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“How did you remember?”
Schmidt leans over the table and levels Draka with piercing blue eyes, and Draka can only focus on the way the steaming cup at his elbow is dangerously close to being knocked from the table.
The two of them make an odd pair, sitting in this muted cafe surrounded by trendy decor. A neat man donned in business attire and a girl dressed in baggy hand-me-downs - both of them look out of place here, sequestered to their own corner among chatty university students and young couples. But then again, it's not like Draka chose where to suddenly recognize the other while running errands on her day off; it was Schmidt who pulled them into the nearest building lest she disappear from his sight again. She just considers it fortunate she hadn't kneed the other in the groin out of reflex when his hand suddenly wrapped around her wrist.
The intensity of Schmidt’s expectant gaze has yet to wane, and Draka takes a deliberate sip of her own coffee to lessen the brunt of his curiosity, drinking in the din of the cafe to gather her thoughts. She never quite acclimated to his eccentric personality, but it was nothing compared to the scores of belligerent customers she's dealt with at her plethora of dayjobs.
Absently, she thinks the cafe owners could stand to hang less gaudy fixtures on the walls. It would help diversify their clientele, at least. “My uncle… flipped a coin as a trick at my cousin’s birthday party.” She pauses and huffs a mirthless scoff. “The first thing I remembered was his dying face. I nearly fell on my ass when I did.”
You look like you just saw a ghost, her uncle laughed, bouncing another unruly toddler on his knee. She said nothing, hastily shoveling a slice of birthday cake into her mouth to quaff down the unwanted memories.
Schmidt seems wholly unsurprised. “Did it land on heads or tails?”
“Why would I remember that?” Draka retorts incredulously. “It clearly landed on heads, but he flipped it to tails using some kind of sleight of hand.”
Schmidt makes a drawn-out hum, his posture relaxing minutely. “Sharp as ever, then.”
Draka wants to say that they'd known each other for less than a week’s time - that it would be better to live out their days without the reminder of their failed attempts at moving the world. But ever since bearing witness to those scattered memories, she was saddled with the gnawing desire to know what happened since that day. Part of her is surprised she hadn't met Schmidt sooner if they were working in the same city.
She takes care not to seem overly eager, instead leaning back in her chair. “So? What did you want from me?”
Internally, Draka winces at how impersonal and blunt the question sounds, but Schmidt takes no offense. “The book - were you able to publish it at all?”
Draka eyes him, wary. “You mean… the one written by Jolenta’s friend?” As if there could be any other.
“Indeed.” Schmidt then lowers his voice, as if drawing upon ingrained habit from his days in the Heretic Liberation Front. “Once I remembered its existence, I searched various archives for its presence. And with the advent of the Internet, I turned my search to lesser-known places as well. However… records from that time and place proved to be scarce even in the most storied collections. It's not unusual that informal manuscripts are lost over the tumultuous course of history, but I wondered if you ever saw our mission to completion - if Jolenta’s will was able to burn brightly before it was engulfed by the dark.”
Draka sullenly wraps her hands around the coffee that Schmidt was kind enough to buy for her, as if he’d take it back upon hearing her answer. She casts her gaze downward, unable to meet his hopeful expression. “No, I… I died before I was able to use the printing press. I'm sorry.”
“I see.” Schmidt goes silent in contemplation. He sighs through his nose and tugs at one end of his meticulously groomed mustache. “It seems our gamble failed,” he finally says, moving to partake from his cooled cup without a hint of revulsion.
“You don't want to know what happened?” Draka prods when it becomes clear Schmidt didn't intend to further pry.
Schmidt subtly raises a brow. “Should I ask about a young woman’s death?”
“It’s not like I mind. I just…” Draka’s brow furrows. “You and your comrades died because of that book - because of me. Shouldn't you resent me for that?”
“You're speaking as though you forced my hand,” Schmidt replies calmly. “It was the fate I chose.”
