The First

by Glen Kenner

  We sit for at least thirty minutes. At one point, children come into the alley. All of them barefoot, in ragged pants and shirts. I can’t tell if they are boys or girls. They cross in front of the car and realize it’s idling. Fear, then opportunity cross their faces, but the driver rolls down his window and shoos them away. They continue through the alley and climb up a small pile of rubble and disappear into the shell of the bombed out building to our left. Then, as if that was the signal, the driver puts the car in reverse and we back down the alley and into the street. Changes gears and he floors it. The destruction of this part of the city looks systematic. Entire blocks of buildings are two story high piles of rubble and then another block is untouched. Some of the standing buildings have electricity and as we make our way further into the city, a small amount of normalcy seems to play out in front of us. Old women, most wearing hijabs but none in burkas, push small carts down the sidewalks, men and older boys standing around on corners or squatting in front of doorways. Many of them smoking. Children, like the ones we saw earlier, in alleyways. Sometimes with a dog or two. Occasionally a better dressed man appears from a doorway and then disappears. Everyone looks at the car as we pass.

  We travel further into the city and the damage lessens. Now there are more people out and cars are on the streets. No one looks at us. The driver takes a hard right into a wide alley and two blocks later makes a left into another alley, this one too small for two cars. He’s looking at the back doors of the building and when he finds the one he’s looking for, he simply stops the car, puts it in park and gets out. He opens Sarah’s door and we step out. I tell Sarah to jump back in but the driver closes the door and starts to get back into the car.

  -Wait!

  I grab the door so that he’s unable to close it despite all of his effort.

  -What are you doing?

  He doesn’t look at me. Just pulls on the door with all of his strength.

  -Sarah, go ahead, get back in. It’s ok.

  The driver shakes his head back and forth.

  -I go. I go now.

  -No. You stay. She stay with you. In car.

  I’m using his broken English now. I think it’s working.

  -You stay. She stay. Car stay. No go. You wait. One hour.

  I hold up one finger.

  -No, no, no, no. Go now.

  -Wait. Money.

  I pull out my wallet. He’s just trying to make a few extra bucks. Ok. That’s fine. I can respect that.

  -Money. I give money. Stay.

  He doesn’t look at the money. His eyes are darting ahead and into the rear-view mirror. And then he puts the car in reverse and lets the brake off just a bit. The car jumps back a foot. Sarah is in the car and suddenly yells out my name. Alright buddy, you fucked up.

  -Stay!

  I reach in and grab him by the shirt collar. Just then a voice comes from the doorway behind me. I turn and it’s a boy. Young teenager maybe. He says something to the driver and the driver puts the car in park.

  -Mr Smith, please come in. With your friend. The driver needs to go. He cannot stay, it would be unsafe. He has already been paid. Please come in. With your friend.

  The boy speaks perfect English but not with an American or English accent. It’s Australian or New Zealand. Sarah gets out of the car and we step inside the building behind the boy, slowly, and then through a dark curtain, letting our eyes adjust to the darkness. The boy tells Sarah to have a seat on the couch in the corner. It’s the only furniture in the room. There is a calendar on the wall next to the couch and another dark curtain on the far side of the room. The boy walks to the curtain, pulls it back and asks me to follow him. I hold up my hand and turn to Sarah.

  -This will be ok. But remember what I said before. Just keep to yourself. Don’t go anywhere. If you feel threatened, yell out and I’ll smash through these shitty walls and be here in two seconds. If someone tries to make you go somewhere, just grab their hand or arm and squeeze. Crushing their bones will change their minds. Ok?

  -Ok.

  She looks nervous but also trying hard not to show it. She smiles at me and sits down on the couch with her bag. She pulls out her law book and holds it up as if to say, I’m just gonna kick back and study. No worries. No big deal, just chilling in Aleppo. I do this all the time.

