The Count of the Sahara Page 7

  “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.


  Chapter 6

  Hassi Khalifa, Algeria

  October 15, 1925

  When Chapuis knocked on his door a little before six, Alonzo was already awake. He tried not to wake Brad and Martini as he asked, “Louis, what’s going on?”

  “I’ve got a surprise for you, ‘Lonzo. Come on.”

  “What is it?” the American asked groggily.

  “That’s why they call it a surprise, come on. And be quiet. Oh, and bring a coat, it’s colder than a whore’s heart this morning.”

  Twenty minutes, and one small very insufficient cup of coffee later, the two men stood at the base of a large boulder just outside the village. On the north side, a deep hole tunneled deep beneath the striated stone. This early in the morning, it looked even more insignificant than it would most other times. Pond was getting irritated with Chapuis’ mysterious attitude.

  “I’ll bite. What am I looking at?” The guide gave him an indulgent smile, dipped his hand in a puddle and smeared the water across the lower edge of the rock and shone his electric torch on the wet spot. Barely discernible, three lines formed an arrow aimed at an even fainter circle with four lines emerging from it.

  Pond looked closer and whistled. “No, really?”

  Louis eagerly nodded. “I asked someone last night if there were any stories about this place. I knew most of them, but then they mentioned this rock. Everybody knows about it, but nobody cares much.”

  He bent down and picked up a stone, darker than the rest of the shards and gravel, and held it out to Pond whose eyes widened. Only someone with a well trained eye would appreciate this as he could. It was a projectile head, probably a spear tip, crudely but effectively chipped by hand and stone a long, long time ago.

  “Who knows about this?”

  “Besides you and me? Everyone around here but no one who matters. Reygasse knows about the site but hasn’t pissed on it yet because he doesn’t think it’s worthwhile. Not enough shiny things for him, and the drawings are too faint to bring in tourists.”

  Pond only half listened as he ran his hands through the gravel. He squatted as low as he could without actually sitting in the muddy water that pooled around their feet. Without a torch of his own, it was more a symbolic gesture than an attempt to see very much. “How deep?”

  “Deep enough to eat and sleep in, maybe skin your catch.”

  Eagerly, Alonzo ran his fingers through the gravel, where he found another sharp stone, this one definitely an arrowhead. He also found the telltale tiny shards of flint that indicated the weapons had been fashioned here, not just brought from somewhere else. This had once been a full-fledged hunting camp. Flint told a lot of stories, if you knew what you were looking at, and even as a graduate student, Pond had a far better eye than most.

  Louis stood up wiping the grime from his hands. “When we’re done, it might be worth coming back. Probably a lot of good work to be done here, and you can get a decent cup of coffee and sleep indoors every night.”

  Pond wasn’t sure proximity to the village was much of a selling point, but he nodded. “Sure might. Merci, Louis. Thanks so much.” The anthropologist in him itched to grab his tools and start digging, but he knew there was no time. It took weeks, maybe a lifetime to search, catalogue and really analyze a site like this properly. The best he could do in the next month and a half was collect the best scraps for the Logan Museum, and create a wish list of potential digs for the Santa Clauses in Beloit to grant.

  “Not at all. And the Count will probably give you a discount on the digging rights.”

  Pond froze in place. “What do you mean?”

  “Next year. You know. When this is all over, Reygasse is going to give de Prorok the rights for this corner of Algeria. All the permits will go through him. That should be a good deal for you and the Museum, no?” He paused. “Oh, Christ, you didn’t know. I just thought… well, you’re partners and all...”

  Pond just shook his head. No, he had no idea. He wondered if Dr. Collie and the big shots back in Beloit knew about this. The excitement of the morning’s discovery dissipated like fog in a stiff breeze.

  “We should go back,” the guide suggested.

  “Yeah. Time’s awasting.” Pond put the two flint relics in his pocket, and they walked back to the inn in silence.

  They were back at their lodgings in plenty of time to warm up and help pack for the easy straight run to Touggart. The clouds were lighter today, although still gray, and Pond thought the cold wind felt more like the Dakotas than the Sahara.

  They left Hassi Khalifa a bit later than planned, but it was such a short, straight run to the next town where Reygasse’s friends were planning a big banquet nobody really cared much. They gave the rain a chance to blow through, then set out again.

  As usual, Martini and Lucky Strike played caboose to the train of cars. Soon enough, Pond noticed, there was a lot of room between the cars, and finally the other two vehicles couldn’t be seen at all. Cautiously, he broached the subject to Martini, who had woken up in a foul mood, which didn’t help the coherence of his French. “Why are we going so much slower than the others?”

