The Core of the Sun

by Johanna Sinisalo

  Sometimes he hints that I could go with him. After we started sharing a bed he hinted at it more often.

  But I can’t even think of leaving until I know what happened to Manna.

  At Neulapää I might be able to find out. Because she’s partly here. I don’t know where. But to me she’s not dead until I see her body.

  Maybe knowing would light up the Cellar. Maybe I could finally find a way out of there.

  I remember what I thought when I was planting potatoes with Terhi: This is what it would be like if I had a real sister. The shame of that stabs me so deep.

  Manna was my real sister. We have the smell of the same litter, a smell that will never rub off. How could I be so heartless, so traitorous, that I could even think otherwise?

  And then there’s Jare. The only thing Manna ever wanted that I wasn’t able to give her.

  Do I think I can make up for my betrayal by refusing to leave, by giving Jare up forever?

  I need a fix. After thinking thoughts like that, I need a hell of a fix.

  Jare is in Tampere making a deal, and though I ought to be helping Terhi dig potatoes, I run off to the secret greenhouses. The smell, the warmth, and the brilliance of the varied shades of green and red draw me to them irresistibly. It beats the potato patch hands down.

  I step inside the smaller greenhouse. Valtteri and Mirko are in the back corner in fervent discussion about something. They see me and look at each other, and Mirko’s eyebrows rise a bit. I stop. The tar smell of suspicion pierces the tropical aroma of the room, but Valtteri nods to Mirko and then beckons me over.

  They’re standing next to a rather sparsely stemmed plant with tapered leaves. There are numerous cardboard tags attached to it. I can see that the first fruits are ripening; a few of them look ripe already. The chilis are shaped like elongated hearts and are such a dark red that they’re nearly brown in places.

  Valtteri points at one.

  “These are the brand-new hybrid I was talking about, and they’ll be ready for testing soon. I’ll warn you ahead of time that these babies are nothing to mess around with.”

  “As strong as Ukko’s Darts?”

  “If we’ve succeeded, then Ukko’s Darts will be oatmeal compared with these things.”

  Oho.

  “More than two million scovilles?”

  “Maybe.”

  Mirko looks at the chilis, the fruity aromas of hope and excitement positively swirling around him, though he’s trying to look stiff and serious.

  “When do we taste them?” I ask, trying to look businesslike and coolly professional.

  Valtteri hesitates, glances at Mirko. Mirko clears his throat.

  “Not quite yet, perhaps. We have to be careful, not rush things. It could be a breakthrough.”

  A breakthrough to what?

  “Does it have a name yet?”

  Valtteri perks up.

  “It has a working name. I started with the chili’s botanical name, the order Solanales and the family Solanaceae. I think that etymologically it’s from the Latin for ‘sun,’ and somehow this variety seems to me—to us—to suggest the idea of an extreme, life-sustaining, everlasting fire. If there were anything more powerful than the sun, it would be the source of the sun’s power, its center, the deepest, perhaps nearly divine part of the sun.”

  “The core of the sun,” I say.

  “Exactly.”

  The potatoes have been dug and I should be making dinner, but I linger around the greenhouses as if under the pull of a magnet. The Gaians have another large sowing and transplanting operation going on in the other greenhouse. I can hear their hymn through the glass.

  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.

  I know that some of those chilis are ripe. Ready to be picked.

  Why should Valtteri and Mirko and Terhi make all the decisions? About matters in which I am the undisputed expert?

  Even if they have brought all the lights and growing boxes and seeds and plants, they are dependent on me. My abilities. My inheritance.

  I slip into the empty greenhouse. I go to the back corner and stand for a moment in front of the plant Valtteri showed to me. My heart is pounding, as if I were doing something wrong, even though that’s not the case at all.

  I have a right.

  I take hold of a branch and pluck off one, just one ripe chili from the Core of the Sun.

  I’m a morlock. I want to know.

  I’m not curious the way elois are—I have a pure, clear, sincere thirst for knowledge. Those are two very different things.

  I shove the Core of the Sun into my apron pocket.

  JARE SPEAKS

  August 2017

  Sometimes with new customers it’s better if V isn’t with me, especially when it’s a totally fresh contact. They might be nervous around her because they assume, of course, that she’s an impetuous blabbermouth like most elois. I get them used to her gradually. I assure them that she’s my wife, that she’s so loyal she would never tell anything to an outsider, that she’s as nutty about me as an eloi can possibly be—so worked up into a frenzy of love that she’d walk through fire for me. I joke about how easy it is to manipulate an eloi with little romantic gestures until all you have to do is wave your hand and she’ll do whatever you tell her to, like an obedient machine. The customers nod—they know how elois are, we’re on the same wavelength, sometimes a carrot’s better than a stick, heh heh. And V will be standing right behind them grimacing and rolling her eyes. Once she stuck out her tongue and it was all I could do not to laugh at a totally inappropriate moment.

  I promised this new mark that I would have something very special for him. And I do—a fresh sample of Ukko’s Dart. I plan to give him a taste of it—just a paper-thin slice, but I’ll show him the whole chili to assure him that it’s real, and as wordless proof that there’s more where that came from, if we can agree on a price.

