The Core of the Sun Read online

  The Core of

  the Sun

  Also by Johanna Sinisalo

  Troll: A Love Story

  Birdbrain

  The Blood of Angels

  The Core of

  the Sun

  Johanna Sinisalo

  Translated from the Finnish by

  Lola Rogers

  Black Cat

  New York

  Copyright © Johanna Sinisalo 2013

  Translation copyright © 2016 by Lola Rogers

  Originally published as Auringon ydin by Teos Publishers (Finland)

  English edition published by agreement with Johanna Sinisalo and Elina Ahlbäck Agency, Hesinki, Finland

  All rights reserved

  The translation of this book was subsidized in part by FILI.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the publisher is prohibited. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or anthology, should send inquiries to Grove Atlantic, 154 West 14th Street, New York, NY 10011 or [email protected].

  Published simultaneously in Canada

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN 978-0-8021-2464-7

  eISBN 978-0-8021-9023-9

  Black Cat

  an imprint of Grove Atlantic

  154 West 14th Street

  New York, NY 10011

  Distributed by Publishers Group West

  groveatlantic.com

  Dedicated to the Freedom Trust Conglomerate

  (you know who you are)

  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.

  —Transcendental Capsaicinophilic Society,

  “Litany Against Pain”

  My boat is light and swift.

  —Chukchi shaman Ukwun

  PART I

  The Cellar

  VANNA/VERA

  October 2016

  I lift my skirt, pull aside the waistband of my underwear, and push my index finger in to test the sample.

  The seller’s eyes go wide. The maple tree’s branches and sparse leaves splash shadows over his face, the whites of his eyes flash, and I can see his Adam’s apple jump as he swallows.

  He exudes a sour smell, a mixture of tar and spirea blossoms. Fear, confusion, disbelief: he’s an amateur, probably a closet capso, hooked on capsaicin, trying to feed his addiction by dealing. He’s trying to keep his face neutral, but he flinches at this habit of mine. A beginner. Probably shocked by the glimpse of my pubic hair, too. Maybe that’s something he’s never seen before.

  I pull my hand out of my panties and let the waistband spring back into place. Snap. I lower my skirt. Press my thighs together to let the sample take effect. Flash a calm smile.

  The lower lip doesn’t lie.

  “This will take a second,” I say, looking at the sky, or rather at the branches swaying above us. “Looks as though it might drizzle.”

  The seller opens his mouth but no sound comes out. I can sense a whiff of hostility, the kind that happens when someone’s slightly anxious, when he’s lost control of a situation. Understandable. If you’re engaging in illegal activity in the wee hours of the night in a corner of a cemetery, you don’t want to run into surprises like me.

  “I guess we should expect the first snow pretty soon,” I say. That’s when the stuff starts to kick in.

  First the burn spreads across my lower body, my labia and vagina turning hot as glowing embers. The first drops of sweat form under my eyes, then along the edge of my scalp, then down my neck. The blood rushes in my ears. The stuff thrums a dredging bass note, almost an infrasound, with fantastic dark brown tones in its burn.

  I take a deep breath and smile wider than I should. “I’ll take the whole load.”

  The lower lip doesn’t lie.

  This is the real stuff.

  The seller has been holding the score in his hand the whole time and gives it to me now. About a hundred grams, and if it’s all like the stuff that’s in my coot right now, it’s incredibly strong. I twirl the transparent plastic bag in my hand and check to make sure the dried flakes aren’t cut with bits of plastic or crepe paper or red flower petals. It doesn’t look adulterated.

  He claims it’s Naga Viper, but it could just as well be some variety I’ve never heard of. Judging by its potency, it’s about a million scovilles. This is one of the strongest scores ever.

  The capsaicin is roaring so loudly through the blood vessels in my ears that it’s hard to concentrate on closing the deal. I fish the agreed-upon sum out of my bra. The seller stares at me as I do this, his eyes like saucers. The whole transaction is probably starting to seem to him like a cock tease, with me flashing first my pubes and now my bosom. But if he’s got any experience at all with this stuff and even a little sense in his head, he knows that under no circumstances should he try to go poking his dick into a vagina where Naga Viper is waiting to bite it. The nerve endings of a woman’s genitals are sparse for an erogenous zone—and, of course, I scrupulously avoid letting the sample touch my most sensitive spots—but if a man got a dose of capsaicin around his urethra it would be quite a jolt.

