The Core of the Sun (2 page)

VANNA/VERA

October 2016

I buy a bouquet of chrysanthemums from the cemetery kiosk in the pale October morning light.

At the grave, I carefully unwrap the flowers from their paper. I try to still my trembling hands but the paper crackles like the frost under my feet. I put the paper down with feigned nonchalance next to the stone flower vase sunk into the ground. I shove the chrysanthemum stems deep into the pot and feel around the bottom of the vase with my fingertips.

A cold surge jolts through my stomach.

I try to move naturally, take more flowers from the bouquet, and pretend to arrange them. But no matter where I place my ­fingers against the cold, rough inner surface of the vase I can't find the little plastic bag. The vase is empty.

Empty.

My heart starts to pound. The mere thought of ending up back in the Cellar makes my pulse race.

Just a few hours ago I had a bag of Naga Viper in my possession. My share of it would have been enough to last for weeks. Really potent stuff.

The thought is crushing.

I pretend to arrange the last of the chrysanthemums carefully in the pot. They're purple and yellow, Manna's favorite colors.

I wad the wrapper in my fist and stand up. I had planned to slip the stuff from the vase into the paper and carry it away as if I were going to throw it in the trash.

I lean against Jare and he wraps his right arm around me. I put my head on his shoulder as if I'm weak with grief. I don't really have to pretend. I speak quietly, from the side of my mouth.

“It's gone.”

Jare's body stiffens. A slow breath seeps out of him into the air. “Shit.”

“It was that double-crossing dealer. It couldn't be anyone else.”

“Not such a brilliant hiding place, then.”

“I was sure nobody would dare to come and search the grave. They go over the night footage with a magnifying glass after an alarm.”

“But somebody came and got the stuff without being seen. We wouldn't be walking free if they'd caught the guy.”

True.

I look at the grave and the chrysanthemums. When I hid the bag the night before I had pretended to arrange some dried violets that were in the vase. They were scattered every which way over the grave in the tussle. Now there are only a few stray violet petals lying on the ground.

“The groundskeeper,” I whisper to Jare. “Somebody must have pretended to be him and cleaned up the grave. Took away the old flowers and picked up a little something else while he was at it.”

I take a deep breath.

“Let's go.”

I pull carefully away from Jare's consoling embrace and twist the paper in my hands until my fingers hurt. I stand for a moment to look at the gravestone and the text.

Manna Nissilä

(née Neulapää)

2001–2016

My knees give out. I don't know whether it's because of my mental anguish or my need for a fix. They're all mixed together. Black water is rising in the Cellar, and it's already reached the threshold, stretching its dark, wet fingers into my thoughts. It was supposed to be such a good idea to use Manna's grave for a drop spot. A place where it would make sense for me to go often, even at unusual hours, because of emotional ties that the authorities have no interest in.

But coming to the grave is always so shattering that I need a much larger dose than usual afterward. It's a vicious circle.

I turn away from the grave, my eyes wet. I take a handkerchief from my skirt pocket, remember the cameras, and carefully dab the corners of my eyes so I don't smudge my makeup. I shouldn't forget these little gestures even momentarily.

At the cemetery gates I drop the flower wrapper into the trash can. When we get to Jare's work-issued car I bend over double and start shaking. There's a rush of black in the back of my head. The Cellar door is starting to open.

“Can you make it home?” Jare asks worriedly.

I have to.

Dear sister!

There are things that are difficult to talk about with anyone. I don't have Aulikki anymore. I have some girlfriends, but of course I can't tell them everything. Aside from you there's only one other person I can open up to who would probably listen, but he doesn't have the same points of memory that I have, like you do. Mascos have a way of always trying to find a solution for any problem you present to them, even if all you want is to share your worries. And solutions to my problems aren't that easy to find.

So I decided to write to you.

You'll probably never see this letter. But I have to tell you what happened from my own point of view. I have no idea how much you even remember of all this, or how much your memories were colored by your own experiences. There are also a lot of things you didn't necessarily know about. Or didn't really understand. In many ways, we were sisters but we didn't have the same childhood.

I'm so worried about you. I'd be glad to get news of you, however terrible it might be, if I could just know for sure. Once you've hit bottom, you're at the bottom, after all; you just have to push off from there. I might get over the grief and pain as the years go by, I might even have the mercy of forgetting. But for now I have no way to heal, not when I don't know for sure what's happened to you.

You disappeared once before.

I remember it vividly, even though I was only six years old. Aulikki was in the garden and we were playing by the swing—the board swing that Aulikki had hung from a branch of the big birch tree. You loved swinging, and I was carefully building up your speed with pushes on your back. Your long blond hair was blowing and you were squealing and giggling because the swing made your stomach tingle. I remember I was a little upset that you didn't know how to give me a push yet, even though you got to enjoy my help. But it didn't matter. You were my little sister and Grandma Aulikki had left me to take care of you.

The phone rang inside. Aulikki straightened up from weeding the carrots, wiped her hands on her apron, and strode into the house. A bird flew into a young spruce tree on the other side of the vegetable garden. The unusual color of the bird aroused my curiosity. Later—quite a long time later—I looked in a book and learned that it was a jay. I'd never seen a bird like it at the time and I crept to the edge of the vegetable patch so I could see it better.

I got so close, in fact, that I could make out the fine turquoise stripe on its wings and grayish-red feathers and the black streaks like whiskers coming from its bill. I stood there for at least a minute watching it turn an acorn against the bend of the branch with its bill. I tried to get an even closer look, but I stepped on a twig and it snapped under my foot and the jay flew away with the acorn in its mouth.

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.