  We agreed to meet at a juice bar on Hämeenkatu. I go in, sit at a table, and order a mineral water. I put the personal ad page on the table nonchalantly and start reading a paperback. The book is the sign—the password is “seven” so, clever as I am, I brought a copy of Aleksis Kivi’s Seven Brothers.

  I notice with amusement that there’s a government poster on the wall. It shows a map of Finland with all the countries outside its borders on fire, covered in red and yellow flames, and the tips of the flames are reaching threateningly toward our country. If you look closer you see that the flames are stylized chili peppers. A brave crowd outlined in silhouette is manning the borders in a bucket brigade. At the top it says in large letters fight the fires of destruction and at the bottom, in smaller letters, don’t get burned—report even the smallest sign of chili to the authorities!

  I feel a rush of excitement in my veins. My scalp is tingling.

  After a minute a man comes into the bar carrying a brown briefcase. He orders a tomato juice, opens his briefcase, and takes out the same issue of the personals and puts it on his table. Our eyes meet; he sees the book I’m reading, its title. I raise one eyebrow a little. He does the same. He drinks his tomato juice in a couple of gulps, then goes into the men’s room.

  I finish my mineral water at a leisurely pace, absorbed in Seven Brothers, until a safe period of time has passed, and then I get up, stretch, and walk calmly to the men’s room.

  The contact is waiting there, obviously impatient. We glance around, slip into a stall, and lock the door. He holds out his hand. “I’m Erkki.”

  “Call me Petri.”

&
nbsp; “What have you got?”

  “The best stuff in Finland.” I recite the list of varieties and drink in his expression. “A lot of those you won’t get from anyone but us. Easily more than a million scovilles, some of it.”

  He takes in his breath.

  “Flake?”

  “Flake. But also fresh. Serranos, habas, Nagas.”

  This always works. It makes them gasp, startles them, electrifies them. Erkki absorbs this information with obvious surprise, but not the wild amazement most customers show.

  “I only have a small sample of the fresh on me. We only sell the fresh by special order. But the dope I’ve got on me is an unusual kind. A new hybrid. Million and a half scovilles. It’s called Ukko’s Dart, a Finnish variety. Want a taste?”

  Erkki nods. I take out a pair of disposable latex gloves. This is always a fine moment, as the mark’s eyes widen when he realizes why I need the gloves. I take a small plastic bag from the small pocket sewn into my jacket lining and remove the Ukko’s Dart. I show the pepper to him, dangling it by its stem. I turn it over beneath his greedy gaze, like a trapper displaying a rare pelt. I take out my pocketknife and cut off a teeny-tiny slice from the tip, then spear it on the tip of the blade and hold it out to him. “Keep in mind when you taste this that it’s from the tip of the fruit, the mildest part. The real strength is at the base of the stem, where the seeds are attached—”

  The blow stuns me. All my attention is on the chili, and the man’s movement is quick as a cobra’s, the blade of his hand striking the side of my neck. My arms flop helplessly, my knife and the pepper fall to the floor. The man makes a swift kick and the knife skids across the floor out of reach.

  Another wave of pain rushes over the first as a fist hits me hard in the diaphragm. My lungs empty so fast that I almost lose consciousness, doubled over in pain, wheezing as I try to get some air. Erkki clicks open the lock on the stall before I’ve straightened up again, grabbing the Ukko’s Dart from the floor as he runs out. I cough and try to get some breath, but can’t move, and when I finally get my legs to work I know he’s already long gone.

  I have enough sense, at least, to flush my gloves down the toilet. I pick up my knife from the floor next to the tiled wall and slide the tiny sliver of pepper down the floor drain with the side of my shoe.

  Five minutes later I’m driving back to Neulapää. I try to obey the speed limit. I’m in a hell of a hurry, but the last thing I need right now is to attract the attention of a traffic cop.

  A greedy capso who wanted to keep the chili and the money? Not unheard of, like the one V met at the cemetery. But this guy knew something about martial arts. He didn’t seem like an ordinary mark.

  Then an extremely chilling thought occurs to me, entirely too late. If the guy was a capso looking for a score, why would he just steal the fresh chili from me—why not beat me unconscious or kill me and empty my pockets, which he knew would be full of dozens of grams of flake and a wallet to boot?

  The Authority.

  He has a description of me now. And if he is with the Health Authority, he also knows that we use the personals.

  I’ve been greedy and reckless.

  The snoops will know right away that the growing operation is somewhere not far from Tampere because the pepper was very fresh, picked with the morning dew. It’s obvious it wasn’t carried in a suitcase with a false bottom from somewhere out in Ahvenanmaa, never mind Thailand. And even if the authorities’ knowledge of chili is limited, they won’t need liquid chromatography or a team of botanists to tell them that Ukko’s Dart is an entirely new variety, and that it’s hotter than hell.

  But why would a guy from the Health Authority just take the chili and run?

  Why not show me his badge, slap some handcuffs on me, and take me to a paddy wagon waiting around the corner?