  Martini sucked the long hairs of his moustache. “Monsewer Pond. We no go slow. They go fast.”

  “Shouldn’t we go fast, too?” he offered.

  “You wanta run out of gas again? Twenty-five. We go twenty-five alla the time. Save fuel, get inna no trouble.”

  “Let the man do his job, Lonnie.” Pond fumed. Tyrrell’s advice always seemed to be to let people do their jobs. But what if they didn’t do them? What then? He idly wondered if Brad had always had that attitude, and if so, how the Tyrrell knit company ever made its millions. He peered ahead, unable to see anything but the occasional puddle or tread mark in the road ahead.

  Finally, he lay back, pulled out some paper and began composing another letter to Dorothy, describing yesterday’s foolishness with the truck, and hoping it sounded amusing instead of whiney. He thought he had an excellent sense of humor about things, but it didn’t seem to be appreciated by everyone equally.

  Lost in his work, he was jolted to attention by Martini shouting, “Porco Vacca!” and Lucky Strike nosed into a sudden halt. Brad stopped blowing his harmonica and craned around the back of the driver’s head. The driver pounded his palm on the steering wheel. “Ah… ah…. What I tell you Monsewer Pond?”

  Up ahead, Hot Dog, the pride of France’s glorious Société des Automobiles Renault, and the state of the art in desert travel was buried to the axles of its rear eight precisely engineered pneumatic tires in gooey muck. Sandy, driven by the company’s very best chauffeur/ingénieur was twenty feet further down the road, sat mired almost as deeply.

  Caid Belaid stood at the dry edge of the swampy roadbed frantically waving and shouting, “Don’t come any closer. We’re stuck.”

  They were, indeed, stuck. The rains the last few days had washed what little real topsoil there had been into the deepest dips and valleys of the road, turning the dirt into a slurping, sucking sponge, capturing whatever dared cross it like a mosquito in amber.

  As Martini, Tyrrell and Pond approached the other vehicles, de Prorok high-stepped towards them, wiping his hands on his trousers. “Damned worst luck, isn’t it?”

  Pond wasn’t a firm believer in luck, but didn’t intend to hash it out here. “Can we tow you out?”

  The Count looked a bit abashed. “Well, actually, that’s how Sandy got into this pickle. We got through fine, then Chaix got caught. The winch is on Hot Dog there, and we thought, oh, we’ll just brace our car, and when the winch tightens…. It kind of sucked us in, instead. Now we’re both stuck. Damned bad luck.”

  “It’s not luck. What idiot thought up that idea?”

  “Well it wasn’t me was it, Pond? Bloody professional drivers are supposed to know what they’re doing. Apparently the Sahara desert is nothing like the streets of Paris. Who’d have guessed?”

  “Well, I suppose we’d better help if we ever want dinner tonight,�
� Pond said, stripping off his coat and immediately missing its warmth. Grabbing spades meant for more careful digging, the Americans, Martini and de Prorok joined the occupants of the lead vehicles in the slop.

  Byron noticed that everyone, including Denny and a very unhappy, shivering Barth, dug frantically, and futilely, with the small archaeological tools. For a moment, he thought he was seeing things. An Arab was digging with them, alternately shoveling and swearing in perfect French. The strange sight was actually Maurice Reygasse, who’d thrown the cape on in an attempt to keep his uniform presentable for their arrival in Touggart.

  For hours they dug, slipped, smoked and cursed. At first the oaths were directed at Escande for leading them into the quagmire. Then they blamed, in turn, the Renault Brothers, the idiot who thought twelve tires a good idea, the Count, Chapuis (for not alerting them to the danger in time) and then, since mudslides weren’t high on the list of common desert perils, they settled on God himself. The less pious among them cursed with gusto, the rest under their breath on the off chance God was listening and made things worse.

  At last, Martini drove off the road and circled around to the relatively dry road ahead, getting close enough to haul Sandy back onto terra firma. Then Martini managed to link enough rope and chain for both vehicles to haul Hot Dog out of the mud and onto the road bed.

  The rain had stopped, and the sun finally elbowed its way through the clouds, although far too low on the horizon for comfort. The daylight was almost gone, and they were still over two hours to Touggart where baths, a warm bed, and a full blown feast awaited them. Pond heard a stomach growl, and guessed—correctly—it was Barth.

  Caid Belaid squinted into the sun. “Maybe we should spend the night in Stil, and go on in the morning.