Now a bit of paper appeared from that apron pocket and Aulikki handed it to me. “If you ever feel really lonely or defenseless . . .”
I unfolded the paper. Just one word and a telephone number.
“He knows what you are, and he’s promised not to tell anyone. But use your own judgment, and be careful.”
I nodded and put the paper in my purse.
When we got to the city you didn’t lose any time.
I don’t know how you did it, how you managed it so quickly.
We were classmates at eloi college. I saw you every day in the yard or hallways, always with a group of friends. You always greeted me with a little wave, but then you would turn your back and never come and talk to me. I made a few superficial friendships, too. Hanna, Janna, Sanna, Leanna, and I spent time, in various configurations, at refreshment bars, dances, the movies, one another’s apartments. We gossiped behind each other’s backs in suitably subdued whispers. We talked about makeup and clothes and dieting and mascos. Mascos, mascos, mascos.
For you, it wasn’t just talk.
You had a round head covered in platinum curls, a cute little turned-up nose, narrow shoulders, full breasts, a curving waist. Tush like a peach.
And a whole lot of seething, pent-up desire to prove yourself.
We had been in town for only a couple of weeks when you called and told me you were engaged and had already set a wedding date.
It all happened much too fast.
Whenever the water starts to rise in the Cellar I remember that feeling.
Or rather, I remember that feeling, and the water starts to rise. Black, shining, drowning me.
I met your fiancé, Harri, the day after your phone call.
Harri Nissilä was an ordinary, nondescript, brown-haired, not particularly bright masco who worked in heating and air-conditioning. He was apparently ready to be led by his hormones into marriage in his early twenties. He had so little charm, looks, personality, or sense of humor that it was no wonder he’d chosen the first eloi who paid him any attention.
You could have done better, but you were in a hurry. This was your chance to show me up.
Oh my dear, dear Manna.
The diamond on your ring was surprisingly large considering what I presumed were Harri’s means. It was a classic cut stone surrounded by the tiniest of sapphires. In the blink of an eye you adopted the body language of an eloi engaged—you walked, moved, drank your herbal tea, did every little thing so that your left hand was as visible as possible at every moment. I imagined you sitting on the toilet and wiping your ass with your right hand while keeping your left hand, especially the ring finger, nonchalantly raised for the admiration of an invisible audience.
There was something indescribably touching about that. You really thought that ring on your finger was a magic charm that would let you live happily ever after.
You got straight to the point.
“There has to be money somewhere at Grandma Aulikki’s house. Harri says old ladies like her sock their money away like jam,” you said with a shake of your curls. “And it’s not as if she has any use for the money anymore. She’s going to die soon.” That’s what you said. Those very words.
You asked if I would ask Aulikki for the money for your wedding.
I’m sure I was visibly surprised, although I knew as well as anyone that the bride’s parents or other relatives were expected to fund a wedding. But Aulikki had barely managed to support herself and us with child-care assistance payments and money from sewing and selling vegetables. Now that we were officially debutantes she was no longer receiving child-care assistance, and she couldn’t do very much sewing anymore. Her eyesight had started to weaken because of a rapidly worsening case of glaucoma (which I’m sure you didn’t know about), and the public health services wouldn’t provide any expensive treatments for a woman past childbearing age. What mainly surprised me was that you wanted me to ask her. Why not ask her yourself?
“Because you’re Aulikki’s pet.”
That was a horrible jab. Resentment wafted around you like the smell of the swimming hall. I hadn’t expected that.
Aulikki had always treated us equally, whether it was food, treats, clothes, or who got to sit in her lap. The only difference was that she had educated me, half in secret, set aside time for conversation, for building my double identity. For you it had meant whispers and secrets, time set aside for one of us but not the other. An inner circle that excluded outsiders.
You thought I had taken Aulikki’s love away from you, too.
I, your own big sister, was the worst, cruelest villain in your short life.
I considered my attachment to you so obvious that I didn’t do enough to prove it to you. We were two kittens from the same litter. There was nothing, no one, that could break that bond.
I couldn’t say the things I wanted to say with Harri there. Shocked, I said I would see what I could do, but I couldn’t promise anything.
You wrinkled your adorable nose and said that you’d gotten only a lousy hundred for Aulikki’s gowns. You had called her and asked her to send her dance costumes, since she wasn’t doing anything with them. I felt a stab in my heart. Those dresses were Aulikki’s history. Luckily I had packed the dress I wore to the ball and brought it with me when I moved.
Under no circumstances did I want Aulikki to send every last penny she could scrape together to pay for your wedding—which she would have tried to do if I’d done as you asked me to. She might have even sold the land or furniture from Neulapää. Actually, your mistaken belief about Aulikki and me was a blessing in disguise because you hadn’t yet told her about your engagement. You wanted to wait until I’d felt out the situation. That gave me some time to think of ways for an empty-headed eloi—or someone who looked like one—to make a little extra money. I would happily use it to pay for your wedding. Who else could you turn to if not me?
I knew that the state bordellos hired staff, but I had no idea how to apply to work there, or whether it even paid. I made discreet inquiries about it among my classmates. One of them had heard a rumor that the staff was made up of fallen elois working to repay their debt to society. Such a fall could happen to anyone. Neglecting your home, violent opposition to a husband, adultery. Shoplifting from a state store.
Unpaid work was not an option.
I went to look in the cookie tin that I’d brought from Neulapää full of little objects and mementos. And the folded piece of paper Aulikki had given me.
I can’t write any more.
Vanna (Vera)
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 ar
e 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 w
atermark. 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.”