The Count of the Sahara (9 page)

The parade of filthy cars came to a halt in front of a ramshackle telegraph office. Three carloads of hungry, shivering men stepped out, flaking mud everywhere. The temperature climbed once the rain stopped, and was actually becoming warm, but the afternoon’s exertion and wet filth made that irrelevant. Every member of the party was shivering, tired and ravenous.

The Count stretched his long legs and climbed out of the car. Curious faces peered out at them through rough doorways and tent flaps. Mostly children at first, then they heard a voice greeting them warily. “Qui est la?”

The Station Master emerged from the largest shack, a rifle in his hand; the way it shook in his grip he could have been aiming at any one of them. Everyone nodded to each other in silence, each party waiting for the other to speak.

Chapuis offered a brief explanation of their trouble, leaving out the most embarrassing parts, and politely asked if they could park their vehicles and camp until morning. This drew a grudging accommodation from the locals who pointed to a dry, flat spot just off the road.

As Chapuis negotiated this, Escande whispered to Byron, “Ask about food.”

Chaix chimed in. “What about dinner? Is there a restaurant?” Like ornery children up past their bed times, they just wanted their supper.

Like children, de Prorok quickly shushed them. “Just hold on, damn you.”

The slam of a car door drew their attention to Reygasse, who’d removed the burnoose and stood in front of them in his uniform and medals. He looked the very picture of the French authority, at least from the shins up. Below that, his pants and boots were a solid brick of desert mud, but the sight of him sent a buzz through the crowd. Byron groaned.

“Have you a telephone? I must tell the authorities in Touggart where we are. I’m sure they’re looking for us already.”

“I’m afraid not, but we have a telegraph, I can wire for you,” squeaked Costans, the manager.

“I’d be most grateful. Thank you.”

“Ask them about dinner, Monsieur,” came two voices, almost in chorus.

“Have you anything extra you can spare for us? We haven’t eaten since noon, you see. We were supposed to have a great banquet…”

The station master, Costans, bit his lip and shook his head sadly. “You’ll have to ask the wife about that, but I doubt it. The supply train is a day late, and everyone is already eating scraps.”

De Prorok stoically took it all in. Taking a deep preparatory breath, he barked an order to Belaid. He needed to do something before Reygasse got them all shot. “Start camp, Monsieur Belaid. Let’s make the best of it. Maurice, wire Touggart and tell them we aren’t coming and they can call off the hunt til morning. Chapuis, see what you can do about food, if you will.”

“Can I go with him?” asked Pond.

Lonnie didn’t know much about the desert although he’d heard of the desert code of hospitality, and how no one would ever let a guest starve, even a stranger. He sincerely hoped that was more accurate intelligence than the geography books and maps had provided so far. He did know he hadn’t starved in France during the war, though, even in places where there was precious little to spare, and had talked more than one housewife out of an egg or a chicken in time of need. This situation warranted his best efforts, before the Renault drivers tried to eat poor Martini.

As Costans led the Count and Reygasse to the telegraph office, the rest of the expedition maneuvered the cars into a wide triangle, shining their headlights into the center to illuminate their workspace.

Tyrrell, Chapuis and Pond conferred, then headed towards the largest, most European-looking house. There they were met at the door by the chatelaine, Madame Costans, a thin, hawk-faced woman with no discernible sense of humor. The three men all bowed. Chapuis took his cap in his hand and offered a meek “Bonjour Madame.” The others chimed in as well, hoping to get in her good graces. They got a single, suspicious nod in reply.

“Only one of you is French.”

Chapuis admitted that the other visitors were American, which elicited an arched eyebrow. Pond came forward, twisting his hat in hand and offered a small bow. “We’re surprised to find such a lovely French woman out here. It makes the trip almost worth it.” Both parties smiled at the lie. “Madame, is it possible that you might spare some dinner tonight? We’ve not eaten all day, you see. We were supposed to be in Touggart tonight. As you can see, we didn’t make it and we have to spend the night here.”

