The Core of the Sun (11 page)

VANNA/VERA

November 2016

They come one at a time, each one bringing a bunch of flowers or a porcelain knickknack or a package of berry sweets or a hair doodad she found at the store that “looked like me.” They elbow their way through the door, redolent with perfume and hair spray and creams, their ultrahigh heels clomping, their mouths dewy and glistening, their eyelashes gooey with mascara, their breasts molded into high, shelflike mounds that nearly touch their chins. They screech and giggle, whisper, and kiss each other's spackled cheeks.

They lisp out soft
S
's and, as if in compensation, crow words like “fantastic” and “awful” and “heavens” in a screeching falsetto. Their names are Hanna, Janna, Sanna, and Leanna, and every one of them wishes in her heart of hearts to be my bridesmaid.

It's a girls' night. I'm serving sweet, fizzy, low-calorie fruit drinks and bite-size sandwiches and heart-shaped apple jam cookies I baked myself, each one with a few slivers of ridiculously expensive dark chocolate on top. The dark chocolate is considered healthy, so you can get it at the pharmacy without a prescription, but the price puts quite a dent in an eloi's state mating market subsidy.

The girls flock around a table decked with rose-colored napkins, flowered dishes, and colorful tumblers and admire the bows I used to tie the seat cushions to the legs of the kitchen chairs. They peek into the bedroom and just
love
my pink bedspread, and they are gratifyingly scandalized at my extravagant use of chocolate.

Hanna, Janna, Sanna, and Leanna purse their lips and open their painted eyes wide as they grill me about my coming nuptials.

“How did he propose?”

“It was so romantic. He asked how many years of home economics I took, and I told him two.”

“Well, you nearly did! You've been in school more than a year.”

“Food preparation, household budget, home hygiene, child care, body maintenance, and, of course, sexual adaptability courses.”

“Did you take any electives?”

“Sewing and entertaining. And interior decorating. When I told Jare that, he said pretty soon I'll be a handy housewife.”

Everyone sighs. What a wonderful masco.

“Well, then you
had
to know what was coming!”

“Then he said he thought I was really pretty, and that other mascos probly thought so, too. 'Cause I've given a wink or two to some of his friends, you know.”

“Of course you did! That's the smart thing to do.”

“Then he said, ‘I ought to get a jump on the others before somebody beats me to it,' and I just looked down at the ground and didn't say anything. And then he was like, ‘Vanna, let's get married.'”

“Oooooh!”

“Oh, Vanna, weren't you
excited
?”

“Give us the scoop on your
dress
! Strapless? Or maybe a heart-shaped neckline? Everybody says they're all the rage right now!”

“What kind of white'll it be? Snow white or cream?”

“Are you gonna have a full veil?”

I squirm as if I'm feeling self-conscious, all the while sighing and trying to look like I'm drinking up all this milk and honey. “I don't know. I might wear my debutante gown, since it's long and white. I'm sure some of you remember it from the dance. Sort of silver-white.”

“Your debutante gown? Nobody gets married in their debutante gown!”

“Well . . . see, it's sort of a . . . secret engagement.”

The girls emit a deep collective sigh of expectation. They're about to hear something with the taint of scandal or the bloom of romance, and either possibility produces a delicious itch to hear more. I pause dramatically.

“See, Jare has this ex who went pretty crazy when he called it off. We've decided to do everything on the quiet, nothing elaborate. Otherwise she might get the idea to show up crying and make a scene at the wedding.”

An immediate uproar follows. I'm not even sure which painted mouth is hurling which question. It's scandal and romance in one package, and it's irresistible.

“Gosh, that's
horrible
!”

“You mean you're going to have a
civil
wedding? How awful!”

“Exes are such a
pain
!”

I bite my lip, tilt my head, and look at them with pleading eyes.

“Girls, girls,
girls
. You've got to all promise me that this'll be, like, just between us.”

They all nod, every one of them prepared to join this great conspiracy. I lean toward them and lower my voice. “Like
nobody
can know about this. You'll all keep quiet about it, right?”

They all swear that they will carry the secret to their graves.

I know that the story will now spread more quickly than the annual flu. Nobody will wonder why they weren't invited, or why I didn't insist on an overstuffed wedding.

