The Count of the Sahara (7 page)

Right, left, right, left, they wended their way down to the valley floor. Pond caught himself holding his breath on every switchback. No one said anything until they’d completed the final left turn when Martini let out a bellowing, “Merde!”

He slammed on the brakes, sending American passengers and equipment bouncing around the cabin. They narrowly missed ramming into Hot Dog at the bottom. Martini slammed on the brakes and brought his vessel to a skidding stop just short of the crates strapped to the other vehicle’s rear.

Terrified the crazy Italian would ram him from behind, the French driver hit the gas and bounced onto the main roadbed with a gut-tightening scrape Pond could feel in his bones, and took off. Martini never even slowed down, he just put his charge in the middle of the track and pointed southwest. Byron and the occupants of Sandy were already speeding towards El Kantara.

The Hotel El Kantara was much nicer than the hotel in Batna. The café boasted white tablecloths and plenty of ice. The only fleas were the ones who’d made the trip with the expedition. Pond ignored all that, and set to writing his daily report to the Logan. The real work was still days away, and he hoped his impatience didn’t show too much in his correspondence. Dr. Collie was always telling him to slow down and relax but Pond wasn’t here to relax, and the company didn’t exactly entice him.

Tyrrell did finally convince him to go for an exploratory walk after dinner, and on their return they were surprised to find de Prorok sitting in a chair surrounded by yards of black ribbon and wooden stakes. He puffed away on his pipe, muttering softly, as he wrestled to create some kind of memorial wreath.

“Did someone die?” Tyrrell asked.

“Actually yes, about 50 years ago, Cardinal Lavigerie…” He excitedly waited for some sign of recognition. Not finding any, he went on, his voice shifting to full lecture mode. “Founder of the White Fathers of the Desert…?” Still nothing.

Monsieur le Cardinal had been the founder of a sect of hermits who’d followed up the discovery of the Sahara by promptly finding a hole to live in and stayed there, tending to the spiritual, and occasionally the hydration needs of desert travelers. Byron happily rattled on. Tomorrow was the 100
th
anniversary of the good Father’s birth. He wanted to place a wreath on his tomb.

“Never heard of him. Was he important?” Brad asked.

“Not unless you were really thirsty and he got to you in time,” laughed the Count.

“Then why bother? Seems like a waste of time to me.”

De Prorok nodded. “I know, Lonnie, it’s not a particularly historic event, but I need the film for my lecture tour. Americans love missionaries. They’ll even respect the Catholics as long as they’re not settling in their neighborhoods. The only thing they like better than a white man going where he isn’t wanted or needed, is if he dies doing it. They eat that stuff up.”

“How long will it take?”

“Twenty minutes, half an hour maybe. Long enough to say a prayer, get it on film, and get some proper snaps. Oh, and dress nicely. Reygasse will be in full uniform.” He continued winding the black ribbon around the upright stick.

“Reygasse sleeps in full uniform.” Pond thought he said that to himself, but the Count’s laugh bounced around the empty hotel lobby, followed by a hissed “God damn it…” as he dropped the cross piece and the ribbon unspooled to the floor. “I swear I am all thumbs…”

The two men left de Prorok to his arts and craft project and went upstairs for a flea-free rest.

Chapter 5

Cedar Rapids, Iowa

Afternoon of January 22, 1926

Appraising the pile of equipment in the corner, a few things were obvious. I knew the lantern was all right, although we’d need more carbons, and better stuff than he’d been using so far. We probably should do the same for the film projector. From the feel of the crank last night, a new cotter pin wouldn’t be a bad idea. That was literally two cents worth of prevention.

I picked up a couple of items just to see what was under them. Two black crates were unlabeled and I asked, “What’s in there?”

“You’d best take a look for yourself, since you’re in charge of it now. Basically it’s souvenirs of my trips and props for the lectures. You saw most of it last night.”

I opened it slowly and peered inside. “Go ahead,” he urged. “Some of that stuff has lasted two thousand years, I doubt you can do much damage.”

He obviously didn’t know who he was dealing with, but I took him at his word. I clicked open the hasp and lifted the lid. Everything was thrown inside haphazardly, and looked like a magpie nest. For every item that looked like it might be important, there was a shiny campaign button, or a picture post card or a hotel ashtray. The one I picked up read “Waldorf Astoria”, but there were others. I’d have to sort through this dog’s breakfast before making any rash decisions.

The second box was full of robes and things from his last expedition in the Sahara. He tried to explain it, though it was all gobbledygook to me; “burnooses” and “fezzes” and a dark blue robe and turbans, plus some bracelets and arm jewelry. Hardly anything resembling treasure, and I wondered exactly what he thought he needed security for. Anyone who stole this crap was harder up than I was.

Two larger items lay wrapped in newspaper at the bottom of the trunk. I held up the first one and unwrapped it. It looked like one of those crazy swords Rudolph Valentino used in the pictures. “It looks like it’s from the Garden of Allah, or something.”

