The Core of the Sun (9 page)

Do You Dream of a Summer Cottage
?
A Gorgeous Car? Does Your Wife or Lady Friend Wish She Had Jewelry, Flowers, Cosmetics?

The State Lottery
can make your dreams come true!

Just six little dots could make your dreams for you and your family come true. At the cost of mere pocket change you could fill your bank account with hundreds of thousands of marks!

The State Lottery
can change your life in one stroke. You can be the envy of your neighbors, be even more adored by your wife. Toys for your children—stylish clothes—protection from illness!

The State Lottery
—depend on it.

VANNA/VERA

November 2016

The doorbell rings.

Jare.

I let him in, although we haven't agreed to our normal smoke screen meeting. On Wednesdays and Saturdays we go out, visibly hand in hand, to places where other couples our age go. Our other meetings are strictly business. I don't know how Jare meets his own sexual needs—he probably visits the state bordellos and gets the young bachelor's discount.

I have only six jars of jalapeños left in my stash. Jare put them here without saying a word and hasn't made a move to sell them.

I'd thought about going to the body-perfecting salon, although the pitiful endorphins I get exercising there are like trying to sate an elephant's hunger with a single pea. I really don't want any company right now. The black water's been rising in the Cellar all day. I hardly have the strength to even wash the eloi icing off my hair and face, and I had hoped that going to the bodywork salon would tire me enough that I could get to sleep a little early. I lean limply against the wall near the front door and wait for Jare to tell me why he's come, but he doesn't say anything. I scowl.

“Well?”

I see an expression on his face, a promise in his eyes; I sense the aroma of excitement, expectation, and my pulse starts to race. I'm already grabbing him by the hand and dragging him into the kitchen, almost jumping up and down, like a dog whose owner has a treat for her. I almost forget to turn on the radio to fill the room with noise.

“How much? Where'd you get it? Is it jar, bottle, chunk, flake?”

“None of those.”

My shoulders slump. It's some kind of cruel joke. Everything on the market is either chopped and in jars, mashed into a bottled sauce, powdered, or—the best kind—dried flakes.

Jare pulls a bag out of his pocket. “Fresh.”

My mouth hangs open.

Fresh chilis. I've never seen fresh chilis.

Habaneros, no less. Not anywhere near the strongest kind, but still, more than 200,000 scovilles. A fantastic score.

A bag of little red- and orange-tinged, paprika-shaped
fresh
habaneros.

Three thoughts come into my mind, in a very particular order.

One. I am about to be buzzed.

Two. There's stuff on the market again.

Three. Someone's growing it. And that someone isn't far from here.

I make us something to eat. Now that I'm assured of my fixes, and that they're really, really good fixes, I can wait half an hour and maximize my enjoyment. I have enough food on hand to make us a sort of thick ragout: tomatoes, onions, garlic, carrots, green beans, salt, pepper. I simmer the chopped vegetables for fifteen minutes and then dump half of them into another pan. That's for Jare—the best dealers never touch the stuff themselves.

I put on some latex cleaning gloves to chop the habaneros. Although I've never handled the fresh stuff, I assume that touching it with your bare hands—touching any fresh chili—could be a big risk. Even if you wash your hands carefully afterward, they can still have capsaicin on them. I know that from handling the flake. You accidentally rub your eyes or your nose and it can be really painful. Really strong stuff can even injure the skin on your hands.
The way of the chili is not the way of the finger.
They don't say that for nothing.

Although I want a really, really good fix, I also know what this score might be capable of doing. So I'll pace myself. One whole chili should be enough. The aroma of the minced habanero is something new, intoxicatingly fruity and pungent. My mouth begins to water so much that I have to swallow. I pour the pieces into the pan meant for me. Just ten more minutes.

I don't ask Jare where he got it. Not now. That's beside the point right now.

JARE REMEMBERS

November 2016

I'd been out looking at the bulletin boards one more time. Nothing new had turned up in quite a while, as you know. But I went to look anyway; it was better than just waiting around, antsy and uncertain.

