by Glen Kenner
We land in De Gaulle with a long layover of almost six hours. We find our gate and I sit down but Sarah tells me she needs to stretch her legs with a walk. She doesn’t invite me and I don’t ask. And just like that, she strolls off. I’m not sure which part of the last few days is weighing on her the most but I know better than to force her to open up. It’ll happen when it happens. I stand up and stretch and head down the concourse to a bar we passed earlier. When I walk in the bartender looks up, welcomes me, looks back down and then his head snaps back up. He’s a First. He heard me, I heard him. A First working at an airport bar. I wasn’t expecting that.
-Bonjour. Beer, s’il vous plait.
-American?
His accent is something other than French.
-Currently. You?
-Algerian.
He puts a Kronenbourg 1664 in front of me and pops the cap. I ask him if he knew Camus.
-L’automne est un deuxième printemps où chaque feuille est une fleur.
-My favorite quote of his. But did you know him?
-No.
Firsts sometimes get into pissing matches about who knew who, who fought who, who killed who. I wait for the inevitable question. Three… Two…
-Who have you known, American? Washington? Lincoln? Kennedy? Elvis? Jerry Lewis?
-In fact-
-Baaah! Nevermind. American Firsts lie more than any other. Eight euros for the beer.
All Firsts seem to lie equally but I laugh because what do I care about this guy. Fuck him. I insert my credit card into the reader. Eight euros for a beer. My receipt prints out and he goes to hand it to me and sees my name.
-John Smith?
Uh oh.
-Nique ta mère! Can I get a selfie?
He pulls out his phone.
-What? Fuck no.
-A picture? Fast, I promise.
-No. You better the fuck not point that at me.
-Autograph?
Shit. I walk out, pissed at the fucking idiot and myself for leaving half of a ten dollar beer undrunk. I walk down the concourse and suddenly realize that I feel anxious and paranoid. What the fucking fuck? Followed at home, everyone wants a piece of me, hounded in an airport across the planet. Maybe it’s time to move not just to a new neighborhood, but to a new country. Maybe South America. Maybe Brazil. And then I remember Sarah. I need to clear my head and I still have almost six hours to do it. I follow the crowd and eventually end up at customs, pass through and then head outside to the taxi stands. I lived in Paris once but for barely a hundred years. Louis the Ninth kept me busy but otherwise all I remember is being bored. Eventually I left Paris for London because Edward the First, that tall, lanky son of a bitch, promised me a shit ton of gold to help him with the Scots. Always get the gold up front, I learned. Inside the taxi I ask the driver, in English, if they ever finished Notre Dame.
-Notre Dame?
-Yeah. Did they finish it? Because last time I was here it was a fucking mess.
-Ok. Notre Dame.
We pull away and head out of the airport toward the center of Paris. It’s hard to be a smartass in a language you haven’t spoken in 700 years.
Outside of Notre Dame, there’s a line under the North Tower to get in. I should have thought of that. At least it’s free. A girl with a name tag is walking the line, telling tourists in several languages that the wait is twenty minutes and the cost is ten euros. So it’s not free. Half an hour in the taxi to get here, twenty minutes to wait in line, maybe another half an hour to walk through and then a half hour to get back to the airport. Add in security and pre-boarding and I should be ok. I wish Sarah hadn’t taken off. We could be doing this together. And just like that, because that’s how shit sometimes happens, I see Sarah at the front of the line. What the holy hell? And she’s talking to someone I recognize. A First. A First from New York. A fair-skinned freckled fucker with red hair. O’Malley. O’Brian. O’something. I know he was originally from Ireland and came to New York with a million other Irish in the middle of the 1800s. What else? He worked the docks and got into a lot of fights. Shit. That’s all I know. What’s he doing in Paris talking to Sarah? Oh, shit, I remember that he always talked like everyone else was half deaf. I step out of line and move up as quickly as I can trying to stay behind taller men. There’s a family of five right behind Sarah and O’whatever that must all be at least six foot. All blondes. Dad, mom, three teenage kids. Gotta be Swedes. I’ve got to be at least seven or eight feet away from Sarah and the other First. I can’t see them on the other side of the Swedes but sure as shit I can hear O’fuckface loud and clear. I don’t hear Sarah at all. I lean in a bit and the tall blonde teenage girl looks back at me. I put my finger to my lips and make the universal sign for keep your goddamn brat-mouth shut. She pulls out her phone and takes my picture. Goddamnit.