He nearly jumped off the bed. “You’ve read Garden of Allah?” He sure didn’t know me very well yet.

“N-n-no, I saw the movie, though.”

The Count seemed disappointed but tried to hide it. “Well the author is a dear friend, you know. Hichens, Robert Smythe Hichens. A terrible writer, and a worse influence on me. Still, makes a good living writing that stuff and living out in the middle of nowhere. So you’re a movie fan, did you know I was in a movie? Dreadful thing. Played a Red Indian… Rose France, it was called.”

I only half listened, too busy examining the sword. It was obviously a bad fake. The blade was pasteboard, and the handle wasn’t camel skin or whatever it should have been, just brown ribbon wrapped around a wooden dowel. I weighed it in my hand and said, “Doesn’t look like much.”

He pouted a bit at that but let it slide. “It looks better on stage. Certainly good enough to get the point across. I had a real one, quite a lovely example of a Tuareg flyssa, but it was confiscated when we were leaving Algeria. Quite unfairly. Claimed I stole it, but it was a gift from a friend.”

I picked up the other package. This got him really worked up. “Open it, Brown, open it. This is my greatest possession. I take it with me wherever I travel.” Well, that was sufficient motivation. I flipped open two pieces of newsprint fully prepared to be dazzled.

It was an old piece of wood, probably a one by four with broken ends and some faded writing scribbled on it. “It’s a piece of a sled Ernest Shackleton took to the South Pole.” My blank expression inspired more explanation. “He gave it to me when I was in school, for helping raise money for one of his expeditions.” I hoped for some spark of interest to register, but nope, I still didn’t give a hoot. He wasn’t about to let go, though. He was like a dog with a sock.

“Oh come on, Brown. This humble piece of wood was part of a sled. That sled went somewhere no one else on earth has ever gone. Men may well have died while sitting on that sled. Someone famous once used it to do something amazing, then took the time to offer a piece of that story to a lonely fourteen year old boy thousands of miles away. Every time I look at it, I imagine myself being on that adventure with him, and I have a piece of it all to myself and can relive it any time I want. Isn’t that amazing?”

I didn’t exhibit enough excitement, I guess, because he began to pace back and forth. “Everyone thinks history is dull and drab… dates they can’t remember, and battles they weren’t in, and names they can’t pronounce.” I couldn’t argue with him there.

“The important part of history, though, is the story…” He reached back and picked up the makeup pot. His voice changed, becoming deeper, smoother, more insistent. “Like this jar, for instance.”

He held it out to me, waving his hand over it like a carnival magician. “This isn’t just a jar of face powder, you can get that at any drug store in any town. No, it’s Carthaginian face powder, from before the time of Christ. Who knows, maybe Queen Dido herself owned it, and it was part of her last heroic effort to convince Aeneas to stay with her. She tarted herself up and threw herself at his feet, only to be abandoned anyway. Maybe, this was the very last thing she touched before throwing herself on that funeral pyre and turning herself to ashes for the sake of love.” He paused dramatically.

“You got all that from a chunk of rock?”

He laughed. “You’re a tough audience, Willy Brown. The point is, it’s a really good story. That’s what I do, I tell stories that people want to hear, and can’t hear anywhere else. I travel where they can’t—or mostly won’t—and bring the tales back so they don’t have to leave their dreary little houses and their horrid jobs, and their boring spouses to have adventures of their own. That’s why they pay me, to bring the adventure to them.”

It seemed like a mug’s game to me, but he wasn’t paying me to think.

At the bottom of the case was a black metal box, about ten inches by six and three inches deep, held shut by a delicate silver padlock. “What’s in here?”

His hand shot out and snatched it from my hand. “Nothing you need concern yourself with. Purely personal.” Then, after a deep breath, his smile reappeared and he handed it over. “Please don’t touch it, and keep it secure. It’s not part of the lecture materials, but it’s very important to me.”

I took it back with a shrug and placed it at the bottom of the crate. “Sure.”

I don’t know how long it took me to sort through everything and figure out what we’d need. Thirty minutes later, maybe, I had a list of about seventy-five cents worth of doodads that would make the whole shebang easier to deal with. Creating order out of chaos wasn’t all that difficult. People just don’t give it enough thought. Mind you, some of us didn’t have the seventy-five cents to start with.

“Enough, Brown. Lunchtime.” I looked up from my work and he was at the door; a long camelhair coat, thick felt hat, and what I could only assume was a cashmere scarf loosely wrapped around his neck. I quickly gathered my things and joined him in the hallway.

The elevator doors clanged open, and the sour-pussed operator was still on the job. De Prorok’s eyes dropped to the man’s chest for a moment, then a smile crept across his mug from one corner of his mouth to the other like a zipper. “Martin, how are you today?”

The operator straightened up and actually smiled, “Just fine, Count… uh, your honor. Button up, it’s cold out there.” He apparently had no concern for my health, because he roundly ignored me. I gave him the once-over. Sure enough, on his chest was a small brass nametag that read, “Martin”.