Then a couple of days ago I got a surprise. I saw a new bit of graffiti in among the old, on the side of a house that was scheduled for demolition. This new mark didn't follow the rules. It didn't have a date or a key word, just a picture of an elongated, slightly crooked heart with a little flame-like shape nestled on top between its two curves. It couldn't be anything but a chili pepper. The picture seemed to be purposely vague so that if any random law-­abiding citizens looked at it they would think that it was in fact a heart, with a little flame on top, a scrawl put there to express some lovestruck person's feelings. Of course my first thought was to wonder if there was a refreshments bar or another public place in Tampere that had a heart or a flame in its name, but I couldn't think of one. Still, the drawing gave me hope—it was a reference to chilis, so somebody might have some.

I went to look at all the bulletin boards again over the next few days. Then yesterday, in the pedestrian underpass at the railway station, the very same drawing appeared on top of the old scribbles, small and unobtrusive, but there it was, and it was quite fresh.

My head was humming with the thought of it as I walked back to work. How could I follow this trail? And was it a trail? I was mulling this over when I passed a group of mascos at the central market square, guys about my age, perhaps a little younger. They had somewhat long hair and more colorful clothes than you usually see. They were talking to passersby and handing out leaflets, smiling brightly at everyone, but it was a little odd that they didn't try to talk up any of the elois walking by. None of them whistled or shouted anything or tried to take any eloi's arm or pat her on the butt, although several good-looking specimens walked past. People were taking the leaflets; most of them took one a bit reluctantly and tossed it into the next recycling bin they came to. I took one, too, mostly out of politeness, and shoved it in my pocket without reading it. Then I forgot about it until I was back at the office, getting ready to go to lunch, and I reached in my pocket for some change and found the leaflet. It was ordinary, cheaply printed, like those sheets people hand out in the central square on Independence Day with the program schedule and the words to the songs on them. I read the first few lines. Then I understood why those mascos looked peculiar—they were members of some kind of religious sect that I'd never heard of, so it made perfect sense that they looked a little odd. The leaflet had some complicated babble about transcendence and Gaia, but it also said something about “oneness with nature” and talked about “the spirit of the soil” and “wisdom of growth.” The kind of thing the authorities don't bother with, probably some harmless sect promoting vegetarianism. I was about to put it in the recycling bin on the office wall when I happened to get a glimpse of the paper with the light behind it. It looked as if there was a grease stain on the paper. But when I looked more closely I saw that the stain was actually a little watermark. The same mark I'd seen on the bulletin boards.

My heart started to pound and I quickly stuffed the paper back into my pocket. That same stylized heart with a flame, just the kind of symbol that a religious group could use to send the message “We offer warmth and love.” But to me it said that this group must have something to do with chili. There was no other reason for it to be drawn on two separate bulletin boards.

It could have been a trap, but I figured the idea was too complicated and clever to be something the Health Authority had cooked up. It was bait, an invitation, and it was meant to be seen only by those who knew how to look for it.

After work I went back to the market square with the leaflet in my pocket. The group had gotten out an assortment of drums and stringed instruments, and one person had a flute. Some of the instruments looked homemade; some were rebuilt or assembled from parts of old instruments. I stopped to listen to the music. The songs were simple: stuff about plants and trees and sunshine and how Gaia's skin is green. I clapped politely after each song. The musicians even had half of a gourd where people had tossed them some coins—a few tenpenny pieces at most.

I approached a dark, hook-nosed fellow in a striped, hand-knit sweater and asked something trivial about the instruments, and he started to introduce the group enthusiastically with a friendly smile. I showed him the leaflet. I said I wanted to ask them a bit more about their religion, and I could buy him a drink in return. He immediately shook my hand and said that his name was Mirko and he would be happy to tell me more. We went to the nearest market refreshments bar and I ordered two carrot juices. Mirko was babbling something about a bioaura, but I wasn't actually listening to him at all. I just turned the paper over in my hands and then pretended to suddenly notice the watermark. I asked him what it meant. Then he put his hand on mine for a moment, gave it a quick pat, and asked if I'd ever played hide the key as a child. I nodded and said of course. He smiled and said that I must remember what you say when the searcher is very close to the hiding place. I was about to open my mouth, but stopped when Mirko's eyes widened slightly.

You're getting hotter. Burning hot.
That's what you say.

I smiled back at him. “That's the most important part of the game, isn't it?” I said.

“Yes, it is. ‘Seek and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you.' That's what the Bible says, although that isn't our holy book.”

He tapped the paper with a finger, pointing to the symbol as if by accident.

“If you would like to come to a prayer meeting sometime, you're very welcome.”

“I would like to come,” I said, although I knew that it was a big risk.