  The seller takes the money, counts the bills out twice—­separating them with mind-numbing exactness—finally nods, and stuffs the cash into his breast pocket. I give my head a jerk: “Get lost.” He raises an eyebrow, runs his gaze up and down my body. He’s putting out a candy-flavored smell, a tinge of something almost like burnt sugar. I look him in the eye without blinking and cross my arms over my chest in a firm negative. He shrugs and leaves, pushing the branches out of his way and strolling down the gravel path toward the cemetery gates with purposeful slowness.

  When I’m sure he’s far enough away, I stuff the bag into the waist of my skirt and tug the hem of my blouse over it. The blouse is a bit too tight to cover the lump, but it’s not likely to show up in a surveillance video.

  I wait a few more seconds and then slip out of the grove of trees. I walk briskly down the path in the opposite direction. There aren’t many cameras at the cemetery, and they check the film only when they know something suspicious has happened. There are also rumors that most of the cameras are just empty cases. Still, I try to look as if I have a purpose. If someone asks what I’m doing in this particular cemetery, and why I’m here in the middle of the night, I have an excellent explanation.

  Hearing Transcript (Extract)

  October 9, 2016

  Hearing supervisor [hereafter HS]: Let it be noted that FN-140699-NLP [Vanna Neulapää, hereafter V], owing to her legal status, was questioned in the presence of witness Jare Valkinen.

  Questioner [hereafter Q]: Why did you come to Kalevan­kangas cemetery?

  Jare Valkinen [hereafter J]: To watch my girlfriend, Vanna Neulapää. I knew she was goi
ng there to visit a grave.

  Q:Which grave?

  V:My sister’s.

  Q:Why did you go there?

  V:Well, um, she died just a short time ago. And I just can’t sleep because I keep turning it over in my mind! [witness begins to cry]

  J:Vanna’s sister’s death was a great shock to her. The grave is an important, beloved place for her.

  Q:Why were you watching Vanna?

  J:Elois are so easily led astray or pressured into things that I thought it best to be on the safe side and sort of look after her.

  Q:As well you should. Is the other witness able to speak now?

  V:Yeah. I think so.

  Q:Did you know the man who attacked you?

  V:I sure didn’t!

  Q:Did you know him, Valkinen?

  J:No. I suspect the man may have been following Vanna for a long time and saw her go into the cemetery and thought it a good opportunity.

  Q:Both the witness and the attacker spent several minutes in a location that is obscured in the surveillance footage. Was there at that time any kind of provocation or enticement?

  V:Of course not! I was . . . I needed [said in a whisper] to pee. Because I’d drunk at least six cups of a kind of herb thing that’s supposed to help you sleep, but it just made me . . . need to tinkle . . . sorry. So I wanted to sleep but I couldn’t, and I went to the cemetery, but then I really had to go.

  Q:So you purposely went out of sight because . . . you needed to do your business?

  V:The man who came up to me must have been spying on me from someplace while I was peeing! I should have tried to find a restroom, but it was awfully urgent! [witness begins to cry again]

  Q:So the attacker, having seen . . . this activity . . . followed the witness?

  J:I assume that’s what happened.

  Q:And you were hiding near the grave, because you wanted to know what your girlfriend was doing when she went out at night?

  J:Exactly. When the attacker got there, I thought at first that he had come there to meet her, but then he attacked her and tried to sexually assault her.

  Q:Right. From the tape we can see that the man tried to tear off the witness’s skirt.

  J:I went to help her, of course, and I struck the attacker in the face. I assumed that he had been knocked unconsciousness by the blow, and I turned to see if Vanna was all right. Then the attacker ran away. When I saw that Vanna wasn’t seriously injured, I quickly went to the nearest social disturbance alarm and pushed the button. Has the man been caught? If so, I can try to help identify him.

  Q:For investigative reasons we are unable to provide any information about the progress of the case at present.

  V:Can we go now?

  Q:Speak when you’re spoken to. I consider the matter settled. You may go, but first you must both sign the record of this hearing. Your name underneath, miss. Chop-chop. There’s no time for you to work out what the whole thing says. Your manfriend will get a copy later and tell you what it all means.

  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.