The Count of the Sahara (19 page)

As the shaman sang, danced and screamed the story the
Kel Essuf
wished to share, Byron, Chapuis and Caid Belaid compared notes, discussing in hushed tones what was relevant and what wasn’t. By the time the performance ended in wild applause, drumbeats and open weeping, Chapuis was satisfied he knew their destination.

“I know the place. It’s not that big a surprise, pretty much where we thought it was. The thing is, there’s more than one tomb up there. We have to find the right one. I have people up there who can get us what we need.”

Byron nodded. “Good, I’m losing my bloody mind here. Belaid, thank your wife for us, please.”

The Caid gritted his teeth and smiled. If he expressed his gratitude to her much more, there’d be nothing left of him.

“Alright, gentlemen. We’ll leave in three days.”

February 18, 1926

Brooklyn, New York

Byron,

I hope you’re well and staying warm. I know the audiences are eating you up. How’s that new boy working out? I hope he’s better with all that equipment than you are. Ha ha.

I wish things were going well here, but to be honest, they’re not. My family is being quite awful lately. Not with the girls and I, they are being very sweet as usual, but about you. Some of it is left over from Algeria—mostly about the money, which is more than I thought it was, but also the lawyers are involved, and you know how they are. Daddy says this is your last chance to come clean about anything you might have or know. Do you know what he’s talking about? I told him you didn’t even bring the girls souvenirs from your trip, let alone gold or jewelry but he’s being a grumpy old bear about it all. Mary, of course, is on his side as usual.

Also, someone from the Brooklyn Eagle called, and you know how nice they’ve always been to us. This reporter woman was so rude! They are trying to twist everything so you look like a big faker and I set her straight, but I don’t think we’ll be in the society pages in the Eagle for a while.

Since you’ve added another week or two onto your tour, I’m thinking it might make sense to take the girls back to Paris sooner than we planned. Annie is furious, of course, but really I can’t stay and listen to people say such horrible things, especially when they’re not true.

Byron, I feel so alone and scared sometimes, I need you to tell me that what they’re saying is all lies and we are going to be alright. You know that I will always stick by you, but I need to hear your side of the story.

Since I’m going to be traveling, I need to ask you for more cash. I don’t dare ask Daddy or Mother. Will you wire that directly, or should I contact Lee Keedick?

Please write soon, Darling. The girls send their love.

Love,

A

Chapter 13

Milwaukee, Wisconsin

February 20, 1926

The sword hit the floor with a ringing clang that echoed around the cellar workshop. I picked it up with a few choice words, loud enough to feel better, but not so loud Mama would hear me. I didn’t really want to get chewed out this morning.

The Count’s train arrived in less than four hours, and I wasn’t done yet. Painting and polishing the tin took days longer than expected, and now the blade had a big nick out of it. I wanted it to be as perfect as possible, and was making my usual hash of things.

I gripped it in two hands, feeling the leather grip solid in my palm. It made a satisfying “swoosh” as it sliced the air. On stage, the lights would bounce off it, impressing the bejeebers out of the audience. While the Count rattled on about “fierce Tuaregs,” and “bloody duels of honor,” this would look more like the real thing, and less like a cheap prop.

Out of the blue, something odd occurred to me. If it was real, the sword would have been used for gutting missionaries and beheading intruders. It would hardly be in pristine condition. Remembering my boss’s motto—a good story beats the hell out of reality any time—I grabbed a ball peen hammer and gave it a couple of more whacks, knocking another small notch out of the blade and dimpling the metal. Now it looked like it had seen a lot of Arab neck bones and missionary spleens.

Amazingly, the little glass chips along the “T” of the hilt hung on. I was afraid they wouldn’t—gluing glass is notoriously tricky and I sure didn’t have a jeweler’s delicate fingers—but all five of them held in place, glinting white, green and blue.

I wrapped the sword in an oily rag and carefully placed it in a brown cloth drawstring sack, along with assorted bits of copper wire, colored glass and pieces of tin and other scraps I’d managed to scrounge over the last couple of weeks. I didn’t know if I’d need them, but it wouldn’t hurt. God knows I wouldn’t be traveling with much else. But I would be traveling. Out of Milwaukee for good.

More importantly, I’d be out of this house. Away from my father, away from everything that smelled like cabbage, and cheap pipe smoke, and fried sausage fat. Even mama’s hugs smelled of
sauerbraten
. The very German-ness of it all threatened to suffocate me.

Rather than the clean, bright colors the rest of America favored, and folks like my Aunt and Uncle eagerly adopted, I was completely surrounded by heavy curtains, carved dark wood and ever-present reminders of a Bavarian existence I never knew. Decorated porcelain plates with “
Gott Segne Unsere Heimat
,” in heavy Gothic letters, embroidered tea towels with stags and fir trees, and little figurines of milkmaids and hunters covered every flat surface. Like most of my friends, also the children of immigrants, our home was packed with yearning souvenirs of countries our folks had been all too eager to flee.