-What’s in St Louis then?
O’shithead is talking loudly. Short pause.
-I don’t know any First lawyers.
Fucker! He’s drunk. Whatever she then says makes him laugh his ass off.
-Here, put in your number. I’ll let you know if I can make it to St Louis.
Just then they must have gotten waved inside and I see both of them from behind walking through the wooden entrance door. Then the Swedes get waved in and the girl that took my picture says something to the man at the door and he shakes his head at me. There’s a cop on the other side of the door who is now looking at me, one hand on his automatic rifle and the other resting on his shoulder radio. I walk back to my spot but then notice a group coming out of a matching wooden door fifty feet away under the South Tower. I sprint over, duck inside, and say to the woman standing watch inside, Oops, forgot grandma. She says something but I disappear into the crowd.
It’s dark inside and I bump into a few people while my eyes adjust. Then I step into a beam of light coming from high above me, dust swirling around slowly and when I step back into the darkness I’m temporarily blinded again. I keep my head down and move forward and say pardon, pardon, pardon.
Sarah and O’idiot should still be on the other side, near the entrance, probably standing around looking at something old and dusty. I move around and sometimes right through groups of tourists but I don’t see either one of them. I do notice there’s actually some cool-looking shit in here on the far edges of the cathedral, lots of statues and artifacts, but there’s no time to enjoy it. I keep moving forward. Somehow they must have gotten ahead of the crowd. I don’t see them, hear their buzz, or hear O’retar- ah, it’s O’Reilly. Jimmy O’Reilly. Yeah, I remember now. I hated that guy. I don’t hear O’Reilly’s loud, drunken voice. I keep moving forward and eventually come to the stairs leading up into the tower. Could they already be up there? I don’t see how. Fuck. I tried. I might as well go up, see the view and head back to the airport. Whatever’s done is done. The History Keepers know about Sarah and now this fuckface O’Reilly knows about her. Once he’s sober, and back in New York, he’ll tell whoever will listen. Maybe everyone he knows will assume he was drunk off his ass and made it all up. Or maybe word will get to Kingsley who will try to get to Sarah the minute we land back in St Louis. Then I’ll just have rip his head from his body. Kingsley and anyone else that comes for her. I’ve earned that right as much as anyone.
The line up the stairs moves slower than I hoped, but once I’m up top and outside, I let out an involuntary ahhh along with everyone around me. The view looking over the city is impressive, even if you’re seeing it from the caged-in walkway. The city is huge. But even though it’s old by European standards, it’s mostly new to me. There are lots of gargoyles on the towers, which are cool, and way out over the rooftops there’s the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe farther out and to the right. A knock off of a better arch in Rome. Still, you gotta admire Napoleon's chutzpah to build a huge 150 something foot tall fuck you to the Holy Roman Empire. There’s the Louvre, I’m not impressed, and I guess some huge, ugly government buildings. Lots of old cathedrals, but none ol
d enough for me to recognize. I think that’s the Sorbonne right down here on the left, just over the Seine. I spent a lot of lazy days there, reading and arguing with students and teachers, none of whom I can now remember. I stand here for a few minutes looking out over a city that I once called home. But I left and it appears to have done fine without me. No surprise there. Still, imagine if I was here when Hitler rolled in. Huh. We’re ushered back into the other tower by a guide and down the steps we go, tourists in front and back of me excited by the sights of the city. I get to the bottom and step aside and do one more long look around for Sarah. If she’s in here, I can’t see or hear her.