  I follow the boy through the curtain and we go down a narrow hall, past a few more curtains and a large kitchen area and then through another curtain and come out into a much bigger room. This room has people in it. Two Firsts sit on the floor on cushions. I can hear their buzzes. An ancient looking dude sits to their right. Standing in front of them are two more men, middle-aged, thin but with pot-bellies, both in military uniforms. They briefly look at me before saying a few more words to the Firsts and then give a small bow of the head. They leave the same way we came in.

  Both Firsts jump up to greet me. They are both smiling but the one on the right, with short cropped hair, grabs my hand and shakes it hard. He’s wearing plain gray slacks but also a Led Zeppelin t-shirt from the album with the Hindenburg going up in flames. The other First is also wearing slacks but with a simple short sleeve work shirt. The old man, who is still sitting on a cushion on the floor, is wearing a robe. He is looking at me and I think I detect a bit of a scowl. But he looks away and lets out a small sigh.

  The First shaking my hand speaks with a perfect King’s English accent.

  -John Smith. We’re so glad you’ve come. So very glad. We’re eager to get to know you. You visited a History Keeper a long time ago. Before the cave. Do you remember?

  -Before the cave? You know about the cave?

  He lets out a loud laugh and then translates for the other First. Now they both laugh and start to sit down. The boy puts a cushion on the floor behind me and everyone but the old man puts their hand out toward it, palm up. I sit down and keep my left leg up but bent at the knees, foot flat on the floor. My right leg I rest on the floor and tuck my foot under my left leg. They all do the same, except for the old man who sits cross-legged. Sitting on the floor, on a small but plump cushion, legs at ease but ready to respond if need be, feels so right. I sat like this for a very long time until I made my way into Europe the last time and never traveled back East.

  The old man speaks for the first time, a bit harshly it sounds, to the boy and the boy jumps up. The old man says to me, in Arabic, food, and pretends to chew. I reply back, in probably a mix of contemporary and mostly ancient Arabic that some food would be wonderful. Thank you. The Firsts smile and laugh a bit at my reply but the old man simply looks away.

  Led Zeppelin First pats his thighs and beams at me.

  -We must make introductions. But first, your friend that traveled with you, he is not a First?

  I pause. I don’t trust this.

  -No.

  -Ah. Your friend knows you are a First and why you are here?

  -Yes and no.

  The two Firsts look at me expecting more. I look each of them in the eyes, back and forth, no expression on my face. I am an expert at this game and can do this all day. The Led Zeppelin First breaks.

  -Ah. Alright. This is Alvaro.

  He gestures to the other First. Alvaro bows his head. I do the same.

  -He is my senior. He is fluent in dozens of languages. But not English. Probably most of the languages he speaks no longer exist. He was born here in Aleppo in 1818 BC. Ah, you won’t mind if I use the western dating system, no? I need the practice. So, as I was saying, Alvaro was born right here in Aleppo and became a History Keeper immediately after his First Death. He is extremely knowledgeable.

  I bow my head once more to Alvaro. Very knowledgeable but never got around to learning English. Huh.

  -My name is Zain-

  -Zeppelin Zain.

  I say this with a smile.

  -Ah, yes. Yes! Zeppelin Zain. I love American rock music!

  He then assumes the position of air guitar rock god and I know what I’m about to hear.

  -No. No
Stairway, please. And Led Zeppelin is British. Not American.

  -Ah. Really? Maybe so. I love American and British rock music!

  -Like AC/DC?

  -Yes! Yes! Freeway to Hell!

  -AC/DC is Australian. And it’s highway. Highway to Hell.

  -Ah.

  He looks at me but doesn’t say anything more. The old man lets out a long breath through his nose. Why am I suddenly being a dick? I’m on the edge here and resorting to bad habits.

  -Sorry.

  I say this to Zain with a small nod of my head and then also to Alvaro.

  -I love the music too. I’ll send you whatever you like when I get back. You name it. Ok?

  There’s the smile again. He shakes my hand again and translates in Arabic for Alvaro, who smiles and looks like I just promised them world peace. Maybe world peace would be easier than smuggling in Western rock music. Shit.