But after a few weeks of being able to breathe, I was back, however briefly. And paying for the privilege. I’d barely put my bags down and managed to squirm out of my mother’s embrace when he started in.

“Sho, you’re back. Didn’t find a job in the Promised Land?” He looked over his glasses at me, but didn’t bother getting out of his chair.

“Only for a couple of weeks. Then I’ve got a full-time job, Papa.” Mama smiled dotingly, and was about to ask for all the glorious details, but she never got a chance.

“Until then?” Gerhardt Braun never let a potential silver lining spoil a big, black cloud. “You’re going to live here for free?” That had been my plan, truth be told, but now he was making a big deal out of it. I was too exhausted to fight. The bus had gone Cedar Rapids-Dubuque-Fort Dodge-Madison-Milwaukee, stopping at every wide spot on the road along the way. I needed a bed, a sandwich, and some motherly head-stroking.

“How much?” I pulled out the eight dollars I had left to me, which fortunately was in large-sized notes, instead of coins and looked more impressive.

“A dollar and a half a week,” his chin jutted out, daring me to take a swing at it.

“Oh, Papa,” my mother moaned.

“Okay, fine.” I peeled off three bills and thought about throwing it in his face, but instead handed it pointedly to my mother while looking at him. At least she’d get to see the money, and he’d have to ask her for it before drinking it away. “But I get to use the workshop.”

“What for?”

“Work.” I knew he couldn’t really argue that one.

I knew I’d miss those three dollars, and if the Count was late, which his last letter indicated he might be, it would cost me a buck and a half more, but short time work wouldn’t really be a problem. One thing about the Old Man’s employment record, he knew every foreman and straw boss at every factory in Milwaukee, and most of them knew me by association. I could pick up a day’s sweeping here, or filling in on a loading dock there, enough to save a little. They all respected the Old Man as a hard worker, and knew the apple wouldn’t fall far from the tree. They’d take a chance on me, even if they couldn’t hire my father, who was known far and wide as “The Crazy Kraut.”

It wasn’t his being German, specifically, or even his drinking that bothered them, although booze usually factored into the inevitable dismissal. It was his politics. Gerhardt Braun was a committed Wobblie, and while he took pride in his work, that same pride sooner or later resulted in a challenge—often of a physical nature—to an authority figure. That resulted in yet another job in yet another factory and another extorted promise to “just keep his head down and do the work.” It didn’t all make much sense to me when I was younger, but then a lot about him didn’t make much sense.

Like how the other fathers Americanized their names. What was the harm in that? Slava Boycic was, “Sam,” and Giuseppe Iaccobucci, Maria’s father, was “Joe.” Yet Gerhardt steadfastly refused to become a Gerald, or better yet, a Jerry. It only dawned on me after the War that being a German named Jerry might not exactly be an asset when seeking employment. He grudgingly allowed me to morph from Wilhelm to the more palatable Willy, although he couldn’t understand why a real man would deliberately give himself a baby’s name. Wilhelm was a perfectly good working man’s name. I had been named for his father, after all, not the
Gottverdammter
Kaiser.

So I job hopped and tramped my way through the next two and a half weeks. There was another, completely unexpected advantage to my working so many jobs. I was able to scrounge scrap tin from Mallory’s Cannery, blobs of colored glass scraped off the cement floor at Wisconsin Glassworks, and thin copper wire which soon became sword blades, beads from Tin Hinan’s tomb, and devices to secure Tuareg veils behind big Kraut ears.

Everything was fine until the Count’s letter arrived a week ago, telling me the schedule had changed and he wouldn’t be in the Midwest again until his arrival on the twentieth. That meant another buck and a half, but the worst part was explaining my late departure.

Mama smelled my disappointment, but couldn’t hide her happiness at my being around a few more days. Explaining my presence meant telling the Old Man exactly what I was doing. That went about as well as I expected it to.

“Vass is dis ‘projection technician’? You’re an engineer all of a sudden? You vent to college in Cedar Rapids?”

“N-n-no, but you see the Count, de Prorok, he does these… scientific lectures…”

He almost pissed himself at the idea of me and science in the same sentence.

“Imagine,” he clucked, “My Villy working with a Count. Such a big shot.”

“Count? What kind of Count?” he demanded. To him, rich people were a problem. European rich people were worse, and aristocrats the source of all evil in the world. In his drunken moments, he admitted his biggest gripe about the Great War was it had crippled the nobility, but ended before finishing the job.

“So you’re just going to travel around doing this big shot’s dirty work? Are you going to wipe his royal arse for him too?”