“How many are you?”

Pond shrugged, “Not many at all. Only twelve of us.”

“Twelve, how am I supposed to feed twelve of you? I’m afraid I can’t help you, I’m sorry.”

Tyrrell’s shoulders sagged in disappointment. Chapuis and Pond grinned. This was only the first salvo of what could be a long back and forth battle. “I know it’s a huge imposition, Madame,” Louis said, “and it shames me that I’ve led my people into this situation. Are you sure you can’t help us just a bit?”

“I’ve never known a French woman yet who couldn’t make a miracle out of an egg—like the loaves and fishes,” added Pond.

“Eggs,” she spat, “we don’t even have chickens.” Just then a clucking squawk erupted from behind the house. “Just one stupid old rooster…not a hen left,” she hastily explained.

“Perhaps just some porridge, or a couscous?” Pond asked again. This was an unexpected turn, and Madame Station Agent raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“That’s native food. You’d eat that?” Pond smiled. The game was afoot.

“What’s couscous?” Tyrrell asked out of the side of his mouth as he smiled and nodded as if thrilled with the notion.

“It’s hard to explain,” Pond said in English. “It’s kind of like grits only edible. Usually made with meat, if they have it. It’s not bad and a little can feed an army.”

He turned back to the lady who was trying to understand the foreign conversation. Pond switched back to French. “It may be peasant food, but in your hands it would be a feast. We’d be ever so grateful. Thank you so much.”

“I’ll see what I can do. It will take an hour or so.” She looked at their clay encrusted pants and boots. “I’ll bring it out to you when it’s ready.”

“Merci, Madame,” and the three backed away bowing, as if to a Queen. This brought both a contemptuous snort and a giggle from the woman as she hustled into the shack, shouting at someone, either a servant or a child.

“Good work, Pond.” Chapuis clapped him on the shoulder. Tyrrell pulled out his pipe and stuffed a pinch of tobacco inside, spilling most of it as they walked. “Did those charms work on all the French women when you were there?”

“Unfortunately only ones that looked like that, and only when it came to food.”

“Maybe we won’t tell Dorothy about this, huh? Hey, not that I’m ungrateful, but do they have meat in this couscous or is it just like a porridge?” Just then, a shrieking squawk could be heard, accompanied by the hysterical flapping of wings.

“I suspect this one will have some chicken in it,” Pond said, very pleased with himself.

A long hour later, Monsieur and Madame Costans arrived, bearing a huge platter on which was couscous with bits of stewed chicken. Another family came bearing a bowl of local olives, and a third brought some dates as dessert. Along with the little bit of bread left over from lunch and the rest of the wine, it turned into quite a feast.

Reygasse, his mood improved considerably and still hell-bent on having a banquet tonight, invited their hosts to sit and join them. After the appropriate refusals, they sat down on the ground with a smile. The crew would have dived right in, but there was a lack of utensils, which caused a moment of consternation and confusion before Belaid explained what they were eating, and how one ate it with one’s fingers without seeming like savages.

Madame Costans’ concern that fancy people like Frenchmen and Americans didn’t eat peasant food was well founded. It turned out that Tyrrell, Barth, Denny and the drivers Chaix and Escande, had never eaten native cuisine. It struck none of their party as odd that they’d been in Algeria two weeks already, and this was their first local meal. Hunger proved a good teacher, though, and they quickly figured out that the process of getting food to one’s mouth with fingers was universal.

Now that the rumbling in his stomach had quieted down, de Prorok could think again. He stood and called for attention. First he toasted Madame Costans for her beauty and generosity, then M. Costans for allowing them the pleasure of a safe place to sleep and the company of his charming wife and friends.

The wine seemed to be working wonderfully well on empty stomachs, because it wasn’t long before the teasing and story-telling began. One of the Constans’ neighbors shouted that since they were eating like Arabs, it was Muslim custom to sing for one’s supper.

