The Count of the Sahara (2 page)

Brooklyn, New York

January 18, 1926

Dearest Byron,

I actually mailed this letter the day before you left, in the hope that it will be waiting for you when you arrive in Cedar Rapids. That is, if the Pony Express is still running that far west. Ha Ha.

You’ve only left, and the girls and I miss you already. Please be safe, and come home to us in one piece. Seeing my folks is wonderful and all, but I think I’d go mad if I had to live in Brooklyn again and can’t wait to be back in Paris with just our own petite famille. See, I am really learning French, no matter how much you nag me about it.

I know you’ll be brilliant. You are so smart and you are so talented. You’re too good for those Iowa bumpkins, but I know that you have to “break in the act” so that it’s perfect. I guess it’s like how Broadway plays open in Hartford or Buffalo before becoming smash hits. Those people will love you as much as I do. Watch out for those Professors’ wives, I’m not there to protect you from them. Ha Ha.

Marie Terese is waving to her Papa, and little Alice is missing her big strong daddy, as am I. Come home to me soon, my darling. And dress warmly, I hear it gets really cold in the Midwest this time of year, even colder than New York, although I don’t know how that’s possible.

Lots of love and kisses,

Your adoring wife (how I love saying that)

Alice

P.S. Mother and Daddy say hello.

Chapter 1

Grinnell, Iowa

January 23, 1926

The lecture hadn’t even started, and my cousin Bob and I were already in awe of Count de Prorok. After all, not everyone could use a grey chunk of rock to score some co-ed tail, but he was doing it. The girl—all dewy eyes and virginal goose bumps—hung on every word. So did we from the comfort of our hard wooden chairs on the end of the aisle.

“You see, even three thousand years ago, women knew that men were… susceptible to their charms. Quite at a disadvantage. Not much has changed.” De Prorok gave her a boyish smile and leaned forward intimately. She leaned into him, a total goner. It was like Lillian Gish falling prey to some cad in the pictures.

With a smoothness born of practice, the Count offered her a vaguely rounded chunk of fossilized clay and she took it, her eyes asking permission first. He nodded paternally, perfect teeth gleaming. She cupped it in both sweaty hands as if it was the good holiday china, instead of some old piece of rock. The way she oohed and aahed you’d think it was the Crown Jewels or something.

I’m surprised Bob didn’t pull out a steno pad and take notes. He was quite the ladies’ man, if he did say so himself and frequently did, but he was in the presence of a master. “Geez, this guy’s good,” he said, emphasizing it with an elbow to my ribs when, as usual, my attention wandered.

Count Byron Khun de Prorok was something to behold. He was tall, as tall as me probably. Six feet at least, but lean where I was beefy, and… graceful I suppose. Not in a sissy way. He was more Douglas Fairbanks than Valentino, if you know what I mean. The pith helmet he wore certainly added to the whole look, as did the khaki jacket, complete with jodhpurs poofing out at the knees and gleaming black boots.

It wasn’t what you’d call normal attire for a bitterly cold January night in the middle of Iowa, but that exotic look was why the auditorium was so crowded. Every respectable person within driving distance of Grinnell stewed in their heavy coats and sweaters waiting to see “the Discoverer of Ancient Carthage”, the “Scourge of the Saharan Tuaregs,” the “Finder of the Legendary Queen Tin Hinan”, and he came exactly as advertised.

I was there because my aunt sent me to deliver a care package of cookies, clean laundry and, I suspect, money my uncle knew nothing about to Bob at school. I made the drive in their Ford from Cedar Rapids, was supposed to spend the night in Bob’s dorm room, and come back the next morning with another bag full of dirty laundry. The lecture was a way to kill time—Grinnell’s only movie theater was showing some programmer I’d already seen half a dozen times. The price of all that service was Bob had to host his poor idiot cousin for the night.

My original plan, before my Aunt decided to make me useful, was to see “That Royle Girl” at the Strand. At least that was a D. W. Griffith picture and had W.C. Fields in it. It was a serious movie, not really my thing, but it had to be better than some boring lecture at a college I wasn’t even attending. Worse, I had to tag along with Bob. But, the alternative was going back to Milwaukee with my tail between my legs and without a job, so here I was. At least until my burns, and my feelings, healed.

A distinguished old guy in a blue suit came over and politely “harrumphed” in the Count’s ear. Without taking his eyes off his prey, the younger man nodded politely, whispered something back and patted the old guy’s back as if dismissing a servant. The older gent started a bucket brigade of waves and nods… he to the kid at the projector, the kid at the projector to the guy in the back who flicked the auditorium’s lights off and on.

