The Count of the Sahara (3 page)

The Count soldiered on, though. “Believe it or not, the tires were in contact with the ground the whole time. Perhaps the first of our moving pictures will give you a better idea.” He locked eyes with the flustered assistant, and jerked his head to the film projector.

“Join me as we set off on our journey into the deepest Sahara.” Like I feared he would, the assistant cranked the handle much too hard and the first few frames ran through too quickly. Everyone looked like they were running around with their heads on fire.

Before getting struck by another lightning bolt from the stage, he rewound it and ran the film again, slower. Those hand-cranked projectors are the devil’s own time, but once you have the rhythm it’s not so bad. It just takes practice, and it was obvious Red didn’t have much of that.

Onscreen, a gang of folks, some native others—obviously local muckamucks—gathered around the trucks. I recognized the Count, smiling and waving. An older man shook his hand then a woman, obviously Madame Big Shot, kissed the Count on each cheek. He gallantly kissed her hand, just like in the movies, pleasing her no end and really ticking off the old guy.

In the background, the natives did what natives always do on film; they jumped around, cheered the white men and fired their guns in the air. The trucks rolled off-screen amid puffs of white smoke. Then the screen burst into bright, blinding white as the film broke and College Boy was left turning the crank uselessly.

I was already out of the seat before Bob could moan, “Oh come on”. It was none of my business, but it was going to be a long night if someone who knew what they were doing didn’t step in. Plus I felt bad for the poor sucker. I heard Bob ask, “Willy, where you going?” but I was already on my way.

The Count continued speaking as I crouched next to the projection table. The redhead’s panicky eyes silently asked who the hell I was and what I was doing there. “Relax. I’m just going to help. You have to keep the tension even on the film, or it’ll b-b-b-unch up and b-break on you.” I may as well have spoken Swahili from the blank stare I got.

“Get the next one loaded and I’ll show you.”

“Can you do it for me?” This guy was a pip. I just held up my bandaged right hand in response.

“Right, okay,” he said. He took the old reel off and set it on the table next to the empty canister. This guy was completely Amateur Night. I snatched the reel with my left hand and must have been a little noisy, because the Count shot us a dirty look from the stage, and I heard a distinct “Shush” from behind us. My cheeks burned red. Jeez, I was just trying to help.

You always put the old reel in the tin right away, otherwise it can unspool on you. At best you’ll have to go back and do it all later, and there was no way to do that with these reels unmarked. How the heck were you supposed to know what went where? This setup was totally bush league.

The Voice of God commanded another movie and my apprentice cranked the wheel like he was starting a car—sure to snap it again. I pushed him out of the way and, without thinking, grabbed it with my injured right hand. The burns had healed enough it didn’t hurt too badly. Good thing it didn’t take too much force to crank one of those old machines, just the right touch.

I hissed at him. “Keep the rhythm smooth, so the tension’s tight. What’s next?” He squinted at the sheet of foolscap in front of him.

“More slides,” he said as if it was a death sentence.

“Start flipping them over. They have to go in upside d-d-d-own. Whoever did this last didn’t do it.”

“It wasn’t me...” Jesus, this guy.

“Doesn’t m-m-matter. It’ll be you who gets his ass chewed out. I’ll handle the projector, you just get the lantern right.”

He set to work with agonizing slowness, flipping over each slide and putting it back in the carriage. He only had a couple done when the film I was showing ended with the flip-flip-flip of the film. The Count droned on, but I paid him no attention. Fortunately, he didn’t seem to notice me either.

Even with one good paw, it wasn’t much of a chore to flip the release, pull off the reel, drop it in the can, and grab the next one so it was ready to go. Old Man Mayer would be none too happy with the timing, but it was good enough for this glorified tent show. Plus, I was doing it one-handed, and my left at that. It wasn’t too shabby, if I really thought about it.

“And now, we find ourselves on the rim of the civilized world. Imagine being at the edge of a sea made entirely of sand, with not a tree, rock or landmark for miles. This was the fearsome Sahara, our home for the next five weeks.” A purposeful stare and a rap of his walking stick said this was Red’s cue.