“THE TRAINING OF ELOIS”

From
An Eloi in the House:
Advice for a Harmonious Family Life
National Publishing (2008)

When you've moved in under the same roof with an eloi, it is good to acquaint yourself with an eloi's way of thinking in order to establish rules and help her adjust to them.

You have to learn to appreciate your spouse just as she is, a creature of instinct, driven by hormones. Repetition, rewards, and reinforcement are the cornerstones of an eloi's understanding. In token of her gratitude, your wife will be obedient, loyal, and willing to give unceasing love and devotion.

The key to training an eloi to be a wife is to be methodical, consistent, clear, and patient.

Obedience should be a natural characteristic of an eloi. There may, however, be tremendous variation in inherited characteristics from one individual to the next.

An eloi can't always tell right from wrong; she bases her behavior on associations and whims. This means at its simplest that if a behavior has pleasant consequences, she will repeat that behavior. If, on the other hand, a behavior produces unpleasant consequences, she will avoid it. That is why the use of mere punishments is not the best method of training an eloi; it's also important to reward and reinforce desirable behaviors.

Rewards for good behavior should also be adapted to the case at hand. If an eloi enjoys good food, it is wise to reward her with her favorite treats—in moderate amounts, of course. If an eloi responds positively to praise, then she should be complimented. Physical affection can also be used as a reward. Most elois like to have their hair stroked, have their rear ends patted, and be given a kiss not intended as a prelude to sex. Her smile will tell you when you're on the right track. For especially good behavior you might buy her flowers, jewelry, clothing, etc., but such rewards must be used sparingly in order to be effective.

Training an eloi is easiest when she is motivated. She will appreciate a reward of a food treat the most when she is a bit hungry or hasn't had a sweet or a pastry for a long time. Rewards of praise and attention also work best when it's been some time since she received any.

Undesirable behaviors can also be the cause for limiting access to rewards. This generally works better than punishment, but should negative feedback be needed, a firm reprimand or small physical reminder will usually suffice.

Timing is of the essence. Give her a command, wait for her to react, and if she does what is desired, reward her immediately. If a reward is not immediately provided she may not connect the positive feedback with the behavior. Consistency is also important. Always use the same brief commands.

Train the eloi to be obedient in varying environments and give her plenty of verbal feedback. An eloi will soon learn to recognize the tone of voice of even neutral statements. If negative verbal comments don't work, drawing her attention elsewhere is often effective (for example, in a situation where she wants you to buy her something in a store).

Make sure that your wife's daily routine has sufficient activity so that the boredom of idleness doesn't lead to dysfunctional behaviors.

VANNA/VERA

December 2016

It's impossible to describe Mirko's expression. The scent of his emotional state is a swirling mixture of extreme amazement and intense rage. He stares at me, then tears his eyes away and fixes them on Jare so fiercely that a minus man would have collapsed on the spot.

“Valkinen. You dragged an
eloi
here with you? Have you got something loose in your head?”

Ah. So he hasn't told Mirko everything about me.

“We need a farm. This is no time for a family outing, even if the land does belong to her people. What's your clever plan to keep her mouth shut?”

Jare's enjoying this. He's in no hurry to explain, and now I'm starting to feel steamed.

I walk straight up to Mirko with long, lanky strides, not swinging my hips, no pussyfooting. I stand myself in front of him with my hands on my hips and stare him straight in the eye. He stares at me with his mouth open.

“Can't you tell an eloi from a morlock?” I ask.

Mirko sizes me up, undiluted astonishment swirling around him. He looks at my blond curls, my makeup, my high-heeled shoes, my propped-up shelf of a bosom. Then he looks at Jare, who's smiling broadly now.

“Shall I add some numbers in my head? Or maybe explain the process of photosynthesis?” There are no lisping
S
's as I say this, no trace of falsetto. Mirko is still staring, not saying a word. I give him a little pat on the cheek and return to where Jare is standing. “For your information,” I tell him, “we're not a couple, although we are engaged. We're business partners. We make the deals together. You can take the whole package or forget it.”

“I'm sure you realize what an asset Vanna's outward appearance can be?”