“Don't you understand?” Draka asks, familiar frustration rearing its head within her breast. “I burned the book and told you I wanted to change my fate. Yet as I lay there, bleeding out, I wondered what my pitiful flicker of a life had been for. Everyone entrusted me with their hopes, but their sacrifices amounted to nothing.” Draka’s voice turns hoarse at the last word, her throat suddenly constricting.
It was simple to make peace with the fact when there was no one else to speak to. At times, the memories grew so distant they were no better than a dream stubbornly clinging to her upon waking. People died prematurely with regrets - such was the way of human life. There was no point in dwelling on it. The Earth continued to turn.
This became clear with each harrowing recollection she pieced together. She was unable to change anything, in the end. Publishing the book was meant to liberate knowledge, yet people still persecuted one other for the same reasons. The dread and anxiety that took root in Draka’s heart seemed to be reflected in every person she came across. The future Jolenta envisioned would never come to fruition. The only thing Draka could do was attach her letter to the bishop’s messenger pigeon, counting each hurried wingbeat until it vanished on the horizon.
The person who lived at the designated address likely had no idea who Potocki was nor had any involvement in the book's creation, but she wanted to let that lingering scrap of Jolenta’s love for the world sail across the sky, if only for a moment.
Here, in front of the man who gave his life for her, those stifled emotions return to the surface. She roughly scrubs her face with the worn sleeve of her hoodie, focusing on the sting high on her cheeks instead. The last thing she wanted to do was make a scene in public; she can already see one waitress giving them a strange look out of the corner of her eye.
Across from her, Schmidt’s expression is unruffled yet inscrutable. “Let me ask you another question: do you still remember the contents?”
Of course I do, Draka wants to say. The moment she remembered the freshly printed letters composing the first page, she wrote down the entirety of what she could recall while on the tram home. The passerby around her thought she succumbed to a fit, frantically typing on her phone as if possessed.
For weeks after, she hastily transcribed passages from her fragmented memories onto any scrap of paper she could find. One could scarcely hope to remember a full sixty pages of text, but the general structure and main points returned to her as if washing up on the barren shore of a murky ocean. Jolenta’s friend hadn't been an academic writer in any sense, but the occasional personal flourish made their paper all the more memorable, their passion carrying through the relentless tides of space and time.
Draka’s lips twitch with the sudden desire to recount those words, eyes bright as if she'd been waiting for this moment for years. Yet she tempers the naive impulse, willing herself to think rationally. She knows what Schmidt is implying, and she intends to put any harebrained schemes to rest. “Is there a point anymore? The Internet is like a printing press where anything can be published, but… look, Wikipedia says that the theory of heliocentrism was penned by Copernicus. It’s something children learn in primary school,” Draka adds.
“Is there any reason not to?” Schmidt asks easily, and Draka feels like she's trying to explain the intricacies of smartphone apps to her aging uncle.
She'd considered publishing the essay on her own, even having several drafts of the work saved on her laptop. But ultimately, she could never work up the nerve to post it on even the most obscure of forums. There were logical reasons for her hesitation, of course, outside of her own doubt. Draka extends one finger, readying her counterargument like another business proposal.
“Firstly, heliocentrism is a dated concept in academic circles. Nothing novel would come out of publishing it in scientific journals.” Not that she would have a way to access them without the necessary credentials; she didn't attend university in the first place.
Draka pauses to gauge Schmidt’s reaction. He hasn't offered a rebuttal yet. She presses on, extending a second finger.
“For entertainment purposes, discussing the societal ramifications of a mathematical model that was disproven centuries ago wouldn't ensnare the interest of the general public. And even if you wanted to publish it as a historical manuscript, there isn't a way to verify the calculations or even the author.” Draka pauses to abate her slowly budding headache - she's gone through this particular argument in her head more times than she could count. ”Whoever wrote this only expressed their personal feelings on the matter. It would be received as an anonymous account riddled with inaccuracies at best and overzealous historical fiction at worst.”