Mirko took out a pen and wrote something on the paper. “We're having a prayer meeting today, actually. Here's the address.”

I didn't even look at the paper, just put it in my pocket and thanked him.

Mirko got up. We shook hands and went our separate ways. I didn't look at the address until I got home. It was on the outskirts of town, in the area of wooden houses around Kauppi.

I went there that evening. It was an old, run-down building surrounded by a well-kept garden mulched for the winter. I knocked on the door and one of the mascos who'd been at the market square opened it, nodded, and asked me in. I had hardly crossed the threshold when someone grabbed me from behind and held my upper arms tight, pulling my hands behind me.

“Check to see if he's clean.”

Three mascos came and patted me down all over. “He's clean.”

They let go of me. Mirko came right up in front of me and stood with a big, mean-looking knife in his hand. “Sorry to do this. But we have to be absolutely sure of everyone.”

I nodded.

“We're peace-loving people and we don't want to cause problems for anyone. But if you decide to help us you will be magnificently rewarded.”

There was something so bombastic about this that it almost made me laugh, but I thought it wise to keep my smile to myself.

“Our mission is to give the fire back to humanity.”

After a short discussion I was much the wiser. Mirko went somewhere else in the house and was gone for a long time, and then came back with a plastic bag. “These are our collateral.”

He handed me a bag of fresh habaneros.

“For some time now we've been looking for a smart, motivated go-between. You seem to be both. We need money and we can't risk making sales ourselves. The risk will be entirely yours. If you get caught, we have many ways of silencing you before you're even questioned. But if you do your job right, there's plenty more where this came from.”

I didn't even think about what exactly was meant by that veiled threat. I knew that some people who'd had dealings with chilis had disappeared. There were rumors of capsos in high places who could use their own channels to handle dealers who took risks. There were whispers about ways to get to a snitch the moment he was put in the paddy wagon. Those might be legends, but the heavy, juicy red bag was there on the table. It was real. Fresh stuff is impossible to fake.

These guys were the real thing. They were serious.

VANNA/VERA

November 2016

I sit at the table. The pan in front of me is holy communion.

I scoop some of the vegetables into my bowl and stir them until they cool a little, but not too much. A fix served in hot food is weird; at first it's impossible to tell what's warming my mouth, the temperature of the food or the precious capsaicin.

The first hit of habanero shakes me. I've already had three or four forkfuls before it starts to come up on me, first in little waves lapping the shore, then, before I know what's happening, it's like a roaring tidal wave curling over me.

A little squeaking shout comes out of me as a hot iron starts pressing the inside of my mouth.

Every sweat gland in my body starts to ooze simultaneously. Burning drops flow down my spine, my forehead, under my eyes, down my arms, over my crotch, making my panties damp as though I've wet myself, and I may actually have wet myself—I hardly would have noticed, because flames are shooting through my digestive tract, hitting me right under my chest like a hatchet.

“Aaaa
aaaa
!” I bend over double, and the fork falls to the floor.

My ears have slammed shut. I can barely hear Jare asking me something, his face worried. He asks again, louder.

“Is everything all right?”

I raise my head from my plate and look at Jare, his shape wavering through the sweat and tears on my lashes.

“All right? This is
unreal.
”

I take the fork in my hand again, scoop up the reddish mixture and shove it in my mouth. I could put the fork right through my tongue and not feel the difference. The fantastic, exploding pain hits my mouth again, like someone smashing my teeth in with a sledgehammer.

The burn has to be cradled like a flickering flame. You have to let it live; you can't smother it with bread or milk or cold water. Because as long as your mouth and gut feel that holy pain your body keeps pumping luscious opiates into your system. The best thing to do is to fan the flame higher and higher, into ever greater frenzy, if you've got enough stuff to do it; the pain receptors in your mouth react to every little bite as if it were a match thrown onto a pile of straw soaked in gasoline. The habanero has intense overtones; its heat is shrill, piercing, like a drill on the nerve of a tooth. The flavor of it is yellow, almost white-yellow, flashing on my optic nerve. This is the best rush ever, ever, ever.

Thankfully, there's lots of food still left when I get up and start to dance to the pop song on the radio. I don't even need music; the chili is squirming and churning inside me, huge, slashing undertones mixed with unspeakably deep, wonderfully agonizing bass notes.

The chills will come soon, but I can keep them in check if I keep moving.

I'm alive.