Mirko shakes his head. “I believe it. I believe it. But how is it possible?”

I raise my voice. “You can breed dogs to be small and sweet, but once in a while even the most docile parents can produce a testy little mutt. My outside is what it should be but my inside isn't.”

“A testy little morlock,” Mirko says, smiling contentedly now.

“Yep. A very testy little morlock when I need to be,” I say.

Hello, Manna!

Do you have any idea how happy I was when you asked me to be your bridesmaid—your maid of honor? I thought it was proof that the rift between us was repaired, that you'd forgiven me, that our sisterhood could be rebuilt.

The frilly hot-pink frocks that we six bridesmaids wore were in the classic tradition—the bridesmaids should look as frumpy as possible so as not to outshine the bride. The dressmaker had done his work well; we all looked like stout, sparkly little pigs who'd just come from a roll in a pile of bright pink leaves.

All the preparations were beautifully done; the cake, the food, the music, the decorations, the dress, and the flowers were all perfect, extravagant, dripping with romance.

You were positively glowing.

You got your legal fix, your dose of an eloi's favorite drug.

There were only a few guests on the bride's side: Aulikki, me, and a couple of your girlfriends.

Your birthday was chosen as the wedding day. The groom might have had something to do with that decision. Many elois think that choosing the bride's birthday to be the most important day of her life is the height of romance, but there might have been practical reasons to do it that way, because then you can celebrate two annual events with one party, and one gift.

Be that as it may, the symbolism of the day turned out to be horribly wrong. It wasn't the beginning of a new life for you; it was the initiation of a countdown to departure.

Aulikki sat in the wedding chapel, frail, gray, and straight-backed. I had called her before the invitations were sent and told her that Harri's parents were paying for the wedding and that it would be indelicate to mention the matter to anyone—people can be sensitive about traditions. Aulikki laughed and said she understood.

Two days after you became Mrs. Nissilä, Aulikki died.

In one blow I lost two-thirds of what I most loved in life—Aulikki and Neulapää. You were the third.

Literally in one blow.

Aulikki died of a skull fracture. You may recall that it was officially recorded as the result of a fall on the front steps at Neulapää. I'm sure she wouldn't have lived much longer anyway, but somehow . . . somehow I couldn't help thinking how convenient that death was for Harri Nissilä and his wife.

Aulikki had two heirs, you and me. But because we were both elois, ownership of Neulapää passed to the nearest legally competent relative—your husband, Harri, and thus to your benefit.

Don't misunderstand me. I don't think you could have wished Aulikki any ill. You were thoughtless sometimes, thin-skinned, occasionally even lapsing into meanness, but there wasn't a trace of true, calculating cruelty in you.

It was shameful, low, paranoid of me to even think how easy it would have been for Harri to go to Neulapää—a place with no neighbors anywhere nearby—to visit the old woman, get to know his ersatz mother-in-law. How he would have seen the land, calculated its value. Gotten an idea.

It was after Aulikki died that I first saw the Cellar.

It was as though a little sun inside me had collapsed into a black hole, melted the gray matter in my head, and formed a passage to a chamber somewhere on the other side. Created a smooth-walled cavity, an open, echoing cave with a darkness living in it deeper than the space between the stars.

The darkness of the Cellar was alive. It got its power from death.

Black water stirred on the floor of the Cellar. And the water was rising.

Jare was alarmed at the state I was in, with no speck of joy, never the slightest of smiles. He urged me to cry away my sorrow but I couldn't. It was as if all the water in my head was needed to fill the dark hollow of the Cellar, to make the little black ripples on its surface rise inside my skull right to the top, to whisper,
Pointless,
and
Meaningless,
and
Evil,
and
Guilty! Guilty!

He was worried not just about my psyche but also about the fact that I could hardly drag myself to school, let alone work. A couple of sizable deals went off the rails and his reputation as a dealer was starting to suffer.

I should have kept working. At Jare's suggestion, I had signed up for an installment plan with the Wedding Planning Bureau
.
It was the only way an eloi could spend that much money without arousing suspicion. There was still a lot of it to pay off.

