The Count of the Sahara (4 page)

“You know I’m not supposed to leave you alone.” And there it was. His was the burden of babysitting the poor, lunk-headed, stuttering cousin from Milwaukee. He didn’t want the responsibility, but I had to hand it to him, he took his duty seriously. He was probably more worried about the guff he’d take from his mother if he didn’t, but he looked out for me in his own way.

“N-n-nah. Go ahead. I’ll just go back to your room when I’m done.” His relieved sigh told me he and his frat buddy friends had plans that would be better implemented without me dragging them down.

While I refused the Count’s money, I really needed it, and a little honest work might make me feel better. The reason I was in Iowa in the first place was to find a job. Old Man Meyer felt bad after what happened to my hand, and suggested several theaters in Cedar Rapids that were looking for projectionists, or were before I blew into town. Now they were all hired up, and I was left sleeping on the Muller’s davenport and cramping Bob’s style.

Mostly, it had been an excuse to get away from my father and Milwaukee, in that order. A full time job out of town would help me escape both. Aunt Gertie professed love for her sister’s only boy, but didn’t want me here a moment longer than absolutely necessary. She loved that poor abused sofa more than her Milwaukee relatives. As for Uncle Thomas, well I was just one more of many indignities heaped on him when he married beneath his station. The sooner I either got employment or left, the better, and he didn’t much have a preference. Truthfully, neither did I, except failure meant going home. The sofa, and even the floor of Bob’s dorm room, were better than that.

The Count worked the crowd like a reception line. There was a long line of sincere well-wishers and plain old sycophants. Mr. So-and-so from the Chamber of Commerce, and Mrs. Whosits from the Ladies Auxiliary and dozens of others lined up for their chance to touch someone who’d touched the exotic. That was really as close as any of them really wanted to come. The problem with those strange places and people in the news reels is they were so unlike America, and who really wants that? It probably sounded more interesting than it really was. It was especially interesting when the news was delivered by someone as downright fascinating as a Count.

Ignoring everything around me, I set to work starting with the last reel on the projector, gently cranking it backward.

“What are you doing?” The Count looked at me, puzzled. It should have been obvious. You always rewound the reel before putting it in the can. That way you know it was packed right, and it’s ready to go for next time. Everyone knows that. I figured there was a trick question in there, so I must have sounded like a jerk.

“Rewinding it? So it’s ready to go next time?”

The count was mildly confused. “Without threading it?”

“Well, yeah. If you thread it and run it backwards you’ll damage the print, and it’ll break sooner. Plus you can make sure it’s wound tight.”

“Well, naturally. Of course. It’s just so rare to find someone who knows his stuff.” Jeez, this guy had no clue, did he? And no extra points for guessing who loaded the slides for the lantern either. For someone so smart, he sure was a dummy about his tools. Did he think this stuff just happened by magic?

I overheard some of the conversation while I worked, but didn’t really pay much attention. People cooed over the objects he handed them, but they seemed like a poor excuse for treasure. That clay jar he claimed was a two thousand years old makeup kit could have been made in shop class, for all they knew. One fat guy in a brown hat asked about treasure, and was disappointed to learn that the arrowheads were as good as it got. He seemed disappointed. So was I, to be honest.

As usual when I worked, I didn’t notice how much time had passed until I realized that the hall was echoingly empty. A janitor whistled through his teeth, shoving a wide broom along the floor. The disappointed treasure seeker in the brown hat sat in the last row, flipping through a notebook, oblivious to anything or anyone else.

De Prorok leaned against the wall, sucking noisily on a long-stemmed pipe. Clouds of blue smoke swirled in the light as he examined me, the way I suspect he looked at Arabs or some exotic tribesman; like I was another species altogether and he was taking notes.

Damned if I’d let him stare at me like that, I made myself look into his eyes. What the hell did he want from me? Finally, taking the pipe from his mouth, he pointed the stem at me. “Are you looking for work, Brown?”

Of course I was looking for work. I sure hadn’t come to Iowa in January for the climate. “M-m-maybe. What did you have in mind?” I hoped I sounded more casual than I felt.

“Well, I have a number of lectures here in the Middle West before I return to New York, then home to Paris. I’d rather not have to rely on the tender mercies of the host to get me more help like I got tonight. I could use a good man to run the technical side of things. It would only be three weeks, to start at least. We’ll see what happens after that.”

My head spun as he laid out the plan. The good news is he had more engagements this week; Des Moines, Ames and Moline. Then there were two weeks he would be back East, but then Milwaukee, Beloit, Madison, probably Chicago. I might even get to see St. Louis if I was lucky.

The rational side of me tried to get a grip. “I really need something full t-t-time.”

“It’s only three weeks, true. But you won’t have to stay with Cousin Bub and your Auntie. It might even be fun if your…” he gestured to my bandages.