“Gerhardt, please…” Mama knew better than to get between two butting rams, but maternal instinct is a tough thing to ignore. I stepped between them, pulling myself to my full height. She sighed and moved to the neutral territory of the kitchen, where she pretended to dry dishes but could still hear everything.

“Yes, a Count… well, he’s really an American, but… the p-p-p-oint is, he wants me to go with him as he travels around. For two weeks at first, but then it’ll be p-p-permanen-n-nt.”

He knew better than to believe in the idea of a permanent job. The idea of me with such a beast was beyond his comprehension. “You won’t last t-t-t-two weeks.” He deliberately spit out the “t”s as he often did when reminding me of my many limitations. “People like that don’t hire people like you out of the goodness of their hearts. They use you while they need you and then kick you to the curb. Then you’ll come crawling back to your mama to take care of you. Scheisse,” he shook his head.

I accepted my mother’s weak hug from behind as I sat there, flushed and sweating, determined not to give him the last word, but of course he got it.

Now I stood hours from my escape. Today the Count arrived, and I had to get him and his gear to the Pfister. He was speaking on Monday, then things really kicked off. First to Chicago, then on to Rockford, Madison, and Beloit. After that was probably St. Louis, but then New York, Philadelphia, and dear Jesus anywhere other than Milwaukee. I wouldn’t come back with my tail between my legs. I couldn’t.

“Brown!” a familiar voice slashed through the crowd at the Lake Front Depot. The gleaming silver tip of his walking stick waved over the heads of people disembarking the Hiawatha from Chicago. The multitude parted as the Count strode towards me, hand extended. He gave my arm a squeeze and almost pulverized my hand with the greeting.

“So good to see you my friend.” He looked around with a conspiratorial smile. “Seems remarkably civilized for a… what did you call it? Frozen shit hole?”

“Well, it’s no D-d-des Moines.” I smiled.

He threw back his head and launched a laugh over the heads of the crowd. “Touché, but what is, Brown? What is?”

I managed to find us a taxi and a driver willing to lash the larger cases to his trunk and take a short fare. The Pfister was only five blocks away in Saturday traffic, and the extra dollar tip was sufficient inducement to defy the laws of gravity and risk running afoul of Milwaukee’s finest.

On the way, de Prorok babbled on about his travels, and how good it was to see me again, and how he hadn’t been able to find anyone to fill my rather large shoes (not to mention the Tuareg costume), and damn did it never get warm here, and he still hoped Alice would reconsider and join him, and did he mention I looked well?

We pulled up the front of the Pfister hotel, but a uniformed doorman waved us away before the cab even came to a complete stop. “Gotta bring those bags around back, can’t bring them through here.”

I was going to argue with him, but I felt a less than subtle grip on my arm. “Of course, which entrance? I’m sorry, your name is…”

“Percy, sir. Sorry, rules, you know.”

“Of course, Percy. My man will bring them around. Where would you like them?”

As Percy tipped his cap and gave directions to the freight entrance off Mason Street, I said nothing and pouted. Apparently I was just “his man.” Percy had a name, I didn’t. Three minutes later, I was banging on the back fire door of the Hotel Pfister, surrounded by gear and luggage.

The door opened up, and a Negro porter came out, slapping his arms for warmth. He gave me a silent but friendly enough nod. “This all?”

“Yeah,” I answered. “They wouldn’t let me come through the front.”

“Know how ya feel. Let’s get this inside.” We each grabbed an end of the biggest trunk, and in three trips. “Close this door, tight. Sometimes it don’t close right. I’ll go get us a cart and get it upstairs for ya.”

“Thanks.” I was going to ask his name, but he was already around the corner and gone. I turned back to the door, gripped the handle and prepared to pull it shut, when it flew out of my hand and burst open.

Standing in the doorway was a pig-eyed, red faced, stocky guy in a brown coat, hat and scarf. “Hi kid. Figured it was time we finally had us a little talk.”

I looked around frantically for either an escape route or some assistance, but saw neither. The guy took a step inside, and pulled the door solidly shut behind him. “Relax, I just want to talk for a minute.”

I held my breath as he reached into his coat, but all he pulled out was a business card, and held it out to me with two fingers. I took the card and studied it. His name was printed on it,
Joseph Havlicek, Investigator,
but what really got me was the big black eye staring up at me. This guy was a Pinkerton.

Most people would be relieved to know he wasn’t a real cop, but most people weren’t raised by radical socialists. The Pinkertons were just above the Bogeyman and just below the Rothschilds on the list of the world’s terrors. What had the Old Man done now?

“Thought we’d have a little chat about your boss.”

“The Count?”

He snorted. “Okay, the Count, de Prorok, whoever. What do you know about him?”

“Whaddya mean? He’s an archaeologist. He goes around giving lectures.” I didn’t know what this guy was looking for.