It must have been in the early-morning hours. Nothing felt like anything, but a stray hyena was scratching at something under my heart, tearing up my insides. I couldn't sleep. I don't know if I even wanted to sleep. My sleep was a kind of stupor that did nothing to refresh me, interrupted by long stretches of lying awake, staring dry-eyed at the ceiling of the darkened room. Nothing mattered. I thought about the knives in the kitchen.

One knife in particular. Because of my kitchen skills class, I knew how to draw a knife across a whetstone at just the right angle. The blade of my best knife was so well sharpened that all you had to do was let it fall on a tomato and the fruit would divide in two with such breathtaking ease that the victim would hardly notice its horrendous wound, the gush of red liquid from between its two halves.

That knife would be my way out. I didn't think about you, or Jare, or what you would think of that solution. My only thought was to get out of the Cellar, to empty that black water out of my head one way or another, even if I had to slit my throat to do it.

I turned on the light in the kitchen. That's how I know it must have been autumn.

I was looking for the knife when I saw the little bottle sitting on the counter with a bright-colored label that said “Pain Is Good.”

It was chili sauce smuggled from the United States that Jare had bought and left at my apartment until he found a buyer for it. I'd promised to find a good place to hide it, and once he'd left I had forgotten about it.

I needed to put it somewhere before I got out the knife and did what I had to do. I had nothing left to lose, but if the bottle was found in the apartment after I died, it would cause the Health Authority to investigate Jare.

I thought about what to do with it. The surest solution would be to put it in a bag with a couple of stones for weight and toss it in Näsijärvi. The lake would be frozen over soon. By the time it was found, if it ever was, the trail would be cold, literally.

Why not send myself out the same way? That would make the world inside my head and the world outside my head one and the same: soothing, numbing black water.

I picked up the chili sauce, but my fingers were nearly numb already—clumsy, twitching—and the bottle slipped out of my grasp. I watched in horror, paralyzed, as it turned over in the air and fell straight onto the durable, easy-to-clean tile floor.

The neck of the bottle broke off. Dark brownish-red sauce splashed over the floor and onto my feet. I bent instinctively to pick up the shards of glass and got some sauce on my fingers. Without thinking I shoved my finger in my mouth and licked it clean.

The shock of pain was so awful that it pushed everything else aside. It was like a radiating, rhythmic flogging that penetrated my mouth and my throat and my whole body. It started at the tip of my tongue, crawled its way to the root, and then thundered through my gums and palate in a screaming treble, all the while filling my mouth with a deep, dark red, a twilight of rumbling bass, almost lower than human perception. And as I shouted out loud and groaned and tried with shaking hands to cool my mouth with water, bread, anything to cover up the burning, I realized something amazing.

It was like a hot wind blowing through the Cellar.

As if a door to the Cellar had opened and a little sliver of merciless desert light had passed through it—cruel and hard, but light nevertheless. My heart was pounding, pounding like crazy, pounding like something thrillingly alive, and second by second my thoughts were becoming clearer. I was able to think of more than just the pain in my mouth.

I looked at the puddle of sauce on the floor.

I thought about the knife.

About its meticulously sharpened blade.

About how that flawless blade could scrape up every little drop of the sauce.

And not let it go to waste.

That bottle of Pain Is Good had to be worth thousands of marks. But Jare wasn't even shocked or upset that I'd broken it. His sincere sigh of relief that I was feeling better was like a breath of birch leaves and lakeshore breeze.

At first I didn't think to tell him that I had saved the sauce. I'd gathered several tablespoons of it up in a little cup. The skin on my bare feet was tender as if it were sunburned. I knew now that one drop of the stuff was enough for what I later would come to call a “fix.”

I realized that I had to tell him.

I said that I would only use capsaicin now and then, when I needed it, that I could quit any time. I knew a lot of our customers said the same thing—they were just “chillers,” occasional users, just having fun.

The feelings Jare was exuding were so complicated that I couldn't quite pick out the different scents. There was tart, citrusy fear and worry, and the smoky smell of surprise, and sometimes a flicker of his familiar lavender-apple-rosemary.

“Like I always say, V, a good dealer never touches the stuff.”

I told him it was just a temporary thing.

But I can't lie to you.

It didn't stop there. You probably guessed that.

I love you, my sister.

Vanna
(
Vera
)