And having the book paraded around as a shoddy piece of creative writing would be outright spitting in the faces of their predecessors. Draka couldn't bear to see the work that captured Jolenta's heart subject to ridicule by those too craven to show their own faces. The mere possibility stayed her hand despite her notorious boldness in business matters. It was better to keep the book away from prying eyes.
“It seems you've thought this through,” Schmidt has yet to be cowed by her, firmly crossing his arms. “But why do you say there would be no point? To be received as a work of fiction can still prove worthwhile. Wasn't it you who told me that fiction stimulates the mind, driving the masses to seek more to sate their appetite for enjoyment?”
“Before I was killed by the Inquisition, I spoke to the local bishop,” Draka continues with her voice taut, each damning word furthering the inexorable march to the greatest indignity of all. “Opposition to the Ptolemaic model was only suppressed in our part of the country due to the former bishop’s personal grudge. All records of persecution relating to the heliocentric theory were destroyed when he passed. The names of those who died for its sake are lost to history…”
“...As though our struggle had never existed from the first,” Schmidt finishes grimly.
“Yes,” Draka nods. The grounds at the bottom of her cup suddenly catch her interest, and she mentally traces the circuitous path left by the dark stains like planets wandering overhead. “In the ensuing Renaissance, scholars were free to pursue these avenues of thought once the orthodoxy changed its stance. It’s everything you claimed to despise: men attempting to make logical sense of God’s creations and senselessly killing each other over conflicting interpretations.”
It would no doubt anger him to know their lives were carelessly snuffed out over a misunderstanding. Draka incrementally raises her head and peers through the dark curtain of her bangs, studying the stoic contours of his face. She finds them no different from the unflappable veneer he wore during his time as de facto leader of the Liberation Front.
“It’s true I held no love for man’s creations and logic, and that remains true to an extent even now,” Schmidt begins slowly. “The compass was used to ravage foreign lands, gunpowder was used to subjugate the poor and weak, and the printing press was used to spread malicious ideas among the masses to sow discord and fan the flames of war. Even so, I choose to believe there was merit in our struggle.”
Was it possible to believe that, after everything that happened? They failed, and there wasn't anything to show for it. Draka holds her tongue with no small amount of effort, fearing her frustration would sear a hole through her stomach. She doesn't need Schmidt’s attempts at comforting her. Empty platitudes never suited him.
Still, Schmidt reaches across the table and gently covers her hand with his. The warmth of his palm grounds her where she hadn't realized she was shaking apart.
“…Draka, I was afraid to put my faith into something that lacked certainty, but… the moment I decided to turn back, I hoped you would live.” Schmidt’s gaze softens at that. “Do you recall the parting gift I gave you the night we fled?”
How could she ever forget? The hope that she would be able to smile when the sun cruelly illuminated all below heaven - she held fast to those words until the very end. “I do.”
Schmidt makes a hum of approval. “Then… does the sunrise look any less beautiful now that we know the Earth is the one who walks forth to greet it?”
“No.” Draka takes in a shuddering breath through her teeth, feeling only the brilliant warmth of that last dawn wash over her again. “No, it didn't.”
“Then it appears we’ve reached an understanding.” Schmidt smiles slightly, and the movement causes the corners of his eyes to crease. “As I said the first time we met, let us not allow past disagreements to cloud our way forward.”
Schmidt releases her hand once her fitful heart settles. Draka clears her throat, willing away a stray sniffle. “Right, thanks. Uh, if you really want to see the book, I can email you a copy of what I have written. I’m in touch with a few influencers with decently popular blogs, so maybe I could pitch it to one of them first? Or…”
This, at least, was familiar territory. There was so much to consider if she wanted to promote the book properly. And then there was the matter of profits, if there were any…
Schmidt is unswayed by her myriad ideas and instead fishes out his phone from his coat pocket, quickly typing something on its keyboard. He pauses to give her a sidelong glance. “Are you currently attending this city’s university?”
Draka shakes her head. “No, I need to take care of my uncle, so…”
Schmidt stands up from the table suddenly, the force rattling their cups. “Then please come with me.”
