The Count of the Sahara (5 page)

“What’s that?” Alonzo pointed to an ancient heap of a car rattling towards them, geysers of dust shooting up in its wake. The car pulled up short and two disreputable looking Arabs immediately engaged Belaid in an animated mix of French, Arabic and wordless but explicit gestures.

Pond followed the babble as best he could. Apparently de Prorok arrived at the hotel safe and sound—of course he did—and sent this bunch with gasoline. Of course, they only expected one bunch of Kafir idiots to run out of gas. They weren’t sure they had enough for two groups.

“Are there any more of those idiots out there?” one of them asked, unaware or uncaring that the Americans might hear what was said.

“No, only two groups of morons. We’ll only need a splash of gas to get into town. You can take the rest to the others down the road,” Belaid told them. Pond thought he could have been a little more diplomatic about it all.

Without asking permission, Martini grabbed a can of gas from the back seat, made sure the funnel was clean and poured out a few glug-glugs of petrol into the tank. Then he added one final glug for good measure, splashed some on the carburetor, recapped the jug, and handed it back. With much thanks and salaaming from all involved, the drivers headed further north to rescue Chaix and Chapuis, and the unfortunate Hot Dog.

Five minutes later, Lucky Strike pulled in front of the Hotel Batna. What was left of the welcoming committee was still there, most of them squatting and smoking in what little shade the hotel’s awnings offered. The owner, a frighteningly skinny Pied-Noir with an equally thin moustache tried to rouse the staff to their feet and give an appropriate hero’s welcome to the brave—and obviously rich—travelers.

Pond watched, disgusted, as Barth directed the reluctant locals to stand and applaud the arrival. When he had them looking enough like a cheering mob, Reygasse emerged from the car straightening his hat as his medals jingled like wind chimes on his chest. The local headman greeted him with a kiss on each cheek and a hearty handshake, then the owner welcomed him to the grand vision that was the Hotel Batna.

Tyrrell and Pond crawled out of their vehicle on the street side, stretching their legs. They were immediately accosted by a frazzled porter, who gestured and shouted that he would do it all. “Leave it to Mahmoud, Sir…. I am Mahmoud.” He pointed to himself and bowed deeply, just to make sure there was no confusion on that point. He grabbed a crate of digging tools, promptly dropped them on the ground, then smiled apologetically, hoping his tip wasn’t in the balance.

A voice boomed from the doorway, “Ah, the prodigal sons arrive.” De Prorok stood in the doorway, arms spread in welcome and motioned them to come in out of the heat. His hair was perfectly groomed, and there wasn’t a speck of dust on him anywhere. Pond glared sullenly. Had he had time to bathe and change already, or did the son of a gun just not sweat like normal people? “Lonnie, let’s get you something cool to drink before you combust. Brad, this way…”

Inside the lobby, a combined reception, café, bar and luggage storage depot, ceiling fans clunked noisily overhead. Pond tilted his head up towards them. The breeze felt wonderful, even if the way they rattled in their brackets left their ability to stay up there very long in serious doubt.

Reygasse had regained some of his dignity, and grandly gestured for the Americans to meet his “very good friend,” and “this most honored gentleman,” and other prominent locals, none of whom had actual names, it seemed. Pond smiled and shook hands, muttering greetings in French. Tyrrell, who always seemed to make himself at home despite being unapologetically unilingual, managed to make “good to meetcha” a universal language.

Long after the others finally dragged themselves in, the Count held court in the middle of the room, his voice honking out stories, jokes and bonhomie in a bewildering mix of French, Arabic, English and pantomime to include every living thing in the hotel. His long-stemmed pipe was alternately a baton, a sword, and a perfectly plausible excuse to pause and bask in the appreciation of the locals.

Pond looked around and envied Hal Denny, who was dead asleep in a chair removed from the main salon. The Times reporter snored softly, his notebook dangling from his lap.

“You okay, Monsieur Pond?” Chapuis asked twice before he got a response.

“Mmm, yeah. Fine.”

The guide nodded. “It’ll be fine. I’ve worked with him before. In Carthage and other places. He’s a good man.”

“If you say so.” Pond regretting sounding so petulant, but it was getting late, and he wasn’t feeling particularly diplomatic.

After dinner, they retired for the night. Tyrrell and Pond shared a room with three narrow cots. The whitewashed mud brick walls were unadorned except a couple of iron hooks for clothes and a crude crucifix that had been hastily added once the owner was reassured the occupants weren’t Muslim.

The third cot was for Martini, when he finally showed up. The driver had ducked out the back as soon as dinner was over to inspect Lucky Strike. It showed a remarkable sense of duty, especially since it meant he’d get the cot furthest from the window and the fresh air.