I shook my head. “Almost healed, just a little b-b-burnt, but it’s healing.” He nodded in approval, then paused. Obviously he was waiting for me to say something. Then I figured out what it was.

“What’s it pay?” I hoped I sounded grown up and responsible, rather than flustered and panicky.

“Let’s say twelve a week.” I hoped he couldn’t hear my heart pounding. That was more than I’d made working full-time for Meyer, and almost what projectionists in the big cities pulled in. True, there were two weeks in between, and I’d probably have to go home, since once I was out of the Muller’s house they’d probably change the locks, but I could do two weeks if I kept my nose clean and my head down.

I took a deep breath to calm myself, which I guess he took as a brilliant negotiating ploy, because he quickly added, “alright, fifteen dollars. But you pay for your own meals.”

Fifteen smackers would buy a lot of ham sandwiches, which was mostly what I’d been subsisting on. Hell, put cheese on the darned things. I was rich.

I noticed the guy in the beat up brown hat leaning forward. I don’t think he was intentionally listening, but de Prorok spoke every sentence like he was on stage. I don’t think he ever learned to whisper. When he realized I’d seen him, the eavesdropper crammed his notebook into a coat pocket, wrapped the scarf around his face and headed out of the auditorium, kicking over a chair in the process.

“Right then. Finish packing up and meet me at the Montrose in Cedar Rapids at nine AM tomorrow. No, wait. This bloody mixer thing is going to go on a while, and they have real liquor. Make it ten. You know the Montrose?”

Of course I knew the Montrose. Everyone in Cedar Rapids knew the Montrose Hotel. I’d never been inside, of course, because that was for the Swells—or as swell as they came in that burg, but I knew where it was. I rode by it on the street car every day looking for work.

“Yes sir.”

“Good. We’ll talk then. Be prepared to be gone a week. Give my love to Auntie.” With a flourish, he plunked his sweat stained and pancake make-upped pith helmet on his head, spun on his heel and strode off to face the savages at the Grinnell College Faculty Mixer.

Just like that. Big, dopey, Willy Braun from Milwaukee was working for Count Byron Khun de Prorok.

Chapter 2

Constantine, Algeria

October 12, 1925

Madame Rouvier lifted the champagne bottle over her head, almost bursting out of her tight dress, and wished them all well. “And God bless your journey and grant you safe return.” Then she swung it down, and the bottle bounced unharmed off the hood of the truck. Mortified, she tried again, this time striking the corner above the headlights, and the bottle exploded in a shower of white bubbles all over the bonnet of the lead truck and her official occasion dress to the cheers of the crowd.

Byron kept a smile frozen on his face as Monsieur Rouvier, the highest French official in all of North East Algeria, plucked a green shard off his wife’s considerable décolletage and carelessly flicked it way into the sand, oblivious to all the bare feet around him.

“Monsieur le Governeur, thank you once again.” De Prorok offered his hand once more, and Rouvier shook it with no more enthusiasm than he had the last two times. The older man said something, but Byron didn’t hear it. He was looking over the speaker’s shoulder at the cameraman, Henri Barth.

The pudgy Swiss photographer shook his head and gestured wildly, making half-circles in the air. Byron nodded and took Rouvier by the elbow, turning him towards the camera and face first into the hazy African sun. Rouvier squinted, scrunching his face into an even less attractive blob than normal and endured another hearty handshake until they heard Barth yell, “Good. Great!”

The Count immediately dropped his hand, wiped his palm on the leg of his pants and turned towards Madame. Sliding next to her, he placed a long fingered hand on her hip and deftly navigated her towards the cameraman. Barth immediately cranked away as Byron whispered, “Adieu, Madame. I will be back sooner than you know.” Then he took her fingertips and raised them to his lips giving them a brief kiss that seemed both formal and intimate at the same time.

He hoped Barth caught the tears gleaming in her eyes. It would look perfect on camera and the audiences would lap it up. Americans generally believed colonials to be degenerates, the French constantly in heat, and French Colonials the worst of the bunch. Mme Rouvier, that sausage casing of a dress, and her impressive breasts would be immortalized—fairly or not—as another of the Count’s amorous conquests for the amusement of the crowds in dreadful places like Binghamton and Omaha.

He felt a fleeting twinge of guilt about Alice and the two babies but this was business, and it wasn’t like anything had actually happened, despite the lady’s best efforts. The flirting, toasts, pictures and all this hullabaloo were all a cost of doing business in Algeria. He wondered if in this case the cost wasn’t too high, but desperate times called for desperate measures. He was doing all this for the girls, after all, and he did get those last minute permits. Alice was a realist about such things. Plus, she was in Paris.

