The Core of the Sun

by Johanna Sinisalo

  Maybe the best tactic was to attack. The best defense is a good offense.

  No. There were no neighbors close by, they had me outnumbered, and after what I’d seen that day I wouldn’t have been surprised if the old woman had a pistol under her mattress. If I suddenly vanished, nobody would suspect an elderly woman and two sweet little elois.

  The best thing to do was to not get cocky, and to watch my cards.

  “Forgive me for prying, but how is this even possible?”

  “I was born this way. Genetic lottery. Like a family where the great-grandfather was white but his descendants reproduced only with black people. Everyone in the family will have African characteristics, but then out of the blue a baby with rosy cheeks and freckles pops into the world.” Vanna dropped this terminology like an educated masco.

  “Morlocks have such a small, dark corner reserved for them in this world that an eloi’s life—even though it’s limited and regulated, too—is positively carefree by comparison,” Aulikki said.

  “I don’t think Jare wants to mess up our lives,” Vanna said. I could have hugged her when she said that.

  Aulikki looked at me for a change.

  I nodded. I swallowed. I nodded again.

  Aulikki smiled, but her eyes showed only flinty calculation. “Let’s work on the assumption that something good could come of this.”

  Her expression changed. She was looking at me now, seeing me as a person, an individual, not just weighing me like a chunk of meat. There was even amusement in her eyes.

  “Jare, have you ever thought you might like to order a few books to read here over the summer? Just for your own edification and education?”

  At first I was perplexed. Then Vanna laughed out loud and slapped her grandmother on the shoulder. They looked at each other and slapped their thighs.

  Then I understood.

  GENDER FRAUD IN FINNISH LAW

  1. § Any person who deliberately misleads state authorities with regard to officially defined sexes by altering an inborn neuterwoman’s appearance to resemble that of a femiwoman, whether through surgery or other cosmetic means, shall be charged with aggravated gender fraud and making a mockery of the state. If the neuterwoman herself is guilty of the abovementioned activities, both subject and perpetrator are legally responsible. Punishment for this offense for the subject of the fraud is a term of labor in state rehabilitation facilities and possible confiscation of family property. Punishment for the perpetrator who carries out such a crime is as outlined in applicable Criminal Code on Social Sabotage, § 220, subsection 6.

  2. § Any person who deliberately misleads state authorities with regard to officially defined sexes by altering an inborn femiwoman’s appearance to resemble that of a neuterwoman, whether through surgery or other cosmetic means, shall be charged with aggravated gender fraud and making a mockery of the state. If the femiwoman herself is guilty of the abovementioned activities, both subject and perpetrator are legally responsible. Punishment for the perpetrator who carries out such a crime is as outlined in applicable Criminal Code on Social Sabotage, § 220, subsection 6. Should a femiwoman be found guilty of gender fraud there is no designated punishment, because of the rarity of the crime. Instead the subject shall be referred to a mental health facility.

  Dear Manna,

  Jare and I were co-conspirators , that’s all. You understand that, don’t you? Nothing more.

  Although being discovered by Jare may have been an unavoidable accident, one that was exceedingly useful to me, it was also a problem. In your mind it gnawed at the bonds of our sisterhood. It never even occurred to me that anything could cause a break between us. To me you were always the sweet little sister I loved, and you always will be.

  Because of our shared secret, Jare and I became closer than we had intended. It happened almost by accident. Although Jare continued to obey the rules—living in the barn, washing up in the sauna, eating in the kitchen—the packages of books sent to him every week were like little Christmases for me. Jare would pick the books up from the postman’s truck and leave them on the porch of the house, and as soon as he and I had time, we would admire the books together. Some of them interested Jare, too, especially books on botany and biology, his own subjects. I noticed that every time we looked at the books together a scent that was new to me would hover faintly around him—something like lavender, and rosemary warmed by sunlight, with a tang like pine sap underneath.

  Of course you noticed.

  Of course you drew conclusions.

  Of course you did, even though I tried to be careful. I was cool and neutral toward Jare whenever you were around, but in some things you were very perceptive. Your intelligence was almost entirely social intelligence, quickly recognizing mating rituals and the movements of other people’s relationships, skillful at reading nonverbal communication. You added up the laughter and smiles, made note of the quick exchange of looks that hid secrets, observed the simultaneous absences.

  I have those typical eloi abilities, too. I can pick up people’s unconscious emotional signals, wishes, mental processes. I just do it in a different way from how you do. I might be better at it than you are, even though I’m not a real eloi—or maybe precisely because I’m not, because I can analyze and tabulate my observations, use those vague sensations to create a true sense.

  You made careless, quick-tempered, overly general interpretations, followed a false trail. You built a romance between Jare and me.

  That happened because in your logic there was nothing else but love, human relationships, and a future marriage. For you there was no such thing (why would there be? it would have been an impossible thought to almost anyone) as a friendship or spiritual connection between a masco and an eloi.

  Your heart was broken for the first time.

  When you looked at me there was a sharp stink of resentment floating around you.

  My heart was scraped raw.

  That was the first time. And how many times after that did I let you down?