Outside it’s much warmer at ground level and it feels good. I walk a block toward the Eiffel Tower and catch a taxi waiting in traffic. The driver looks upset that I jumped in and a little pissed off when I tell him to take me to the airport but I tell him, that’s life brother. I don’t know if he speaks English but he seems to understand.
Back at the airport I get through security and jump on a tram to the right concourse and head toward my gate. I stop in a snack shop on the way and buy two cold ham sandwiches and two Sprites. And then I grab a travel magazine. I’d give a year of my life for a cold Mountain Dew right now. I pass the bar with the Algerian fucktard and let out a whistle like I’m calling a dog. His head snaps around and I flip him off without slowing down. He holds up his phone. Shit.
I grab a seat at the gate and start peeling back the cellophane on a sandwich when I hear a buzz and see Sarah walking up. She sits down and asks where I got the sandwich. I pull out the second one without a word and hand it over, along with the Sprite.
-What a gentleman.
-Yeah. I’m full of surprises.
-Yes you are.
We eat our sandwiches and I tell her about the bartender. She tells me she was walking down the concourse and heard a whistle and saw a hand come up out of the crowd ahead of her and flip the bird toward the bar. I brag to her that was me. She puts down her food and drink, jumps up and runs down the concourse. Thirty seconds later I hear a pretty damn impressive wolf whistle and then see her run back. She’s laughing her ass off and I join in.
-Whoa, you didn’t get too close to him, did you?
-I’m not an idiot. I know how the buzz works.
-Ok. Ha! I wish I could have seen his expression when you flipped him off!
-I gave him the double bird with a pop!
And then she shows me what that means but without the bird flip at the end, I guess to keep from offending the half dozen people staring at her in the seats around us.
Oh shit, I say through more laughing.
-Is that a Texas thing?
-No. I think it’s a black thing.
-Fucking A.
The flight to Detroit is probably three-fourths full and Sarah again takes the window seat. But when we pull away from the gate and no one has taken the aisle seat in our row, Sarah asks to trade. I sit down next to the window and she takes the middle seat until we’re up in the air and the fasten your belt sign goes off and then she puts up the arm rest and lies on her side across both seats with her feet against my thigh. I put the thin blanket over her but she pulls it off without opening her eyes. What am I not understanding about her? Granted, I tried to bash her skull in, but she got over that damn quick. And she was friendly, then she was a bit more than friendly, then an old man shot her but I saved her, then she’s distant, then she runs around Paris and laughs it up with another First but doesn’t mention a word of it to me, but she’s friendly again and now I think she’s faking sleep to keep from talking to me. Was my Sarah in New York this complicated? Or is this a new thing? Has the world moved past me in the last hundred years, like it did for six thousand years in that fucking cave? Or maybe it’s just women. Women who have recently learned that the man they’re traveling with around the world has more than earned the nickname Eater of Hearts. Though I prefer Devourer of Hearts.
I hit my attendant button, order a beer, and settle into my travel magazine. Turns out the beaches in Fernando de Noronha, Brazil, are some of the best in the world. Huh. After I finish the magazine, I turn on a movie on the screen on the back of the seat in front of me and somewhere around the time that everyone, including the dinosaurs, are trying to escape the island because of an erupting volcano, I drift off to sleep.
I wake from a dream of standing at the bottom of a weak beam of light, bats flying in and out the pale yellow originating far above me, the only sounds the soft chant of an organa dupla. Benedicamus Domino. Deo gratias. And above it all, drifting like a feather in the breeze, an ancient lullaby. That was a dream formed from a memory. Three memories.
Sarah is sitting upright now, belted in, and reading the travel magazine. She sees me and smiles.
-You were humming.
-Was it the Rolling Stones?
-Who?
-Sympathy for the Devil.
I hum it but only remember the line with the words Jesus Christ and pain. I purse my lips together in my best Jagger impression.
-You’re retarded. But did you actually know Jesus?
I shrug and say who?
She rolls her eyes and holds up the magazine with the ear-marked page of best beaches in the world.