Three brand new olive-green Renault vehicles shone in the sun. The cars, each with three rows of seats, three double rows of tires and removable doors with canvas covers, idled in the road in front of the Hotel Cirta. The first, nicknamed Sandy, was reserved for the Count and the press contingent; Hal Denny of the Times and Henri Barth, the photographer, along with their driver, Escande.

The second car, Hot Dog, was the domain of Marshall Maurice Reygasse, as official representative of the local authorities, their guide, Louis Chapuis, and Belaid the translator. Everyone called Belaid “Caid”, which was actually a title meaning Chief, but whether that was a real or self-selected title no one really knew for sure. A petulant Renault man named Chaix piloted that vehicle.

Bringing up the rear was Lucky Strike. It contained the two Americans, most of the equipment, and a little Italian driver named Martini. One of the passengers, Bradley Tyrrell blew “Oh Suzanna” softly on his harmonica. The other was not so sanguine.

“Come on, we should have been out of here an hour ago. Is he still flirting with that lady?” Alonzo Pond spent most of the last hour cursing the heat, his life, and the Count in rotating order, and was ready to move on. The October rains had been plentiful this year. It was great for the crops, of course, and welcome after two years of drought, but not so good for the humidity. He was used to the Midwestern stickiness of Wisconsin summers, but this was a whole new level of dank Hades.

“Relax, Lonnie. The Sahara’s been here a while. It’s not going anywhere. Besides, he’s doing business.”

“You call that business?”

The older man smiled. “There’s always a price to be paid for doing business, son. Here they call it baksheesh, in Chicago it’s called doing someone a favor. The price he’s paying with Madame over there might be the steepest of all. Higher than I’d want to pay, anyway.” He gave a single blast on his Hohner.

Pond didn’t feel much pity for the Count and didn’t push the matter. Instead he turned to the driver and asked in reasonably good French, “Martini, you’re sure we have enough fuel?”

“Oui. Yes, of course. We make sure before we go. The Count sees to everything.”

Pond sniffed, hardly reassured. He leaned back and closed his eyes. One thing he learned in the War, enjoy the calm while you can. Alonzo had been in the ambulance corps, and studied briefly at the Sorbonne. He “
parle français”
well enough that, along with Martini’s deeply Italian-accented French they could converse, with Pond translating for the unilingual American, Tyrrell. It made for good company at least.

“Who does this guy think he is?” Pond asked, not for the first time.

“The Boss,” was Tyrrell’s explanation. “Every project needs one, and better him than us. Trust me, it’s not as glamorous as you think.”

Pond wasn’t sure he believed that. “What’s he bringing to the party, anyway? I’m more qualified, you’ve run million dollar businesses, the Museum is paying most of the freight and the Algerians and the French are paying the rest of it. What exactly does he do?”

“He brings attention. You think the New York Times cares about Beloit College? Would Renault donate three trucks and drivers for free if this was just another dig?”

“These trucks are more like overgrown cars. And they look ridiculous.” He knew he was being petty, but couldn’t help himself. The trucks meant press coverage for the College, and room for lots more arrowheads and flint tools than he’d be able to strap to the back of some stupid humpbacks. It just all seemed a bit… disappointing.

Pond had spent the last six months fantasizing a long, slow, camel trek through harsh conditions to undiscovered Stone Age sites, risking sandstorms and death by scimitar along the way. Instead he got brand new trucks, hotels for the first and last legs of the journey and less than a month of real field work. On top of all that, he had to put up with de Prorok’s shenanigans.

Maybe, he thought, the real age of exploration was over and done. Camels were being replaced with cars and pneumatic tires. Proud warrior tribes were fast becoming tame subjects of anthropological studies, as if the depths of the Sahara were no more mysterious than a day trip to the Wisconsin Dells. Still, it beat Beloit and another semester in the classroom.

The tribes were still a little bit of a concern, as evidenced by the machine gun bracket mounted to the roof frame. Between Algerian malcontents and Tuareg tribes that had bent the knee in name only, it was better to have it and not need it than the other way around. Algeria was no picnic at the best of times, and even with more rain and the best crop in years, this was far from the best of times. Maybe Brad was right, he thought. Leave everything to the Count and just do your job. If, of course, they ever left town.

Finally, the last hand was kissed or shaken, and the final palm greased. The Count turned to the assembly and raised his pith helmet in salute. “Adieu, adieus—allons nous en,” which was the cue for several burnoose-clad locals to fire their muskets in the air to the cheers of the restless crowd.

Byron couldn’t fully hide his satisfaction as Madame Rouvier waved her handkerchief and bravely fought back tears. He strode to Sandy’s passenger side, flung open the door, gave the crowd a final exultant flourish with his helmet, and the Franco-American Sahara Expedition of 1925 was well and truly away, heading towards the Sahara on the last paved road they’d see for a while.