  I’m sorry.

  Your sister,

  Vanna (Vera)

  LOVE STORY

  Excerpt from Femigirl

  National Publishing (1958)

  “No, I could never consider Elanna as a spouse,” Torsti said in a firm voice, pulling Nanna into his manly embrace. Nanna trembled in the tight hold of his strong arms. “You’re much nicer and prettier. And Elanna is . . . well, she’s careless of her freshness.”

  “No!” Nanna gasped. “Poor Elanna! I feel sorry for her. Every femiwoman should know how important freshness is.”

  “I think I fell in love with you the moment I noticed how wonderful you smelled, Nanna,” Torsti said. He bent toward her and pressed his passionate, powerful lips on hers. Nanna shivered under the bliss of that kiss.

  As they pulled away from each other for a moment, Torsti looked deep into Nanna’s eyes. “Nanna, will you be my wife?”

  “Gosh! Of course I will!” Nanna exclaimed, her voice trembling. “Oh, Torsti, I’m so happy! I have a feeling I have Fresh Scent to thank for this!”

  Torsti smiled. “The most important thing is your sweet, humble nature—but I must admit that Fresh Scent may have had something to do with it!”

  * NOTICE *

  The sweet smile of a real eloi

  will bring a husband pride and joy.

  But to attract a handsome gent

  you also need a nice Fresh Scent!

  Be dainty-fresh when love is near

  and a sweaty smell you need not fear.

  Fresh Scent will make you clean and nice,

  and at such an easy price!

  So buy some Fresh Scent and don’t tarry

  if you ever wish to marry.

  Fresh Scent

  The First Choice in Femi-Freshness

  Fresh Scent is a registered trademark
of the State Cosmetics Corporation. Available from all well-stocked chemists.

  VANNA/VERA

  October 2016

  I shout and rage at Jare. It gives me a moment’s relief from the adrenaline.

  Then I collapse and cry, and the black water in the Cellar splashes over my chilled feet. My knees. My thighs. My stomach. My heart.

  Especially my heart, because the water seeps in from every side and chills me to the core.

  I shout and rage at Jare. Why don’t you do something? Why don’t you help me? Why don’t you act? Why isn’t anything happening? You could at least do something!

  Even though I know that there’s nothing he can do.

  Manna. Manna. Manna.

  If I could just know what happened to her!

  Or if not, at least get a fix, from somewhere.

  I shout and rage at Jare in sheer powerlessness.

  I wish I could harness all my intelligence, all my cleverness, to find out what happened to Manna. Or to find some dope. But I live in a glass box.

  The walls of the box are transparent, the world is almost within reach—I can almost touch it. The sun is shining in the sky, trees are swaying in the wind, the horizon glimmering in the distance, but when I try to take a step in any direction my head hits a glass wall. I can pound it, kick it, try to scream through it, but it doesn’t budge, doesn’t even tremble. It’s there to protect you, the builder of the box says. You’ll never be cold, never feel the wind, never wander out and get lost in the dangerous world. Plus you’ll always be handy if I happen to need you.

  And all I can do is press my nose and my hands against the smooth transparence until it hurts, all I can do is bang my fists against the immovable surface, tear my own nails out against the sheet of tepid ice, shout and rage and curse and shriek, cry and berate and rebuke the smothering hothouse I’m trapped in.

  Some of the people who live in the glass box don’t even notice it, can’t even begin to imagine life outside it.

  And then there is the Cellar, where just trying to keep my nose above the water takes so much energy that every little thing that comes along almost crushes me. If a spoon falls on the floor when I’m eating my oatmeal in the morning I burst into tears. If my mascara clumps again on my lower eyelashes I slam the brush on the counter. I’m jumpy and irritable; things my classmates do make me shudder, demands crowd in on me, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I’ve been in eloi school for a year and I should be used to certain things, but they stretch my nerves to the breaking point.

  Makeup, for one thing. Of course I understand that life is full of unpleasant things that you have to do again and again. You have to get food every day, even if you ate a huge meal the day before. That’s understandable. Your body needs fuel continuously.

  But the way an eloi has to darken her eyelashes every morning, cover her skin with colored cream, powder her nose and forehead all day so it doesn’t shine, freshen her lipstick over and over, and then take it all off at night. It’s like the myth of Sisyphus in Hades, rolling the rock up the hill just to watch it roll down again.

  Just for fun I once calculated that by spending an hour every day on this stuff, in two years’ time I would have wasted an entire month of my life.

  If the point of it is to fool mascos, the logic of it falls apart. Of course the mascos know. Cosmetics are advertised in magazines, on the radio, on television, and mascos see those same ads. They know my eyelashes aren’t really thick and black and my eyelids aren’t naturally blue. They can see elois going into the restroom and coming out with redder lips; they can see the traces of lipstick on the edge of a drinking glass. The same goes for hair. Curling and fluffing and spraying.

  Who do the elois think they’re fooling? Each other?