Showtime.

With great dignity, the old guy climbed the stairs to the stage and an expectant hush fell over the crowd. From the smile on his puss they obviously knew who he was, and he knew that they knew, and it made him very happy.

“That’s President Main,” Bob whispered out of the side of his mouth. “Real stick up his ass.” Bob felt the need to sprinkle cuss words into his speech periodically so he didn’t look like a snob to the poor relations like me. Since I assumed everyone with money had a stick of some size lodged somewhere—Bob and his folks included—I wasn’t much surprised.

The old guy’s voice was lighter than I expected, but he perched his glasses on his nose which made him look more president-like. “Good evening everyone. As you know, I’m the president of Grinnell College…” a smattering of applause was quickly doused with a benevolent, upheld palm and a satisfied smirk. “Thank you, but that’s certainly not why you’re here tonight. No, we are honored to be the first audience this year outside the Eastern Seaboard to host tonight’s speaker.”

A satisfied murmur rippled through the crowd. Iowa, especially Podunk towns like Grinnell didn’t often host famous people, and when it did, it was usually in between stops at bigger, more important cities like Chicago and Des Moines. This was big doings indeed, and explained the size of the crowd on a snowy Thursday. They were going to get their money’s worth this evening, and something good to rub in the noses of their snobbier friends in Ames and Dubuque.

“As you no doubt know, the Count is justly famous for his explorations throughout North Africa, especially his findings at Carthage. Well, he has led an expedition—a joint venture of the French Government and our colleagues at Beloit College…”

Bob and some of the other students let out a great “Boo” at the mention of the rival school. Main shot a withering look down at us, which made my cheeks burn and Bob beam with pride. “Save that for the playing field, this is a great honor for us here at Grinnell. I should think you want to show we’re worthy of it.”

While I tried to figure out what the big deal was, the speaker scanned his notes to take another run at it. “…Ah, yes…at Beloit College. You may have read his exploits in uncovering one of the greatest archaeological sites ever found in the heart of the Sahara Desert. It was covered by the New York Times.” That got another ooh from the percentage of the audience who’d at least heard of the New York Times, even if they’d never actually read it.

“He’s brought actual filmed footage with him tonight.” The president made a grand sweeping gesture, pointing to the heavy black film projector and the smaller magic lantern atop a small table at the front of the stage. I craned my neck to see. It was old equipment—a hand cranked Campbell instead of an electric one, but reliable enough. There was also a new electric Victor magic lantern. The stacks of film reels and boxes of slides told me we were in for a long night.

“And so, without further ado, it is my honor to welcome to Grinnell, and indeed to all of Central Iowa, that world traveler and distinguished archaeologist, Count Byron Khun de Prorok.”

The bandage on my right hand made applause difficult, so I sat back with my arms crossed. I watched the Count give his walking stick a slight toss in the air then he strode forward, caught it with a flourish and a quick baton twirl, and glided onto the platform. His eyes shone almost as brightly as his teeth.

“Good evening, everyone, I’m truly humbled at the greeting you’ve afforded me. It proves I was right. I said to myself, ‘Byron, you’ve just returned from the heat and dangers of the Sahara. You’ve been feted in Paris and New York… what’s next?’ Then it occurred to me… Grinnell… Iowa.” The crowd laughed good-naturedly. “In January,” he added to wild applause. How lucky these yokels were he’d graced them with his presence. Not that they didn’t deserve it, of course, they were every bit as good as city folks. Still, it was really white of him to come, and they let him know it.

His voice boomed out of his skinny frame, louder than I expected. It didn’t just get to the back of the hall, it reached out and grabbed the people in the cheap seats by their ears. He had an accent, but a slight one that I can only describe as vaguely European, but not from anywhere specific. It sure wasn’t from here, and it wasn’t so foreign you had to work at deciphering it. It was a strong voice, deep and resonant, and it held the crowd of upscale bumpkins spellbound.

“I’d especially like to thank the lovely Miss Thompson for her hospitality in showing me around this institution today. A most charming young lady…” A gangly, bucktoothed girl leaned over and whispered in the co-ed’s ear, and they dissolved into giggles. The speaker paid them no mind and moved to the center of the stage.

“But we’re here tonight to talk about another young woman—a legendary queen some thought to be mere myth. Was Tin Hinan just a figment of overactive, superstitious, primitive imaginations? You’ll learn the answer tonight.”