The Americans moved their cots as close to the window as possible and pulled the mosquito netting into place. If the insects were blind enough, maybe they wouldn’t see the gaping holes along the seams and let them get some sleep. It would get cool at night, but the breeze might eliminate some of the smell, and most of the vermin. Sleeping in their clothes seemed a reasonable precaution as well.

After a few minutes of quietly sucking his pipe, Brad spoke up. “Okay, Pond. Out with it.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

The older man chuckled. “You say nothing louder than just about anyone I’ve ever met. Give.”

Pond leaned up on one arm. “Do you think Prorok knows what he’s doing?”

“He knows what he knows, that’s for sure. The College couldn’t get this trip off the ground before he got involved. We wouldn’t have gotten out of Constantine without him playing Madame Rouvier like a fiddle—and don’t think she’s done with him yet. We wouldn’t be driving these pretty new trucks, and we sure as heck wouldn’t have the New York Times tagging along. So, yeah. I think he has some idea of what he’s doing.”

Pond lay back, head behind his hands. ”But the gas…”

“Not his shining moment, I’ll grant you. You know this is his first command, right?”

“That’s no excuse,” the younger man said, fully aware of how petty he sounded, but past caring.

“Not an excuse, maybe, but a pretty good reason. He’s always had someone older or smarter to take care of the details, and he could just focus on the work and take the credit. Lots of guys are like that, especially salesmen…which is what he is, let’s face it. First thing I learned in business, Lonny: being good at your job doesn’t make you a good boss. I know plenty of bosses who wouldn’t know their ass from their elbow if they actually had to do the dirty work, but they get things done.”

Tyrrell lit his pipe, then added, “Being in charge looks awfully tempting and easy from the cheap seats. You’ll find out some day.”

That was the longest speech he’d ever heard Brad Tyrrell make and the young student lay there silently wondering why the older man wasn’t as angry about them running out of gas as he was. The Tyrrell money certainly wasn’t made tolerating stupidity.

Eventually Pond fell asleep imagining himself at the head of his own expedition; making world shaking discoveries while demonstrating perfect judgment and unfailing courage. Then he’d tour like the Count did, only his lectures would be accurate and profound, at a hundred bucks a pop. Brad said he’d find out some day, he sincerely hoped his friend knew what he was talking about. His last waking thought was,
I will sure have earned it.

Chapter 3

Cedar Rapids Iowa

January 22, 1926

When I stepped off the streetcar my eyeballs nearly froze solid, but it was January in Iowa, so what did I expect? The wind that had followed me up Third Avenue finally caught me full in the face as soon as I turned towards the Montrose. The blinding winter sun added to the discomfort, and it took a moment to stop blinking and focus. I was wearing my good clothes, so I didn’t dare button my coat. Sure, I was risking frost bite, but at least I looked good.

I dashed across the street and up to the front door of the hotel. First I was greeted by an unimpressed looking doorman who took his own sweet time opening up for me, then by a blast of stale, hot air. The Montrose did its best to keep its guests insulated from the deprivations of the great outdoors. And, I presumed, riffraff like me.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the lobby mirror. What looked back at me was presentable enough, if you didn’t count the bright red patches in my otherwise pasty German face. I straightened my bow tie, tugged my vest down, and remembered to pull my cap off my head and shove it in my pocket like Mama taught me I should do when going amongst my betters.

The desk clerk—a foreigner of some kind judging by the size of his schnozz and the grease holding his hair down—checked me out in a hurry.

“May I help you?” His tone suggested that was highly unlikely. I noticed he had an oversized white carnation in his lapel and perfectly manicured hands. It threw me off, I don’t think I’d ever seen such perfect fingernails on anyone, man or woman.

“Yes, Count de Prorok’s room please.” I hoped I sounded properly business-like. I waited as he processed the question, and whether or not he’d deign to comply.

“And your business with the Count?”

“I have an appointment at ten o’clock.”

“Just a moment.” He picked up the phone and asked for room 324. He appraised me from head to toe then back again as he waited, obviously displeased with his findings.

“Count de Prorok, this is Gerard at the front desk. There is a young man here to see you. I told him you were very busy but…” he flinched and covered the phone. “Your name sir?” He called me sir, although he’d probably rather choke to death on a fishbone.

“Mr. Willy Brown,” I said, wondering if he’d bite on it.

“It’s a Willy, Brown, sir.” Nope, he wasn’t going to give me the Mr. just an “a”, but I did get the room number and a begrudging, “The elevator is around the corner. Have a good day, sir.”

“Thanks, Pal.” I slapped the front desk and spun on my heel like Harold Lloyd. Elevators no less. Walking up three flights was nothing when you lived in our part of town, but when in Rome… I decided not to take the stairs.