-Thinking of taking a vacation?
-Maybe. Or maybe something more permanent.
-When? ‘Cause I think I might still need protecting. You might have to take-
-Hey, can we talk about what happened back there? Paris. And with the History Keepers?
She looks at me and just then the overhead speaker announces that we’re beginning our descent into Detroit.
-I’d like to, yeah. First thing when we get back home?
-Ok. Back home.
She goes back to the magazine and I close my eyes. Organa dupla. I doubt that I’ve had that term enter my mind in 700 years. And yet, here it is. I would listen to the monks at La Sainte-Chapelle sing at all hours of the day. I think I first went there just to see the new stained glass. But I came back for the chanting. And then a portion of Notre Dame was finished and the monks started chanting there as well. I enjoyed the sounds made by the monks’ voices, there was nothing else like it in the world. So soothing. I can barely remember music before I heard those monks. But I had to block out the actual words. They were the words that a First might hear chanted by a priest before being set on fire. Christianity was spreading across Europe by fire and sword and torture. Maybe I was lucky. I was set on fire by simple iron age polytheistic villagers who took nearly a hundred years to fear me. A few millennia later, naive Firsts who survived First Death during the spread of Christianity and then later Islam were often swarmed by the strongest men within a day’s ride, chained to stakes, burned, skinned, and quartered. But by then I knew where to hide, when to move on, and how to make myself invaluable to kings, queens, shahs, emperors and popes, none of whom cared if I was Satan himself, as long as I kept them alive or killed their enemies. Usually both.
It was a simpler time.
15 - A Boy Named Idiot
We touch down in Detroit, a little too bumpy for some passengers, and eventually pull up to the terminal. Inside the airport, we have 45 minutes until our flight for St Louis starts boarding and we head to our gate and stop off at the restrooms and then a snack shop on the way. We both slept through the onboard meal and we’re starving. I grab another ham sandwich and some Combos and Sarah gets a chicken wrap. We both get a Sprite.
I look at the cashier while pulling out my credit card.
-Why is it I’m in America, the greatest country in the world, or at least a hell of a lot nicer than Syria, and I can’t buy a Mountain Dew? Why is that?
She looks at me, looks at Sarah, back at me.
-Eleven fifty-nine.
On the plane, Sarah takes the window seat and spends the entire flight with her face resting against the glass. By time I figure out how I need to approach the Paris and History Keepers discussion with her, we’re descending back
into St Louis. Home. If I leave now for the beaches of Brazil, would I return in 700 years like I did with Paris? And if I did, would riding up to the top of the Gateway Arch bring back memories of swigging pitchers of beer with Maurice in the 1950s at the Cosmopolitan Club across the river in East St Louis, Chuck Berry up on stage leading the house band between sets of more established groups? I should be so lucky.
On the ground in St Louis, we walk the length of the concourse with feet dragging. I don’t know what day of the week it is. We pass through the security exit and turn left to take the escalator down to the exit when Sarah elbows me and nods her head to a driver holding up a big sign. Sonny & Cher. Other passengers are looking at the sign and then around the airport, I guess unaware that Sonny Bono died more than 20 years ago. I look at the driver and as tired as I am I still recognize his face. It’s that chubby-ass guy that’s been following me. He’s got a goofy smile on his face but I can sense his nerves from thirty feet away. I grab Sarah’s hand and head for the guy, keeping myself between him and Sarah.
Sarah squeezes my hand and a second later I hear it. The guy is a First. And then his eyes go wide as he picks up two buzzes. But his smile gets bigger and he tucks the sign under his arm and reaches his hand out to shake mine. I ignore it.
-John?
I don’t answer.
-Mr Smith? I know you’re John Smith.
His hand is hanging out there like he’s forgotten about it.
-Look, I’m sure you have some questions. And I’m happy to explain. Let’s grab something to-
I grab his hand and squeeze. The smile disappears and he tries to pull his hand away. So I squeeze harder. He’s wincing and one knee suddenly buckles a bit.