but at me, too. I know now that she was letting her fear out, but at the time I formed a crystal clear picture that I had to look out for you.

  I always look out for you.

  I don’t wonder at all that you went to explore the swamp. You just wanted to see the spring—it was a trip that had always fascinated you, although you didn’t much like walking in the woods otherwise—and when you saw the swamp shining in the rays of the sun with fairy-tale colors, an almost perfectly round field in the middle of the dark green of the forest, I’m sure you thought that it was like a golden meadow in a story, where fairies and princesses held their secret dances.

  In your world, it’s always a surprise when there’s something deceptive, evil, destructive under the pretty surface.

  That’s why I have to look out for you.

  Aulikki built a gate in front of the path later, but it wasn’t necessary. You never wanted to go near the spring after that.

  I’ll never leave you alone again.

  Your sister,

  Vanna (Vera)

  VANNA/VERA

  October 2016

  When the door to my apartment closes behind us I kick off my high-heeled shoes and run—no, sprint—to the sleeping alcove, climb like a squirrel along the shelves (going to fetch the step stool would take too long), and pound at the top of the back wall with my fist until the board tilts and reveals the secret cache with its emergency stash. I grab a jar, jump down, get a jolt through my shins when I hit the floor, and start unscrewing the metal cap.

  It’s stuck, immovable as death.

  “Fucking hell!”

  I flop onto the bed. Tears are pushing straight up from the Cellar and I don’t have anything to say about it, nothing to close it off, dam it up—it just gushes out like vomit.

  Jare is beside me. He takes the jar from my limp fingers and twists the top with his deft masco fingers and strong hands; he turns it once and I hear the delicious click of the lid.

  I tear the jar away from him, push a finger into the salt water and start scooping the green slices into my mouth. The top of the jar is too small to get my whole hand in so I pour the jalapeños straight into my mouth, letting the blessed broth pour over my face and down my chest and onto the pink bedspread. I swallow the peppers almost without chewing them. I know that the scovilles in jalapeños are pathetic, and they taste pretty much like dill pickles to me, but just knowing that there’s capsaicin in those scrunchy little slices makes my hands begin to stop trembling. A couple of minutes later the coal black of the Cellar has receded a little, lapping just barely below flood level in my brain now. The meager kick of the jalapeños is weak, blue-gray, a pale noise from between the stars at the edges of hearing.

  I drop the jar onto the floor. It falls with a thud but doesn’t break—it’s strong glass, foreign made. I get up and go to the kitchen, turn on the tap, don’t bother to look for a glass, just shove my face under the cold, trickling column of water—my head half in the sink, my neck tilted painfully—and drink greedily, then stand up and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. It leaves two streaks of lipstick across my cheek.

  “Good God those are salty,” I say to Jare. He looks at me and I can see the edge of his mouth twitch. Then he laughs himself almost into a knot.

  “I’m—I’m sorry . . . I know there’s nothing funny about it, but . . . if somebody came in here . . . it would sure make them wonder.”

  Now that I’ve had my fix, poor and basic as it is, a trace of a smile tries to find its way to my lips. I stroll to the full-length mirror with a purposely loose stride. Jare’s right. I look like a living caricature. Tears and jalapeño juice have smeared my mascara down my cheeks; my hair, carefully curled in the morning, hangs in two wet hanks on either side of my face; and the remains of my lipstick spread around my mouth look like some kind of awful rash. My foundation has failed, too, and the ugly traces of the struggle at Kalevankangas cemetery show through on my temple and cheek.

  Jare comes out of the alcove with the wet bedspread and jar. “Should we mop the floor?”


  I wipe up the splashes of salt water. Jare stuffs the bedspread into the washing machine. I hate the color of the bedspread—it’s garish and shows every spot—but the decor has to look right. I help Jare turn on the machine and point to the jar.

  “What should we do with that?”

  I look at the label. It looks like it came from Turkey. Jare turns on the tap and starts to fill the jar with warm water. I nod. I let the jar soak in the stream of water for a moment and then scratch off the label in pieces and carefully mix them into the compost.