Draka makes no move to follow him, confusion eclipsing her features. “To where?”
“The campus isn't too far away by bus.” Schmidt checks his phone again, this time with the screen displaying a color coded map of bus routes. “We should be able to make the next arrival if we leave now, and the walk to the Observatory is only a few buildings down.”
“...Didn't you hear me? I already have a job. If you're trying to get me to take the matura, you're out of luck-”
Schmidt swiftly holds up one hand. “It's no business of mine what you do after publishing the book. If you wish to no longer carry the burden in this life, then we shall never meet again. But before we part ways, I would like you to meet someone. Three people, in fact.”
“Are they… people we knew?” Draka feels her pulse quicken, her unconscious excitement nearly making her lightheaded at the prospect. She hadn't been particularly close to those in the Heretic Liberation Front, but there was a sense of camaraderie that gave those few days meaning.
“Not all of them. The first is the author of the book, O ruchu ziemi.”
Stunned silence overtakes the space between them. “Huh? Are they a professor at the university?”
Jolenta had been careful not to divulge the identity of her friend even when asking Draka to recite the contents of the book. She could only make vague conjectures as to what sort of person they had been, each iteration she conjured always lacking in some way. It was a strange feeling, to carry their words with her yet not know a single thing about them.
“No, he's a student. He just started this semester, actually.”
Draka gives the other a skeptical look. Jolenta’s reverence made this man sound like a genius. Draka expected him to be around her age, if not older. Now, Schmidt is telling her he's a student fresh out of secondary school. Either he was extremely precocious for his age or outright insufferable. Or both. She shudders.
Schmidt kindly ignores her trepidation. “The second is the person who ensured the book would be preserved.”
“Is this the Potocki who was mentioned at the end of the paper?” In that case, she'd have to adjust the profit ratio to keep Jolenta’s wishes intact.
Schmidt’s brow pinches together slightly. “He's a different sort. Personally, I find him hard to get on with, and he’ll likely not approve of what we intend to do. Something about the uncultured works of non-academics polluting the realm of literature, or similar.”
With Schmidt’s personality, it wasn't hard to find someone who grated against his sensibilities. But for that to be this person's defining characteristic suddenly makes Draka less than optimistic. “Then what makes you think I'd want to meet him…?”
“It would be prudent to gain his support before we attempt to reproduce the book. Otherwise, he’ll file a complaint. If there's anyone who could persuade him, it would be you.”
“You're making it sound like I've already got my work cut out for me…” Draka mutters. Maybe she should have published it on her own when she had the chance… no, she had to at least hear out his reasons. “And the third person?”
“The third…” Schmidt hesitates, as if uncertain how to proceed, “The third is the person whose heart you inherited.”
Draka’s eyes widen in surprise, wondering if she heard correctly. “You don't mean…?”
“Indeed, I do.”
Jolenta . There was so much Draka wanted to tell her. How many times had she recalled their last conversation before drifting to sleep, following the distant movements of Saturn in the bejeweled cradle of the night sky, thinking of all the things she could say to the person who changed her to the very core? Even if it was to tell her their efforts had been in vain, she wanted to see her just once more.
Any prior reservations Draka might have had evaporate, and she briskly rises from her chair. “When did you say the bus was going to show up again?”
“In approximately five minutes, according to the most updated schedule,” Schmidt dutifully reports.
“I’ll just text my uncle to let him know-” While typing, Draka gives Schmidt a once-over, stopping in her tracks. “Wait - aren't you at work right now?”
It was still the middle of a weekday, and the lanyard hanging from Schmidt’s neck suggested he was supposed to be in an office.
Schmidt merely makes for the entrance of the cafe in long strides, waiting briefly for Draka to catch up. “I'll just say I'm taking an extended lunch break. Don't worry, Lewandowski will understand.”
Draka swears she catches a glimmer of mirth in his eye at that, but she’s too preoccupied sprinting to the bus stop to spare it another thought.