The elevator operator in his black uniform and pillbox hat gave a polite nod. He didn’t have to ask where I was going, because I couldn’t wait to tell him like the big old rube I was.

“Third floor please. I have an appointment with Count de Prorok.” He seemed less impressed with that knowledge than I was, and pushed the button. The cage door slid shut with a clank, and he checked the clasp, stabbed the “3” and up we went. His eyes never left the door. For such a simple job, he sure gave it all he had.

I wondered about that job. Were people so bewildered by trusting themselves to push a button and navigate two floors without getting lost? Or were rich people just so used to having someone else do everything for them they’d never developed the skill? Either way, I couldn’t imagine ever being an elevator operator. It would be like driving the world’s shortest streetcar route.

We got to three and the door opened. “Thanks, don’t want to keep the Count waiting.”

All that got me was a monotone “Mmm hmm, haveagoodday” and the door clanked shut on me.

Amber lights in glass sconces lined the hall. The rug was softer and prettier than anything I’d ever walked on. Geometric patterns led away from the elevator and down either end of the corridor. I counted off, “Three eighteen, three twenty,” right up to three twenty-four. I tugged my vest down over my gut and knocked.

“Un moment,” boomed a familiar voice. The door flew open and there he stood. The same hair perfectly coiffed, the same wrinkle-free appearance. This time he wore a grey double breasted and a snow-white shirt with a school tie of some sort perfectly knotted. He grinned around the pipe in his teeth. He began to reach out to shake my hand, but caught himself and he clasped my shoulder in a friendly greeting.

“Good to see you, Brown. Right on time. Welcome to my home away from home.”

I gave the room a quick scan as I stepped inside. I’d never actually stayed in a hotel room, but I could tell this was probably a pretty swell specimen. The bed was already made, or at least the spread pulled back into place. The wardrobe door hung half open, with hangers full of perfectly pressed shirts, a pair of loafers placed dead center on the bottom shelf. Further left, the windows would have offered a panoramic view of the glory that was downtown Cedar Rapids, but the drapes were still drawn.

It had its own bathroom. Pretty swanky. I scoped out a shaving kit and toiletries perfectly arranged on the vanity. The mirror was still a little foggy, with big drops running down it. This is what the son of a gun looked like straight out of the shower, apparently. How did he do that?

Then I saw the pile of equipment in the corner. Partly hidden behind the chair, the projector lay on its side, the magic lantern up on end. The crate of relics and props lay ajar and the contents were simply thrown inside in a big jumble. An extension cord was just bunched up and left loose on the floor; an accident waiting to happen.

I resisted the urge to pick it up and rewind it immediately. I was worried it might annoy him. Plus I wasn’t on the clock yet. Never say I didn’t learn anything from the Old Man.

“May I offer you a glass of water? It’s all I’ve got at the moment. Well, not all, but it’s awfully early in the morning, and this
is
Iowa.”

“N-n-o sir, I’m good.” While I tried to strike a balance between speaking too quickly and letting my stutter get the best of me, or taking too much time and sounding like an idiot, I just rocked back and forth uncomfortably.

“Well, at least sit down.” He directed me to the overstuffed brocade armchair by the window while he plunked down on the edge of the bed in a perfectly casual way that I guess came from spending so much time in hotel rooms. Who conducts business from a bed?

He paused to light his pipe. “You can smoke if you’d like.”

“No sir, I’m good.” I never understood smoking, and once I started working around film at Old Man Mayer’s, I learned it was probably the worst habit you could develop.

The fire that left me unemployed started because O’Malley decided it was too bloody cold to go outside to smoke, and it wouldn’t do any harm to light up in the projection room. By the time I saved most of Mary Pickford’s “Little Annie Rooney” my hand was burnt, O’Malley was fired, and the theater closed ‘til further notice. It was probably smarter not to take up the habit. A lot less money, too. A pack of cigarettes was a ridiculous fifteen cents a pack, two for a quarter if you got the cheap ones, and a little less if you rolled your own.

“Wise man, a filthy habit really. I started smoking a pipe to look older, now I can’t put the damned thing down. At least it keeps the mosquitoes away.” He put it in the ashtray. “So, what did you think of last night?”

Think of what? Him? The lecture? The weather? “People seemed to like it a lot.”

He nodded. “They usually do. What did you think of it?” I couldn’t think of a thing to say. “You didn’t see much of it, did you?”

“Not really… I mean, I was too busy. It looked real swell, though,” I added, hoping I wasn’t blowing my chance.

“Too busy saving my bacon, you mean. Every place I go, I get assigned some idiot assistant who’s too busy watching the lecture to actually do their job. I’ve considered being less ‘swell’, but I can’t help it—I’m too marvelous for my own good sometimes.”

