The Warmth of Gyros

Even from space, the Mediterranean gleamed blue as polished topaz. Dimitris listened to music as he watched the explosions. He didn’t know what else to do.

The small, black notebook was still there. He hadn’t opened it. Now, he thought, he wouldn’t. Although what would it matter if he did?

The notebook was only about the size of the address books people used before they kept everything in the cloud. Now, people used them for things that they did not want to chance others reading, for situations where a device was less practical, or simply, as Dimitris did, for the pleasure of their use. Dimitris gazed out the window of the space station at the clouds below. The orbit was coming to nightside. Another explosion, a large one this time, flashed brilliantly in the region between day and night. Eastern North America.

Wars don’t erupt, thought Dimitris. Volcanoes erupt, but even then, there are signs. If you are paying attention.

The notebook had a soft, only slightly worn, smooth leather cover, the edges rounded and gentle. He could tell the paper inside was of high quality. Had it belonged to Alexei, the Russian who had been here just before him? Or perhaps someone before that?

Two explosions, very close together. Northern Europe. ‘My name means Earth lover,’ thought Dimitris, and his thoughts drifted back to the Panormou neighbourhood of his childhood in Athens. The orange trees. The ubiquitous street cats. The church that rings the bells thirteen times. The loudspeaker announcement from the truck of the Romany man, driving slowly through the streets, looking for scrap, metal preferred. The warmth of the over-stuffed gyros from the vendor who didn’t count the coins, who knew, but gave him gyros anyway.

Did the man who owned that book write of such things? Even though there had been plenty of women on the space station, Dimitri felt without knowing why that it was a man’s book. Why had it been left? Why hadn’t the cleaners found it? He thought perhaps they simply had not cared to touch it, had not even noticed it. It had been on the same recessed shelf as the manuals. Unnoticed, most likely. Just as we don’t seem to notice that there is already a war, long before the bombs explode.

The communications satellite was down. For how long, he didn’t know. He had no contact with Earth. No contact. There was, somewhere deep in his reptile brain, a stab. He knew how to control that. It was part of the training. He turned up the volume slightly on the music. Tchaikovsky’s violin concerto, Opus 35. The Earth below him was dark, save for the lights of major cities, not as many, he noticed, as there had been before, and the sickening incendiary flashes, some in clusters.

The notebook, he knew, could be empty, but he doubted that. It were as if, as he held it in his hands, some osmosis of recorded thoughts were leaking through the soft cover, Dimitris knew something was written inside. If it were his own, it would be partially filled with scraps of lyrics, a poem or two, some quick sketches, perhaps the start of a letter to a very old friend. He liked the feel of a good pen on quality, ivory-coloured paper. Liked how the ink gave shape to his thoughts on the page in what was basically a code, but one for which many had the key, or could acquire it easily enough.

It could contain nothing more than a shopping list, or a quick series of reminders to oneself, and if so, there would be no harm in reading it. Still. It also could be a diary, a record of the impressions of a man whose privacy he had no permission to invade. Or was leaving the notebook here, so carelessly, an invitation, a permission of sorts? No, that was mere justification of a base voyeuristic impulse.

Dimitris also suspected that on the inside of the cover, there might be a clue, a name, some way to return the book to its owner. That much would not be forbidden, just to glance inside the cover. Yet he suspected that once he went even that far, he would feel compelled to go further. Besides, the other, knowing he had found that much, would never know if he had read on. No matter if he swore an oath that he had only glanced inside the cover, there would always be suspicion. Men do not completely trust others. His integrity would be forever in question. Better to leave it be.

Whatever came of this, whether it ended, and they eventually came for him, whether the communications ever recovered, or if it was his fate to die in the station, from some failure of a system, the eventual starvation, or in final desperation, by his own hand, he would leave it there. Let some other man struggle with his conscience. If indeed, any ever set foot here again.

Dimitris turned up the music.

* * * * * * * * *

Deep beneath the Earth’s surface, under a Texas desert, two men observed the screens in front of them with a mix of compassion and resignation.

“His vitals are good,” remarked the shorter man.

The other man sipped a coffee held in a paper cup. “Still can’t get through?”

The first man shook his head, pursed his lips gently. “SatCom’s still out. Something took a hit.”

“Good God,” said the other man, running a hand through his hair, a habit from years past when he had more hair to respond to such a gesture. “How long?”

“Months. Easily.”

“Does he know?”

The first man shrugged. “He can see the bombs, I’m sure.”

“Good God,” said the other man again.

“We knew it was coming. We sent him up anyway.”

“Why?”

“It was scheduled. We had the green light. Any hesitation, and it might have tipped them off.”

“We’re animals.”

“No.”

They watched in silence for a while.

“They cut him a deal, you know.”

“What?”

“If we can ever get him down from there, and if anything’s left here, he’ll be fine. If such things matter by then.”

“How so?”

“Cryptocurrency account. It’ll be worth millions when this is over.”

“Does he know?”

“No. Not yet. Or perhaps. I left him the codes, in a notebook.”

“How can you be sure he’ll find it?”

“He’ll find it. He can’t miss it. I left it right beside the manuals.”