We held our breath until the picture appeared right side up and an ironic “hooray” arose from the college pukes. The kid beside me let out a shaky sigh of relief while I settled to my knees on the other side of the table. I was there for the evening, apparently. Being a big guy for nineteen, I was plenty used to people whining, “down in front”. It wasn’t my fault or anything, but I always felt bad when I blocked someone’s view.

My father told me often enough I was good for nothing, but it wasn’t completely true; I knew how to do this. As the Count’s stick went “rap rap rap” on the wooden stage, my hand went round and round. In the background, I heard people whispering excitedly, just like at the Odeon back home. And just like when the pictures ran, I was so busy tending to the job I didn’t see or hear much. I just cranked away, mindful of the speed people crossed the screen to make sure it was as natural as possible, but not much caring what they were doing up there.

“Hey, pssst, hey.” My assistant was so wrapped up in the lecture I had to push him to get his attention. “Get two spare bulbs ready.”

“Why? These are fine.” Yes they were, but who knew for how long. It was a sure thing they’d burn out at the worst possible time. He meekly slipped away and came back with the bulbs, handing them over. I placed them between the projectors within easy reach.

“Thanks.” I nodded to the box of slides. “Those done?” He gave me the “oops” face and went back to work. Then he stopped again and held his hand out.

“I’m Reggie.” The pest was persistent, you had to give him that.

“Willy.” Maybe that would shut him up. There was a show on, and a good projectionist never put himself above the show. The audience hated that, and it was more than your job was worth to have them complain. I could hear Meyer’s voice, “vat if dey never come back?”

Somehow we made it through the next hour. Like I knew it would, the bulb went out in the Campbell first with a loud “pop” and a small cloud of smoke. With all that practice under my belt, I got it done before anyone could even yell “lights.” It wasn’t that tough if you knew what you were doing. The problem was most people, like Reggie the College Boy, didn’t have clue one.

It also helped if you didn’t mind getting the tips of your fingers scorched a bit. The bulbs were less dangerous than the commercial projectors in the movie houses, but being smaller, they burned out more often and took a finer touch to replace. Especially left handed.

I have no idea what the Count talked about that night. I was too busy watching the sheet for cues and nudging Reggie to pay attention, sometimes a little too forcefully, but hey it was his job, not mine. He should be paying attention.

It was easy to get caught up, though. I learned that the hard way my first few days working at the Odeon back home. At first, I’d be so busy watching Fairbanks, or Garbo, or Theda Bara, or pretty much any of the comics, that I’d start cranking too fast or miss a reel change. Then I learned to block it all out. In fact, someone would ask me what a picture was like, and I couldn’t really tell them despite having shown it four times that day. Sometimes I’d stay late, just so I could actually watch the darned thing.

I paid just enough attention to hit my cues. That certainly wasn’t the case with the rest of the audience. When I could look around, I saw Bob on the edge of his seat, uncynically hanging on every word. The Lovely Miss Thompson was in raptures by the door, and as were the rest of Grinnell’s hoi polloi. They held their breath before releasing it in gasps, or chuckles, or whatever other response the speaker demanded of them. My experience with college lectures was exactly zero, but I could tell this guy knew his stuff.

“And in conclusion…” That snapped me back, because the first rule of surviving any speech is to hear when it’s about to end. That way you’re not caught napping, and if you have to, you have at least one thing you can repeat if really pressed.

A dramatic final meeting of the cane and stage floor sent Reggie into spasmic action. The last slide appeared, upside right and focused. It was a headline from the New York Times, 6th December, 1925: “De Prorok Expedition Arrives in Paris, Treasure in Tow.”

With just the right balance of humility and bragging, the Count finished up. “Our mission ended in Paris, with Queen Tin Hinan and her treasure ready to return home to the Sands of Africa, and yours truly headed home to America to share this adventure with you fine people, and prepare for our next adventure, wherever it leads us.”