On reaching the lobby, Martin tipped his hat—to the Count—who tipped his back and wished Martin a pleasant day. As the doors closed, I could hear him tell his newest passengers, “See that guy, he’s a real Count… French or something.”

Byron never seemed to notice or miss a step. He nodded to the doorman with a quick “Johnson,” and we were on the sidewalk. “Where to?” he asked.

Where do you take a Count for lunch in Cedar Rapids? “Brown, I’m freezing. Where would you go if you were by yourself?”

“I’d probably just get a bowl of soup at the Top Hat. It’s on the way to the hardware store, but you don’t want to eat there.”

“I don’t want to freeze to death, either. Which way?” I pointed down Third Avenue and he set off, cursing the cold all the way to the Top Hat Diner.

The place was full of men in outdoor gear, along with a few low-level bank clerks who decided to splurge on a quarter’s worth of soup instead of a cold sandwich at work, just because it was Friday.

De Prorok looked around. “This place looks fine, why didn’t you think I’d like it?”

“It’s probably not what you’re used to. I mean…”

“What I’m used to,” he snapped, “is eating what people eat wherever I am. The fastest way to learn anything about people is to see what they eat. When I’m at the Waldorf, it’s shrimp cocktail and aspic. In the desert, I’ve eaten fried crickets and millet porridge. I doubt there’s anything as exotic as that on the menu here.” He paused and looked over to the next table. “Although I might want to check the provenance on that meat loaf.”

Throughout the meal, he peppered me with questions. What was I doing in Iowa (looking for work), what was Milwaukee like (okay, I guess) and what exactly was a Hawkeye and why did it matter so much (it beat me all to hell)? Finally, the inquisition ended and the check came.

“Okay, so sixty cents… You had the soup so that’s twenty-five. Plus your share of the tip.”

I guess I expected him to pick up the tab, because he waited a moment, then gave me a very stern look. “Our deal is fifteen a week, and you pay your own meals. This was a meal, ergo, you pay your share. Were the conditions of employment unclear?”

“N-n-o sir.” He was paying me more than I was worth, a quarter for a cup of soup wasn’t a big deal. If that’s how this was going to be, well a deal’s a deal. Fortunately, I had the money he paid me last night. The waitress broke the fiver, making a point of informing me she could only do it because it was Friday, and they were flush.

I handed over thirty cents which he took with a smile and passed it on to the waitress with a tip of his hat. “Thank you, Patricia, it was divine. Perhaps it was the company.”

She blushed right through the sweat and rouge. “Sure thing, honey. Come back any time,” she said but he’d already turned his back and we were out the door.

At the hardware store, the inquisition continued.

“What’s this thingamee do?” It was a toilet ballcock.

“How does this work?”

“Why so many sizes of screws?” Each question was in that honking baritone, and it was drawing attention. The clerk shook his head in sad disbelief. An older lady gave me a sympathetic look, as if I were escorting a disobedient child or a senile old man. As my cheeks got redder, my answers got shorter and crankier.

He stood in front of a drawer full of cabinet pulls, fingering each one like it was some jewel pulled from a sarcophagus. “Do you ever wonder what someone would think this place was if they found it two hundred years from now?” That was easy. No. And why would it cross any normal person’s mind at all? I just shook my head and finished getting the stuff on my list.

I was making my way to the counter when I heard a braying, “Brown, over here.” I followed the echoes to where he stood in front of a bunch of mechanics overalls. “What size are you?”

“Large. No, probably extra-large…. Why?” Then I knew why. “I’m not wearing those.”

“Why not?”

“B-b-because I have clothes. I’m running a projector, not fixing the boiler.”

“You are not ‘running the projector,’ you are my… presentation technician.” He seemed overly pleased with the choice of words. “A trained monkey can work a projector, although it seems beyond the grasp of the college educated. You, my friend, are a trained professional, and part of a highly organized…”

“F-f-forget it. Unh uh. What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” His look implied there was more than I thought.

“Like it or not, you’re part of the show. People know you work for me, and I want them to know I hire only the best. The best guide, best translator, best presentation technician… or projection engineer. Which do you prefer?”

Jesus, who did this guy think he was? Worse, who did he think I was? “The presentation one, I guess.”

“Done. You are my presentation technician. And a technician should have a uniform that says you’re not just some mug off the street. This’ll serve until we find something more creative.”

That night, I told my aunt and uncle I’d be out in the morning. Uncle Bill said nothing at all, as expected. Aunt Gertie made all the appropriate clucking noises but seemed relieved. I made them feel better by explaining this was not some fly-by-night outfit. I was to be the by-God official Presentation Technician to the Count de Prorok.

Getting off their couch was the easy part. Telling my folks was going to be harder. It was only for two weeks, and Momma would be heartbroken it wasn’t for good. The Old Man would be furious I was back at all, without a full time job in hand. He might put up with me for two full weeks work, but not a day longer. We might be able to make it work. Maybe.