He went on about his trip, and most of it I didn’t get. It was the first trip on pneumatic tires, which mattered to somebody for some reason, and involved some tribe called the “Toregs,” or “Tuaregs,” or something like that who were murderous, sword-wielding tribesmen, and treasure. That made me sit up straighter. Jewels, gold, swords… maybe this would be better than the pictures, or at least not as bad as I feared.

“Yes, my friends,” he continued, “This is the story of what the New York Times dubbed the ‘Prorok Expedition’, although officially it was the ‘Franco-American Sahara Expedition of 1925’. Mine was only the honor of leading the team. Maestro, if you please…” He grandly gestured to a redheaded college boy in an argyle sweater who squatted beside the magic lantern. There was a loud click, and a slide filled the screen.

It was a picture of the expedition in front of their three trucks. At least I think that’s what it was. It was hard to tell because it was upside down.

The audience laughed nervously. The Count launched a lightning bolt out of his eyes at College Boy, then popped off a quick, “As you can see, we really stood on our heads to make this trip a success.”

While the crowd clapped appreciatively, the speaker hissed at the assistant, who was now redder than ever. “The slide is upside down… fix it,” as if the poor kid was too thick to recognize the fact. He muttered an apology and fumbled around; trying to pull the offending picture out of the hot frame and burning his fingers in the process.

I’ve been there myself often enough. Those magic lanterns, especially the new electric ones, burned awfully hot. It was easy to burn yourself, and if you didn’t turn them off periodically the bulbs would flare out in a hurry. This one wasn’t going to last the night. I felt bad for the kid and squirmed a bit on his behalf.

At last we heard the reassuring metal click of the carriage return and another picture loomed over the audience. It was the kind of snapshot you’ve seen a hundred times in newspapers or newsreels: a bunch of guys trying to show how important they are, and only succeeding in looking uncomfortable.

The Count was dead center, of course; dressed for the desert heat with his pith helmet at a jaunty angle. You wouldn’t get any points for guessing who the Americans were. A tall, good looking older gent sucked on a pipe, and next to him was a much shorter guy who looked far less comfortable with the proceedings. The Frogs were represented by a short, ferret-faced joker with a thin moustache and a military uniform covered in ribbons and medals. On either side were some really unhappy specimens; two guys in native getup, two in matching mechanic’s outfits, and an arm, shoulder and right cheek that belonged to someone cut off by the frame.

“This picture is in Constantine, Algeria in October of last year. This very important gentleman with the medals is Monsieur Maurice Reygasse, the director of the Bibliothèque National d’Algiers, who represented the French government. As you can see, he was a decorated hero of ‘La Guerre Mondiale’.” He effortlessly bounced between English and French, at least seamlessly enough to knock the socks off anyone in Grinnell. French sounded a whole lot classier than the languages usually heard in the Midwest—German, Swedish, various Slavic grunts and the odd, usually extremely odd, Italian, not to mention the Scots and Irish who allegedly spoke English but you couldn’t make out what they said half the time.

He droned on. “The two Americans came courtesy of the Logan Museum at Beloit College. Representing the Logan was Mr. Bradly Tyrrell, and the shorter gent was Alonzo Pond, although everyone called him Lonnie. Like all graduate students, he proved invaluable doing the mundane research that is so often the lot of young men in college. Not that you’d know anything about that.” The student body chuckled knowingly. You had to hand it to him—this guy knew his audience.

“We had at our disposal three brand new vehicles, straight from the Renault factory in Paris. These were built especially for the brutal conditions we’d encounter in the Sahara. They had twelve pneumatic tires, and each vehicle its own factory-trained driver. Let me show you our modern age chariots…” He nodded to College Boy, who clicked another slide into place that showed the heroic team driving off. It would have looked like that, at least, if we were hanging from the rafters. It, too, was upside down.

A groan rose from the crowd, and even Bob mustered up a “Poor son-of-a-bitch”.

“It’s easy to d-d-do. They have to b-b-be upside down and backwards or they don’t show right.” Damn. My stutter was in rare form tonight.

“Really? That seems ass-backwards,” Bob replied. I shrugged. It had to do with mirrors and reflections and stuff, but I couldn’t really explain it worth a damn, I just knew it. Like I knew it wasn’t the kid’s fault since he was just clicking the buttons. Whoever loaded the slides after the last show put them in wrong. It was a bad deal for the poor idiot who had to show them this time, and College Boy wasn’t dealing well with the pressure, and looked like he might explode any minute.