“Ah yes indeed. A song. Allow me, if you would.” De Prorok started off by bowing deeply to his audience, drawing up all his dignity. He stood with a very serious look on his face, taking an opera singer’s stance. He cleared his throat, folded his hands professionally across his chest, and then launched into a mildly profane but very funny French folk song, complete with a silly, wiggling dance. The audience erupted in applause and laughter.

Then he turned to the drivers with a cold smile. “Gentlemen, I believe some gratitude is in order. See if you can find your way through a song, at least, will you?” Moping, they stood up, conferred, then Chaix and Escande sang a song popular with French soldiers during the war that got polite applause. Caid Belaid contributed an Arab ballad which few people understood, but contained enough trills and ululations to impress.

Brad Tyrrell spared everyone from his singing voice by playing his mouth organ which greatly amused everyone who hadn’t spent the last three days in a car with him. The locals had never seen such an instrument and clamored for more, which pleased the American mightily. Maurice Reygasse leaned over to the Count and whispered, “Maybe he’s good for something besides babysitting the Museum’s money after all.” Byron let the uncharitable remark pass. Everyone was tired and a little grumpy.

Pond was getting nervous. It was almost his turn, and flattering housewives was as close as he came to a talent for poetry or music. Eyes turned to him, expectantly.

“Brad, what am I supposed to do? You’ve heard me sing… it will start an international incident,” he asked the older American.

“Hell, kid, I don’t know. Just do something. What did you do at school?”

The musicales and skit nights at Beloit College were largely the province of fraternity boys and rich kids who didn’t have to work, hardly Pond’s world. He stood up and sheepishly explained that while it wasn’t a song, exactly, the school cheer did go something like this. He then threw his arms in the air and waved them back and forth in time to a chant:

“Ole Olson, Yohnny Yohnson, Go Beloit…Wisconsin.” He repeated it twice, giving it the old college try and entreating others to join in. After a couple of half-hearted attempts, he slunk back to his place by the fire, embarrassed, while Byron explained to the confused audience as best he could the notion of a school cheer and why Americans were so attached to them.

To shake him out of his funk, Tyrrell nudged Pond in the ribs. “Let’s teach them, ‘How do you do Harry Jones?’ You’ll have to translate, though.” Pond regained his feet and explained in French that it was a song many groups sang to welcome visitors. You sing the song and put the visitors name in it. Then you sing another chorus saying
that
person’s name, and adding the next name to it and try to get through it by including everyone.

He demonstrated by singing, “How do you do—and pointed at Tyrrell, who sang back ‘Brad Tyrrell’.” He led a few brave souls in echoing it back. Then he sang “How do you do….and pointed at the Count, who quickly added in his lush baritone, “Byron Prorok” a few more people joined in singing, “How do you do Byron Prorok,” then Pond pointed back to Brad, and a few people managed to utter a mangled “Brahd Teerell,” and on it went until everyone was properly introduced and the audience dissolved into giggles, falling over themselves in both French and English.

The night air and plentiful food finally warmed the travelers, and morning would arrive early so the party drew to a close. De Prorok thanked everyone profusely, kissed Mme Constans’ bony hand adieu and the expedition settled down to a few hours of sleep on the hard ground.

The day’s stresses had sapped the team’s energy. Everyone, even Denny, who hated sleeping outdoors more than most New Yorkers, fell fast asleep with a minimum of grousing. The night was warmer and dryer than the day had been, and surprisingly comfortable.

It was also extremely pleasant, it turned out, for the mosquitoes which were usually dormant for the year by now but with all kinds of wet places to spawn, they used them as a base of attack. They spent the night tormenting the members of the team and waking each of them in turn with either their incessant humming or stinging.

Eventually, dawn broke and the team straggled to their feet. The Costans, or some other locals, had left dates and bread for their breakfast. The team broke camp as quickly as possible and headed alongside the now visible railroad tracks to Touggart, arriving mid-morning in an itching, scratching, mud-bedraggled caravan.

God help us
, Byron thought to himself as they pulled into Touggart.
This was supposed to be the easy leg of the trip.