  -Thank you John Smith! So then, as I was saying, I am Zain. I was born in Jerusalem in 73 AD. I am not nearly as old as my senior. I came to Aleppo and became a History Keeper in 809. So I am also not as knowledgeable as my senior, but I put forth my best effort. I have lived in several Western cities recently, including London for 35 years from 1895 to 1930. From Victoria to Edward to George. I then traveled much of the New World for six years after that. I was unable to meet with you, though I actually did try.

  I shrug, unsure of any additional meaning to that statement.

  -Also, I was back in London from 1981 to 1983. I attended the royal wedding of Charles and Diana! It was the most beautiful wedding I have ever seen.

  Alvaro suddenly laughs and says to me in simple Arabic that Zain is obsessed with Diana. He keeps a picture of her in his bedroom!

  I chuckle with Alvaro and Zain’s face turns red.

  -She was a princess! Anyway, since that time I have mostly stayed in the Middle East. Sometimes Africa. Sometimes Asia. Moving around as it was needed and safe to do. Historically, History Keepers traveled only once every century and then for only a short period of time. Perhaps ten years. But it is now quite easy to travel the world. Incredible, isn’t it?

  -Sure. Though I don’t miss it much. Listen, I was hoping-

  Just then the boy comes back in with a large tray of glasses and small plates of food. I recognize the flat bread and cheese and also hummus, meze of all kinds, za’atar, laban, and minced beef. The boy sets the tray on a small table behind us and pours each of us hot black sweet tea. The old man, in a language that isn’t the ancient Arabic I know or the modern Arabic I can fake, but probably related, asks the boy a short question. The boy replies with a sort of grunt. The old man then asks him something, which causes the boy to pause pouring the tea. Then he resumes and once finished with the tea, turns and leaves the room. I think I recognize the word friend. He must have told the boy to take Sarah some tea and food.

  -Who is the boy? And the elderly gentleman?

  I nod toward the old man in the robe who is still looking slightly to his right at a blank wall twenty feet away.

  -The boy is Joram. He is the great-grandson of the brother of the Secretary to the History Keepers.

  He gestures to the old man on the cushion who nods without turning his head.

  -His name is Nizar Khalil Hamed Abadi. He has been with us since he was eight years old and is now eighty-two. Secretaries serve until their health no longer allows. Truthfully, often far beyond that, as our faithful servant Nizar has done. There is no retirement. Nizar has advanced emphysema and soon will not be able to faithfully continue any of his duties. His brother’s great-grandson Joram will take his place. Joram came to us at the age of ten to begin his apprenticeship. He is now fourteen and has started taking over many duties from his great-grandfather’s brother. He also speaks fluent English, having spent three years in New Zealand. Nizar Khalil Hamed Abadi understands very well English but perhaps doesn’t have the confidence to speak it. He watches whatever English language programming we are able to receive. His favorite is I Dream of Jeannie!

  The old man lets out a noise, something half whatever and half fuck you.

  Both Firsts let out a laugh and I join in.

  -Secretaries to the History Keepers traditionally skip one generation. Nizar’s grandfather was our previous secretary. And his grandfather served before him. And so on. However, Nizar’s grandson, who had apprenticed and had taken on most of the duties of his grandfather, was killed early in the current civil war. The fighting had come this far in the city. The apprentice stepped outside the main door to check on nearby gunfire and was shot dead.

  Zain put his index finger to the center of his forehead. Must have been a sniper.

  The old man lets out another long breath through his nose. I have a feeling I’ll be hearing that a lot during the next hour. But the pain of losing his grandson must have been terrible and also, just as painful I bet, would have been the shame of not fulfilling his family responsibility of serving the History Keepers. Luckily, I guess, there was a great-grandson of his brother. Still, it was not his grandson, as tradition demanded. No wonder the old man is a grumpy bastard.

  Just then, in the silence, I hear a buzz. Sarah.

  Zain and Alvaro hear it also and we all turn and look toward the curtain to the left of the Firsts. Sarah is on the other side of that curtain. The Firsts look at me, their eyes narrowed and mouths set firm.

  Alvaro starts speaking to me loudly in rapid Arabic, saying something about my friend is a First. A female First. No! Not possible!