That laugh was infectious. I tried not to join in, but wound up giving a queer sort of snort, which set us both off.

“How old are you, Willy?”

“N-n-nineteen, sir.” Eighteen had been easier to say. Anything starting with a N, an M, a B or a P was a nightmare. I couldn’t wait to be twenty and I could answer a simple question without sounding like a moron.

“Well, I’m only thirty—barely—so you can stop with the sir nonsense. Call me Byron. The whole Count thing is good for business and all, but it’s quite ridiculous. I’m American you know.”

I didn’t know. You sure couldn’t tell by his snobby voice, which sounded nothing like the American I was used to hearing. In fact, nothing about this guy passed for normal in Milwaukee, or Cedar Rapids. I’d never been anywhere else so I didn’t really know.

“Mmmm,” he nodded as he relit his pipe. “Raised in England and so on, but my parents were both from Philadelphia. How did you get so good with that equipment?”

I started to give an “I dunno” shrug and forced myself to answer. “It’s just equipment. People act like it’s voodoo or something, but if you just let it do what it does, it’s just fine.” I could tell I wasn’t making my point very well, so I took another run at it. “If you try to get a m-m-machine to do something it can’t, it’ll go haywire on you. Like that kid last night, shoving the lantern carriage…” I mimed him forcing the works back and forth. “You just knew something bad would happen.”

I debated whether to continue, but the pile in the corner was mocking me, and I pointed to it. “If you took b-b-better care of the equipment, you’d have less trouble with it. Like this cord…” I reached down and grabbed the offending line. “If you leave it like this, it’ll kink up and make knots. P-p-plus it’ll break and short out on you.”

I bent my arm, took the plug in my wounded hand and wrapped the cord from elbow to fist, over and over quickly. “If you just wrap it like this every time, it’ll last longer and be ready to use when you need it.” I wrapped the female plug around the coil and knotted it in on itself, while trying to ignore how much that sounded like one of my father’s lectures.

“You’re very good with all… that. You
are
looking for work? And you’re not in school?”

I shook my head. “N-n-nah. I graduated last year. Like I said, I’m nineteen.”

“Not high school, university. Oh, sorry, you call it college here, don’t you?”

“I’m not exactly college material.”

“And that genius last night was? And your cousin… Bob was it? Prime college material I suppose?” My only response was another stupid shrug, proving my case.

“Where did you say you were from?”

“Milwaukee.”

He looked confused. “Muhwokee, where’s that? Oh you mean Mill Wau Kee. Wisconsin. Yes, I believe I’m going there soon. Is that how they pronounce it? Muh instead of Mill?”

Rather than let on I had no idea what he was talking about, I just said, “Spose so.”

“Do you know how to drive?”

“I don’t have a car, but I know how to drive, yeah.”

“I have the use of a car for the rest of this leg. Supposed to drive myself but I’d like to live long enough to see my children again. I have another week here, then off to Washington and Atlanta, but will be back in February and probably into March. I need someone to take care of my equipment, get me where I’m going alive, and free me up to do what I do best. Plus you look like you can take care of yourself.” He made the same mistake a lot of people make, confusing my size with any kind of athletic ability. I let him think it. What was there to keep secure other than some rocks and old clothes?

“Can you do all that, Willy?”

“For fifteen a week?” Hell yes. I’d shine his shoes and kill his landlord for that kind of money.

“So one week, starting yesterday, then two more when I’m back. After that, the sky’s the limit.”

I should have shut up then, but I couldn’t help asking. “Why pay so much? You can get someone to do it for a couple of bucks a night. P-probably for free.”

He took a sizzling pull on his pipe while he thought, then got up and went to the box of slides. He rummaged around, completely undoing last night’s work. It didn’t seem to bother him, though, because he took one of the slides and held it out to me.

I held it up to the lamp. It was the picture of the expedition from last night. “The gentleman on the end is Louis Chapuis. He’s one of the best engineers in Africa—and the most expensive. He was our guide. Cost us, well our patrons, nearly double what a local would have run. Same with the little man in the kepi—the cloth hat with the tail, there. Caid Belaid speaks seven languages I’m aware of. We could have found someone with three and probably even gotten along with just French and Arabic. Believe me, he didn’t come cheap either. Do you know why I paid them so much?

My old man would have said because you’re rich and stupid, but I kept my yap shut.

His voice softened. “Because it was my first time in charge of an expedition. The New York bloody Times was watching. The Logan Museum, the French government, all of them relying on me and I had no idea what I was doing. So I paid people who did. In life, you get what you pay for. I knew Louis would keep us out of trouble, and he did. Same with Belaid. When you scrimp on the front end you wind up paying for it eventually.”