He nodded to the schmo in the back who darkened the stage just long enough for the audience to erupt into applause and leap to their feet. To be fair, some leapt, most kind of creaked to their feet after sitting for an hour and a half on hard wooden chairs in heavy winter coats and sweaters.

The house lights came up, and the Count stood there for ten seconds. I know it was ten because I caught him counting, his lips barely moving before he raised that voice again. “Ladies and Gentlemen, if you’d like to take the opportunity to take a look at some of these relics up close, please approach the stage in an orderly fashion, and you may examine them for yourselves. Step right up please.”

“Oh, crap. I have to take care of those exhibits,” Reggie squeaked and off he went. I saw Bob over to the side, holding our coats and tapping his foot. Probably had some frat boy party I was keeping him from attending.

I stood up, letting the blood flow back into my legs when I felt, more than heard, someone beside me. “Young man, thank you very much.” I looked up and there was the Count himself, for Pete’s sake.

He was sweating profusely and his makeup—Christ, he was wearing makeup—was streaked and puddled along the back of his collar and his eyes were all raccoon-looking. Even though he called me “young man,” he couldn’t have been much over thirty. He had the voice and confidence of an Old Testament prophet, but wasn’t actually much older than I am. Maybe ten years on me at most.

He smiled a rich guy’s smile at me, the kind of smile I imagine you’d give the servants when they don’t really have a choice but are being benevolent. He stuck his hand out. “Byron de Prorok. Nice to meet you.”

“Willy. Uh, sir.” Of course, it was really Wilhelm, but only my father still called me that, so Willy it was. I turned to leave, but he wasn’t going to let me off that easily.

“Willy?” the Count asked. “Just Willy?”

Oh, shit. Here it was. Willy B-b-b-braun.” My own name once again betraying me. Without thinking, I stuck my bandaged right hand into his.

“Brown?” he asked and I nodded. Technically speaking, it was Braun. It was spelled German, but I always pronounced it American.

“Well, Willy Brown, you saved me tonight. Thank you.” He gave my hand a quick squeeze, then pulled back suddenly, and let out a braying laugh. “God, even one handed you were more help than that other idiot. You really saved me tonight; I’m in your debt.”

My hand throbbed a bit, but not too badly as I pulled it back. A stupid shrug was all the eloquence I could muster. “It was nothing.”

“It was hardly nothing. I hate those blasted things. I’d do without them if I could, but of course the audience loves the movies and the pictures.” With a wink, he slipped me a bill. My eyes nearly popped out of my head when I saw it was a fiver.

“That’s too m-m-m-uch. Really. I didn’t do anything…”

“Jeez Willy, Don’t be an idiot.” Bob, tired of waiting, had snuck up on me. De Prorok grinned.

“That seems to be the majority opinion, so you’re outvoted. Take it. Are you a student here?”

I was trying to figure out a polite reply to such a silly question, when Bob jumped in. “Nah, he’s visiting from Wisconsin. He’s my cousin. I’m Bob.” He stuck his hand out. “Bob Muller.” He deliberately pronounced it Muller, like mulling something over. Not a hint of an umlaut or the Old Country on that side of the family. “I’m a student here. He’s just visiting for the night.”

“A lucky man. What are you studying, Bob?”

“Business. I don’t usually go for all this history jazz. Not much percentage in it, you know?”

The Count smiled. “Indeed I do. Very practical of you.”

Bob took the compliment at face value. There were a lot of differences between Bob and I, and the ability to shut up was at the top of a long list. He just kept yakking. “Of course, what you do makes it interesting. I wish you were my professor.”

“Oh no you don’t, believe me.” With a laugh de Prorok turned his back dismissively. “Mr. Brown, could you help me pack all this up? I suspect we’ve seen the last of your predecessor for today.”

Bob was neither getting paid nor paid attention to, and was getting antsy like he always did when ignored. “Come on Willy. We have to get out of here.”

“You go. I’ll catch up as soon as I’m done.”