Read Online The Core of the Sun by Johanna Sinisalo - Free Book Online Page A

moves me aside, sloshing my cranberry juice.
    The masco with the hat has risen to a half-standing position and is looking around in a panic for an escape route, but there is none; the two mascos who’ve just come in are blocking his way. One of them takes a blue card out of his pocket and shoves it in front of his face.
    The Authority.
    The Authority.
    My knees are knocking so hard that I collapse into a seat at the next table. One of the mascos takes out a pair of handcuffs; the other deigns to look at me and gives me a lecherous wink.
    â€œSorry, sweetheart. This fellow’s off the market.”
    When they’ve left, I sit for about a minute before my heartbeat settles down.
    My thoughts are racing.
    The seller must have thought—has to have thought—that my use of the password was pure coincidence. But he still might mention it when he’s questioned, so maybe it’s a good thing I wasn’t wearing my normal makeup. They probably won’t be able to connect me with the usual public me.
    There is a risk, though. I can’t just put it out of my mind, can’t just forget.
    The net is tightening.
    I can’t tell Jare about this.

JARE SPEAKS
    November 2016
    I’ve sifted seeds out of bags of flake, soaked them, tried to rub the tough husks off between two pieces of sandpaper. I’ve watered them, kept the pots on the brightest possible windowsill, achieved seed leaves, then seedlings with stems. A couple of times I’ve even gotten them to flower, and once, my heart pounding with hope, I saw a flower’s petals fall and at the base of the bud a little green bulge the size of a pea. But that’s as far as they’ve gotten.
    Maybe I’m not watering them right—sometimes the pot gets moldy; sometimes the plant is clearly suffering from being too dry. I think the problem is in the amount of light. The little windows in my apartment face east and west, so even in the middle of the summer the place doesn’t get much sunlight. I can’t put the pots outside even for a minute, not even on my little balcony. When friends come over I always put them all in the back of the closet and I’m on my guard the whole time, afraid someone will open the wrong door by accident.
    I can’t do it. I don’t know enough. I’ve tried using what I’ve learned about farming other nightshades like tomatoes and potatoes. But since I can never be sure what variety I’m trying to grow, I always have the wrong temperature, or the wrong kind of soil, and especially the wrong light. Chilis are anything but ­straightforward—there are varieties that grow in near-desert conditions, some that like damp river valleys, and some that grow high in the mountains where the night temperatures drop below freezing.
    But it seems that growing the plants is the only way I’m going to get my hands on any capsaicin these days.
    When I come home from work, the door of my apartment is open.
    There’s someone here.
    For once I’m glad of this dry spell—there’s no stuff in the apartment, not even in the stash. But there is one spindly chili plant drooping on the windowsill.
    If it’s the Authority, the game is up. Even if I turned around right now and hopped on the next train, I would be arrested before I got to the Russian border.
    I hear a clang of metal. Then the gurgle of water.
    I carefully open the door a crack. Peek into my little kitchen. A man in coveralls is puttering around the sink. I recognize him—the building maintenance technician.
    The situation is still anything but safe.
    I walk in with a proprietary air, stomp loudly, shout a noisy hello from the doorway. The maintenance man turns, recognizes me, and says hello. He dries his hands on a rag.
    â€œThe drain’s clogged upstairs. I came to see if this one was stopped up, too.”
    â€œAh. It’s been working fine.”
    I take off my shoes, trying to think of what to do