Read Online Listen by Karin Tidbeck - Free Book Online

 
    Mika only visited Aino Korhonen ahead of time because he was in an upward swing. He had awoken with a longing to see people, talk to them, to be surrounded by life. All the interesting markets and people were up the spokes, so that’s where he went.
    Aino’s workshop lay in an artisan quarter on the third spoke, close to the hub. The little space was almost entirely occupied by a large table covered in patterns and scraps of cloth. Fat rolls of fabric jostled one another on shelves on the walls. Aino stood at the table, a lanky woman with skin and hair the color of pale sand. She looked up at Mika with gray eyes, straight at him, not gently sideways like normal people. Mika fastened his own gaze somewhere by her right shoulder.
    â€œMika Johannisson,” he said in Swedish. “I’ll be interpreting at the meeting with the ambassador.”
    Aino was still looking at him. “What do you want?”
    Wha’ doo’o wan? Her consonants were partly smoothed away, the vowels rounded in a musical arch.
    Mika smiled at her. “I was in the neighborhood. Just curious, is all.”
    â€œWell. Watch, then,” Aino said.
    She pushed herself off the table and over to the wall to fetch a roll of fabric, and her thin arms and legs folded in the wrong direction. In the low gravity it resembled a strange dance move. Mika watched as she plucked the roll from the wall, put it on the table, measured out a length of fabric, cut it off. He took a step forward.
    â€œCan I touch the fabric?”
    â€œIf your hands are clean.”
    Mika rubbed the material between his fingers. It felt uneven and alive. People paid good money for Aino’s clothes. Wearing clothes handmade by an exotic woman who spoke a minority language was authentic and refined. Light trousers and tunics in muted shades, long shawls and plaids, clothes made to wear in layers for protection against hot days and icy cold nights in a place that wasn’t the controlled climate of Amitié.
    â€œWhere do you get your fabrics?” he asked. “They’re not printed?”
    â€œI have contacts.”
    â€œThis is exciting,” Mika said, not quite sure what to say next. “ You’re exciting.”
    â€œAm I?” Aino asked dryly.
    The words flew out. “Were you born that way?” Mika bit his cheek.
    â€œNo,” Aino replied. “Were you?”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    Aino pointed at Mika’s left hand, which was drumming a nervous triple beat on the tabletop.
    Mika laughed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.”
    Aino smiled crookedly. After a long silence that felt awkward to Mika, but looked natural to Aino, she said:
    â€œWhat are they going to ask me?”
    â€œI don’t know exactly,” Mika said. “I’m just the interpreter.”
    â€œThey can’t just be looking for information about Kiruna. They could find that out for themselves.”
    â€œThe most current information comes from the Kozlov reports,” Mika replied, “and they’re very incomplete. Also, they can’t land without a permit. Not before the paperwork is done. That’s why they’re starting with you. You’re the first one to leave the place in a generation.”
    â€œHm,” Aino said. “I suppose that’s how it is, then.”
    Mika left with a triangular shawl over his shoulders. The fabric was unfamiliarly raspy on his neck.
    *   *   *
    The next day was worse than the one before. Mika had only gotten four hours of sleep but still felt energized. He had built music in the evening, and had then turned to the game he was currently playing. He had spent half the night on the steppe as the explorer Gunnhild, the part where she meets the warrior BÃ¥rd. It ought to have tired him out, but not this time. Eventually he had forced himself to unplug and took a sedative to relax. In Mika’s dreams, Gunnhild defended