At the edge of town was the Sidi Rached Bridge, a marvel of engineering in a place where camel dung bricks were considered quality construction material. It ran 330 feet high over the Gorge du Rhumel in a graceful swoop over multiple Romanesque arches. It was the first sign of civilization desert visitors saw when arriving in Constantine, and the last thing they saw—perhaps forever—as they headed into the barren wastes of the Sahara desert. Pond admitted it was a dramatic departure point, and must have made quite a picture. Before he could really enjoy it, though, the cars coasted to a halt at the very end of the bridge.

“Now what?” he groaned. Tyrrell just shrugged and the two men craned their necks out the windows to see Barth and two porters shooing a donkey loaded with camera equipment while the photographer held his hat on his head with one hand. Apparently, Count de Prorok also thought of what a dramatic sight it would make and had arranged for the whole vista to be filmed in all its glory. Now they had to wait for him to catch up.

The three cars and their inhabitants simmered in the heat at the end of the bridge, blocking traffic and enduring the honks and curses of those trying to enter the city. Finally, after ten minutes of agony, equipment and photographer were unceremoniously stowed in the back of the lead car, and they were truly, finally, off to their first destination. Next stop would be a little oasis called Batna.

The cars were unevenly loaded—most of the gas and water had been strapped to the Marshall’s car, Hot Dog. Lucky Strike carried the Americans, food, water and barrels for the archaeological samples, along with the machine gun. Sandy, the lead car, contained the Count’s precious film equipment and not much else, so it was no surprise to Pond that they were becoming separated from each other. The lighter cars were able to travel a rather impressive thirty-five miles per hour, as opposed to their vehicle that chugged along at only twenty-five or so.

Going slower at least allowed for more sight-seeing. They passed through a few small hamlets. One even had a small gas station, which they passed. It was only a short run and, as Martini said, the Count had made all the arrangements.

Nine miles from Batna, Lucky Strike caught up with Reygasse’s car, Hot Dog. It sat at the side of the road, with a very perturbed looking driver kicking at the door and exhibiting a rather impressive vocabulary of French curses. A stoic Marshall Reygasse sat upright in the car, staring straight ahead. Louis Chapuis and Belaid squatted in the dirt in the shade of the vehicle.

“Chaix, que c’est que passe?” Martini asked as he stepped from the car.

“Manque d’essence.” Pond winced, recognizing the phrase from his own days as an ambulance driver. Hot Dog had run out of gas. He grinned as he saw the frustrated driver kicking the front bumper as if that would solve the problem.

Louis Chapuis strode over to the car. “The Count and the others went on ahead to Batna and they’re sending back some gas. Chaix, there, wouldn’t leave his precious truck so we stayed with him. Renault probably wouldn’t like anything to happen to it.”

Pond agreed. “Well, hop in, no sense all of you sitting around.”

“I’ll stay with Chaix. Algeria is no place to be alone,” the guide offered.

Reygasse and Belaid, though, were happy to accept a ride, crowded though it was. It was unpleasantly warm and sticky before the extra bodies were added. Now it was downright fragrant. With the windows open, though, nine miles wasn’t such a long haul. Off they went, Brad Tyrrell playing his harmonica to lighten the mood.

They were almost to Batna when Pond heard Martini muttering to himself, “Non… non… God damned stupid machine…” and he slammed his fist on the steering wheel.

Pond heard the engine utter a sad “chucka-chucka-pawwwww” and Lucky Strike coasted to a stop. Everyone sat quietly for a moment. Finally he couldn’t take the suspense. “What’s wrong?”

“Manque d’essence,” offered the stoic driver, who got out and lifted the truck’s bonnet to ensure that’s all it was. He dropped it with an echoing “thunk”. “Si, that’s all it is. We’re out of gas too.”

Brad Tyrrell pulled his pipe out of his pocket and tamped down some of the good American tobacco he always carried. “How far is it into Batna?”

Belaid knitted his eyebrows. “Not far. Two, maybe three kilometers.” When he saw the puzzled look the American gave him, he added, “A mile, mile and a bit.”

Tyrrell remained upbeat. “Well, that’s easy then. Lonnie, Come on, we’re hoofing it. Martini, you stay here and we’ll send some gas back for you. Marshall, are you joining us?”

Reygasse’s cool had deserted him. He impatiently waved them away. “I’ll wait. I’m not entering Batna like some god-damned beggar.”

The big American gave a suit-yourself shrug. “Lonnie, you coming?”

Pond grabbed his knapsack and shouldered it in resignation. Offering a passable impression of Martini, he groused, “Monsieur le count say everything is good… The Count see to everything.” Brad patted his shoulder paternally.

“Explorer’s lesson number one. Never trust those city experts for anything, and don’t take anything for granted. Let’s go.”