  Of course the state cosmetics industry makes a tidy profit from this farce, but I simply can’t imagine that mascos really think elois always look the way they pretend to look. Even if elois are secretive about it, even if almost every outfit has a belt or a ruffle with a hidden pocket so you can keep your makeup on hand when you don’t have a purse with you.

  I’ve tried to think of makeup as a kind of evolutionary feature. Even if the deception is obvious, maybe mascos think that the more effort an eloi makes to attract them, the more eligible she is. Like those species of birds that demand elaborate mating rituals and display behaviors from prospective mates to show that they’re committed. Or birds that are influenced in their choice of mate by gender markings like larger head crests or more colorful plumage, even though those traits have nothing to do with an individual’s basic fitness—like whether he can find worms for the chicks.

  I guess you can’t compare humans to birds. Humans are rational beings. They’re not just creatures without any sense of responsibility, ruled by drives and instincts, as our teachers at eloi school keep impressing upon us. Human beings are the pinnacle of creation, able to use rational, organized methods to place themselves outside nature, to control nature. But no sooner have they said that than they start invoking what is “natural,” and to whom, and how such and such is the “natural order” of things. And for some reason these definitions are almost always applied to elois.

  MODERN DICTIONARY ENTRY

  eusistocracy — The social order of Finland, the “reign of health.” Derived from the Latin eu (good) and sistere (remain), literally “to remain in good condition.” See eusistentialist, eusistence. Example: “In a eusistocratic society the government’s most important task is to promote the overall health and well-being of the citizens.”

  REPORT

  Social Studies 101

  Vanna Neulapää 1B

  October 15, 2016

  Why Finland Is the Best Country in the World

  We live in a eusistocracy. A eusistocracy is the only Society where all the people really have a good life. Eusistocracy is the system of Finnish Society. The highest governing body is the Health Authority. Eusistocracy means the people always knows what’s best for them and how they should be if they want to live healthy and a long time. That’s why it should be the Health Authority who tells us how to eat and do other stuff.

  The opposite of Eusistocracy is Hedonist Democracy, and it has lots of things wrong with it. People choose to do things that aren’t Good for them. They even choose to do things that are dangerous. For instance in Decadent States you can drink Alcohol and buy it from Alcohol stores even though it’s poisson. And theres other poisson things like Caffeine and Nicotine. So if there’s no Health Authority then people won’t know how to take care of their health and then they get all kinda diseases and Decadents in their body and that’s the greatest resource to the Society. If we don’t take care of our Physical Body then the whole world will degenerate like a pencil that isn’t sharpened and just makes a mess.

  The most important thing for a person in a Eusistocracy is to keep useful to the Society and that’s why Eusistocracy is the best way to live in the world and that’s why Finland is the best place in the world to live.

  Teacher’s Notes: Excellent content, but pay attention to your grammar. The comparison to a pencil sounds like something you might have heard from someone. Remember—a well-mannered eloi never presents another person’s idea as her own. 8/10 points.

  VANNA/VERA

  October 2016

  Every time I go out for a walk the realities of an eloi’s life are breathing down my neck.

  When I got home from school I washed my makeup off and brushed the hair spray out of my hair. Now if I want to go out I have to build the whole disguise again.

  But I just can’t bring myself to do it all. I make do with as little as I can—wrap my hair in a loose bun, put on just a little eyeliner and lipstick, leave my corset at home.

  I don’t remember ever having such a long dry spell.

  Jare has good, reliable contacts. He’s been skillful at locating shipments coming
on the market, knows where to find sailors on freighters willing to take risks, people who are planning a trip abroad or foreigners visiting Finland for some reason, people with diplomatic immunity or enough connections in government that their bags aren’t searched too thoroughly at customs. But some new kind of net has closed tight, some new step has been taken. The authorities are always learning more about users’ behavior, the smuggling channels, the methods the mules use. It wasn’t very long ago that you could supposedly depend on the customs officials not even knowing the difference between canned cherry tomatoes and whole cayenne peppers. Now it seems that nothing gets through their filter.

  Jare heard a rumor that another mule was killed in a raid a week ago. The same seller who robbed me at the cemetery. I don’t know if I should be afraid or glad.

  I walk as quickly as I can in an eloi’s shoes, trying to make my stride seem purposeful, to look as if I have some errand to run—some shopping to do—or a date. Stopping for even a moment would be a signal to any masco that I wanted company.

  I cross Hämeenkatu into the park, and go around the block of wooden houses. Some of the oldest houses are scheduled to be torn down to make room for modern three-story cement buildings. When I get to the corner of Rongankatu I freeze.

  A bulletin board.

  A primitive means of communication but effective, perhaps for that very reason.

  The wall of a building slated for demolition is covered with obscenity, typical pubescent masco drawings of genitalia, dirty words, and initials. Among the swamp of filth, you sometimes find messages that mean something quite different from what they seem to say.

  My eyes immediately fix on one of the drawings. It’s childish looking, a cartoonish scribble of a hedgehog wearing a hat, and underneath it says in crooked letters “Dandy” and “Oct. 18, 2016.”

  I can see that it was drawn several days ago. The rain has smeared the lines a bit; the marks of the felt pen are slightly faded.