  Zain, in a panicked mixture of English and Arabic, joins in.

  -Is she a she? Not a man dressed as a woman?

  It’s then that I notice the old man putting his hand on something inside his robe. Something solid. I take one large step that lifts me up and toward him and stop a foot from him. I put my face in front of his and look hard into his eyes.

  -Pull that out slowly. Now. Or I’ll rip both of your arms off and no one here can stop me.

  The Firsts don’t move. Nazir opens his robe slowly and removes a small pistol and sets it on the floor next to his cushion.

  -Anything else?

  He responds in English, directly to my face, returning my glare.

  -No

  I grab the gun and stand up and turn to the Firsts.

  -Are either of you armed?

  They shake their heads no. I can see the concern on their faces, though they both are trying to hide it. I reach over them and put the gun on a low bookshelf behind the Firsts and turn toward the curtain.

  -Sarah?

  -Yes? John?

  -It’s me, Sarah. Come on in.

  The Firsts watch the curtain pull to the side and Sarah walk in, her buzz filling the room, the boy behind her. The Firsts’ eyes are wide and the older of the two, Alvaro, appears to be mumbling. Time for explanations. From all of us.

  -Introductions?

  The Firsts nod their heads.

  -Sarah, this Alvaro.

  I force a smile and gesture to him and Sarah puts out her hand to shake. He is very slow to accept and I notice that his hand is trembling.

  -Alvaro has been a History Keeper for nearly four thousand years. Born right here in Aleppo. And this guy, with the excellent taste in music, is Zain. Zain was born in Jerusalem almost two thousand years ago. He’s lived in England and the US and speaks perfect English.

  Zain puts out his hand and it seems to tremble slightly as well, though he is making a fantastic effort now of smiling.

  -The seated gentleman is Nazir Khalil Hamed Abadi, the Secretary to the History Keepers. The boy is-

  -Joram.

  Sarah says this with a smile.

  -He told me. He spent three years in New Zealand, speaks perfect English, loves video games, football, but not American football, pizza, and rap, especially Tupac and The Notorious B.I.G. And he says I am the most beautiful American woman he has ever seen. Which includes someone named Taylor Swift.

  Joram hangs his head but with a big smile on his fa
ce and all of us Firsts laugh. That was a perfect way to break the tension. I never know when Sarah will be quiet and shy or pull people toward her with her smile and charm. Or beat someone to a pulp.

  -Well, he’s a smart kid. Except about soccer, of course.

  I turn to Alvaro and Zain.

  -Gentlemen, this is Sarah Abe.

  I spell her last name and then pronounce it again. Ah-bay.

  -She is a First and, as you can tell, she is a woman.

  Sarah looks at me confused. Almost with indignation. I’ll explain later, I mouth to her.

  -Sarah survived First Death just a few days ago. I was there. And she’s the reason that we are here.

  Alvaro says something to Sarah in a language I don’t speak.

  Sarah replies back in the same language and then in English.

  はい、アベは日本語です. My adoptive father is one fourth Japanese and is pretty fluent. But I don’t speak much of the language at all. I took one class in college and decided to stick with Spanish. Much more practical in America.

  Zain translates for Alvaro, who nods his head with a small smile.

  The boy brings Sarah a cushion and a small glass of tea and we sit down. The boy sits down next to his great grand uncle and pulls a laptop from the low shelf behind him. He looks at me and Sarah and says in that almost musical New Zealand accent that he will take notes, that the History Keepers have decided to begin storing the histories in the cloud. Huh.

  I turn to Sarah and tell her there are some things I now need to tell her. Everything will make much more sense now. I look back at the Firsts and then again to Sarah and start.

  -I told you that The Father has lived for at least 12,000 years. No one knows the exact number, as far as we know.

  Joram starts typing, quickly but quietly, on the laptop, and Zain is translating into Alvaro’s ear.

  -In all of that time, The Father has produced thousands of children. In fact, it’s commonly believed, that every woman he has ever been with, sexually, has become pregnant. Do the math and that comes out to more than a million pregnant women.