  I hand the clean jar to Jare. He gets the canvas shopping bag from the coat rack, puts the jar in the bag, and zips it closed. He slams the bag as hard as he can against the leg of the table. The glass cracks into pieces, the noise covering our speech.

  “Do I know the guy you got that from?”

  “I think it was before you came around. He’s dead now.”

  “They’re thinning out.”

  “That’s why I gave that guy a shot yesterday. It’s been such a long time since there’s been any new blood.”

  “What if they catch him?”

  “If he’s still got the stuff and they recognize him as the same guy, there could be problems. Otherwise no. It was just an attempted assault. Nobody’s going to waste society’s resources on that kind of investigation.”

  Crunch. Crunch. Jare keeps knocking the bag against the table leg. “They wouldn’t tell us for investigative reasons whether the attacker was caught, which is another way of saying that nobody’s interested. There’s nothing about it that points to any other illegal activity. To the police it’s just a routine case. A stupid eloi in the wrong place at the wrong time, and luckily her boyfriend stepped in to rescue her.”

  I form the words “Health Authority” with my lips.

  Jare shakes his head. “Someone just wanted to have his cake and eat it, too.”

  There’s no more crunching noise coming from the bag, just the tinkle of splinters of glass, but Jare keeps hammering it furiously against the wood, grunting with each blow.

  It’s actually almost a miracle that this situation has never come up before. I know the screws are getting tighter all the time. It was inevitable somebody would eventually start playing dirty and sell the same stuff over and over, because there’s not enough of it to sell.

  The black water in the Cellar sloshes and rises a millimeter higher again, licking at the threshold in the dark back of my mind. I sit down—almost fall—onto the flowered cushion of a kitchen chair.

  “We might be in a tight spot.”

  Part of the score was supposed to be for Jare. He was supposed to get a lot of money for it. Part of it was for me. For my own use.

  Jare nods. He spreads a copy of State News on the table and pours cold, shining grains of glass out of the bag in a pile, then wraps the paper around it in a tight packet.

  MODERN DICTIONARY ENTRY

  eloi — A popular unofficial vernacular word, first entering the language in the 1940s, for what is now properly called a femiwoman. Refers to the sub-race of females who are active on the reproductive market and are distinguished by their dedication to the overall advancement of the male sex. The word has its roots in the works of H. G. Wells, an author who predicted that humanity would be evolutionarily divided into distinct sub-races, some dedicated to serving the social structure and others meant to enjoy those services. Plural: elois. Examples: “A typical eloi has light hair and a round head.” “Elois can legally reproduce.”

  Manna,

  I remember.

  My sister of a different race. My fair-haired sister. My sweet-natured sister.

  Round head covered in platinum curls, cute little turned-up nose, narrow shoulders, full breasts, curving waist. Tush like a peach.

  When we were children we played children’s games. “Aa,” I said, when the block had a letter for that sound on it. “Aa-aa,” you said, rocking the block in your arms, lifting it gently to your breast.

  I plucked the comb like an instrument; you drew it through your hair with flirty strokes. I painted a sunset with red water­colors; you smeared vermilion on your lips. I put the pail on my head as a helmet; you took it from me to make a play salad in. For me a pen was a conductor’s baton; you used it to poke a disobedient doll and then blew on the spot to make the pain go away.

  Oh, my sweet, gentle sister. Your heart was made of chocolate, you hands were full of comfort, your brain was full of pink fluff.

  Do you remember our games?

  “I’m the princess.”

  “I’m the shepherd girl.”

  “The prince comes and proposes to the princess.”

  “The shepherd girl puts on a disguise and carves a sword for herself out of stone. She tames a wolf and rides it into battle and conquers the kingdom and . . .”

  Then you burst into tears.

  “I’m afraid of wolves.”

  “There isn’t any wolf. Not really. It’s just a story I made up.”

  “Good. I’m the princess.”

  “You were already the princess.”

  “Now the princess is going to the ball and she is the most beautiful one of all. And everyone wants to marry her.”