  Another appalling idea hits me, and it, too, comes much too late.

  They wanted to let me go so they could follow me. Or track my movements, sooner or later, to the farm itself.

  Hopefully later. Hopefully.

  I’ve made a terrible mistake, but what’s most important now is how I can keep V out of this mess.

  An idea flashes into my mind—to find a public phone and call Neulapää to warn them—but I can’t afford to waste any time. Besides, there won’t necessarily be anyone in the house. They might all be at the greenhouses.

  When I get to the little back road that leads to Neulapää, a virtually deserted ten-kilometer stretch, I step on the gas. I’m sure there’s no traffic radar here. I’ve got to drive like a bat out of hell.

  VANNA/VERA

  August 2017

  I close the door to my room behind me. I rearranged the room a little to suit my tastes when I moved in, although it pained me a bit to take the ruffled pink curtains and bedspread that Manna had picked out up to the attic. Here I go again, the cruel morlock big sister, meddling in your life.

  I take the Core of the Sun out of my apron pocket and look at it, holding it by the stem to avoid touching the fruit itself with my bare fingers, turning it this way and that. Normally you can handle a chili without gloves as long as you don’t puncture the skin. The thin but tough skin keeps the capsaicin nicely inside. But with this one you can’t be too careful. The way of the chili is not the way of the finger.

  Is this what it feels like to handle an unexploded bomb?

  On the desk in front of me is a pair of disposable gloves from the stash under the living room floor. They’re not exactly disposable for us; we use them as long as they don’t have any holes in them and wash them with hot water, wearing a face mask, always outside, since the hot water can cause such a cloud of capsaicin fumes that your eyes water and you cough and you get a little buzz just from the steam.

  Next to the gloves is a little cutting board from the kitchen that we used for slicing cheese back when there was still cheese in the house, and one knife that I’ve carefully sharpened.

  The knife is so sharp that I have no trouble cutting a slice as thin as a hair from the Core of the Sun. It doesn’t have the usual penetrating, fruity, almost citrus smell that a habanero might have. But it does have that same tropical scent, plus something more aromatic, a smokiness. My nostrils quiver. I sneeze violently and gasp for breath.

  This baby’s so full of capsaicin I can apparently feel it from a meter away.

  Are you sure this is a good idea? I ask myself as I stare at the nearly invisible sliver lying on the wooden board.

  Pshaw.

  I grab the piece of pepper and toss it in my mouth.

  I chew.

  I wait.

  I don’t feel anything.

  But something is happening because my heart is starting to gallop and time is slowing to a crawl . . .

  An absolute white light goes right through my head. It’s so bright that I think it must show through the seams in my skull.

  It is such a white white that there isn’t even a word for it; it’s on the other side of whiteness; new-fallen snow on the brightest winter day is gray by comparison. It’s ultrawhite, lacerating white, blinding white, the combination and negation of all the other colors in the world, and an impossibly high-pitched tinnitus starts ringing in my head, as if I’m suddenly able to hear a dog whistle, a dog whistle so shrill, so close to the very edge of perception, that it’s as if the light of a distant star has become sound.

  Then the sound turns so high that I can’t hear it anymore.

  I stand there and my vision starts to return and time has stopped. Although my mouth is full of saliva and my whole body’s covered in sweat, my tongue isn’t burning, and there’s no lava in my throat, no convulsing iron band around my stomach.

  This stuff is off the sense receptor scale.

  Because the needle’s gone off the dial, my brain doesn’t know how to react. Since it doesn’t know what to do
with such a powerful sensation, it’s decided not to do anything.

  My brain has thrown in the towel.

  There’s a swishing in my head and I feel light, so full of endorphins that I’m starting to rise into the air. I actually do rise into the air, and it feels quite pleasant, to be substanceless, almost carried by the wind. I see a layer of dust on top of the wardrobe. It probably doesn’t get dusted because it’s so tall, almost reaches the ceiling. There’s a spider’s corpse lying in the dust, and below me an eloi standing motionless, with a little cutting board and knife and a dark-colored chili in front of her.

  It takes me a moment to realize, Oh, that’s me.

  I try to move and realize that if I wanted to I could slip through the partly open window. I sense the rush of life on the other side of the glass, the birch trees and spruces and grass and roses and earthworms and beetles and gnats, and there’s a fox skulking somewhere and a brown hare loping along, and I could hop along with it, become part of its brain, ride inside it into the sunset. I could hear what it hears, see what it sees.

  Somewhere at the edge of the world of my senses hovers a cluster of ghostly white noise, like distant echoes. It must be the Gaians.

  A fly buzzes at the window, its sound echoing, piercing, hypnotic. I move, just a small motion, and in a split second I’m inside something else and that something else is a darting, precise, persistent little clockwork that sees the world in a pattern of flickering, dizzying points of light—then I pull away, nimble as air.

  This is the breakthrough.

  The Core of the Sun works.

  Oneness with nature. It isn’t just mystical mumbo jumbo after all. It’s a clear, straightforward, practical goal.

  Merging with the world. Escaping the shackles of the body.

  Our escape will be inward, not outward.