  “Didn’t the prince already propose?”

  “Another prince comes, and he’s handsomer and richer.”

  “The shepherd girl comes to the ball with her stone sword in her hand. And she challenges the prince to a battle for the kingdom!”

  “I don’t like your sword.”

  “It’s my turn to make it up.”

  “I don’t want to have a sword. It’s not real. It’s just a story you made up.”

  “Your prince isn’t real, either.”

  “Grandma Aulikki. Vanna’s teasing me!”

  You ran sniffling to your grandmother’s arms, and Aulikki looked at me over your flaxen hair, and she smelled angry and sad at the same time. She comforted you, my sweet sister, stroked your hair, hugged you, kissed you, let you go, and gave me a pointed look. I knew what that look meant. It wasn’t your fault that we were different.

  You came back to me and the smile returned to your face, and it made me want to be the handsome prince and bring a jeweled gown to the princess as a present.

  We played and we played and we danced a wedding waltz. You were the princess and I was the prince, and the evening sun came through the window and lit up your hair as if it were made of golden fire.

  I miss you so much.

  Vanna (Vera)

  VANNA/VERA

  October 2016

  The need for a fix is gnawing at my insides like a ferret. The door to the Cellar is open all the time, ready to swallow me up in its maw. After the incident at the cemetery the flow of the stuff has practically dried up completely.

  We’ve heard about a lot of arrests. Even shots being fired.

  Jare finds something every now and then—a jar of sambal oelek or some vindaloo paste—but all the real stuff is off-limits. You can’t open the jars—they have to be sold whole; you can’t take a cut for yourself.

  It won’t kill me.

  But the Cellar’s sucking blackness is seeping out, so greedy that I can hear its rustling, night-colored breath.

  The Cellar was created by an explosion.

  A blazing hot, violent nuclear charge that instantaneously melted a chamber in the gray matter of my head. It left a smooth-walled hollow, a ghostly, echoing cave with a darkness deeper than the space between the stars.

  The darkness of the Cellar lives because it gets its strength from death. The Cellar is where my sister’s negation lives, wrapped in a swirl of ink and pitch and coal and soot and the stifling scent of earth.

  The door to the Cellar is in the back of my head.

  Sometimes the door to the Cellar is made of solid steel with clunking metal
bolts and rusty, creaking hinges—heavy. Sometimes it’s made of rotten wood, sometimes gauze that flutters in the wind. Sometimes there’s no door at all, and the ice-cold wind blows out of it.

  That wind brings with it a fist, wet with black fog, a crushing grip that clenches around my mind like the hand of a sadistic child, a cruel child who wants to hear the tortured squeak of a rubber toy when it’s squeezed again and again.

  At the bottom of the Cellar, dark, ominous water splashes. It seeps out of openings the size of molecules through walls sealed with nuclear fire. I can bear the black wind, the merciless mist, but when the deep water starts to lap at the threshold of the Cellar and threatens to flood the rooms in my head, I know how close I am to drowning. The water’s pitch-black surface shining like molten metal rises, and soon a thin, horrible snake of liquid will trickle over the threshold.

  I have only one way, one bag of sand to stave off the flood, one method of trying to shove that steel door closed, to slap temporary planks on the rotting wood.

  Teach me, chile, and I shall Learn.

  Take me, chile, and I shall Escape.

  Focus my eyes, chile, and I shall See.

  Consume more chiles.

  I feel no pain, for the chile is my teacher.

  I feel no pain, for the chile takes me beyond myself.

  I feel no pain, for the chile gives me sight.

  Dear sister!

  Just today I felt a vast longing for you.

  I’m sure you have no mental image of Spain, because you were so little then. I don’t remember much, either, but I do remember that one day our mother and father didn’t come home anymore, and everything was confusion and commotion and sadness. A drunken truck driver was driving too fast at an intersection and crushed our parents’ car. Things like that can happen only in hedonistic countries. Because we didn’t have any relatives in Spain, we were sent to Finland. I was four years old then. You were just a sweet little two-year-old.