by Wayne Turmel
Pond thought his derisive snort at the mention of Reygasse had been kept to himself, but de Prorok obviously caught it. “Lonnie, what is your issue with Reygasse?”
“That toy general routine gets on my nerves.”
“I understand. He does look a bit like a Gilbert and Sullivan character doesn’t he? But without him and the Musée we wouldn’t be able to dig here at all. And his contacts with the government and the local tribes have secured our supplies all along the route. I don’t know what I’d do without him.”
Pond just took another sip of coffee. One thing they’d do, he thought, is save a lot of money. Every time they turned around he was renegotiating some detail of the trip, usually placing the blame on the local officials or the tribes. “Greedy bastards,” he’d say while extorting yet more cash for the permits, extra materiel or whatever else they needed.
“What happened back in Tangiers with you two?”
“I don’t like the way he treats his wife,” Pond said simply.
“You’re not… I mean it’s not a…”
“No, oh Christ no. I have a girl, and…. It’s just, he….” Pond tried to find a diplomatic way out of this. Maybe he needed more coffee after all. The trouble started when the poor mousey little woman had dared to correct Monsieur le Marshall on some detail in a story he was spinning, and Reygasse would have none of it. He grabbed her roughly by the arm and escorted her to the door to the accompaniment of some of the vilest language Pond ever heard directed at a respectable woman. Being in the ambulance corps, he knew most of the really good French epithets, but he learned a few more that night. “He manhandled her, in front of people. I don’t trust a man who treats a woman that way.”
“Quite right. Still, not ours to judge what goes on in a marriage is it?”
“No, I suppose not. But there’s the way he’s treating the College. Did you hear that nonsense with Brad’s expenses?”
“Yes, something about what they’d pay for and what they won’t. That’s all between the Logan and the Musée of course, not exactly our business. I try to keep my nose out of it.”
“You mean you don’t want to tick him off, and so you take his side, no matter the cost to the College or to Brad.”
“Without Maurice Reygasse, we have no digging rights. We need to remember that.” Sometimes Byron wished he could forget himself, but the reality was omnipresent, and made cooperation between the Logan and the authorities absolutely imperative.
“Oh, he manages to bring it up occasionally.” Pond was getting worked up again. Since the War it was like there was a rich American surcharge on everything. If, like Brad Tyrrell, you actually were a rich American, you were fair game. Pond was not rich, and frequently used local intermediaries to get the things he needed at a fair price.
“Have some coffee, Lonnie. We’re underway now. Smooth sailing from here on out.” Byron toasted him with his tiny coffee cup. Pond poured himself some and toasted back with considerably less enthusiasm.
The two men silently wrote in their journals as the coffee burned its way through the morning fog, the scratch-scratch of pencil on paper interspersed with the more muted scratching of fingernails through cloth.
Pond’s writing was small and precise, although much neater than the man himself. De Prorok’s notebook was full of what could have been hieroglyphics – a mix of French and English, his script large, full of curlicues and swooping “L”s and “S”s.
The hotel began to stir around them as staff and travelers emerged, blinking and scratching, into the sunlit café. Hal Denny, already sweating and looking like he hadn’t slept more than a few minutes, came in from outside. The Count called him over with that honking voice and a broad smile. “Ahhh, our Boswell. Did you get your story filed, Hal?”
“Well, it’s written. Whether it will get out of here in one piece is another question.” Byron knew he had to do something. The reporter had been singularly pessimistic and miserable since the moment he arrived in Algeria. An unhappy reporter was likely to write unflattering stories, and that was no good for business.
He certainly wasn’t the movie version of a foreign correspondent, either. Denny wasn’t much taller than Pond, and looked like he’d spent the night fully clothed and wadded into a ball, rather than in a semi-comfortable hotel bed. He seldom smiled, and seemed to consider sighing heavily a natural part of the respiratory process.
Soon the whole party was caffeinated, fed and packed. On the Count’s signal, Barth ran outside to set up his tripod and camera to capture their glorious departure to the half-hearted cheers of a handful of sullen hotel employees. No sooner were they off then they stopped, waited for Barth to catch up and climb aboard the lead vehicle, and took off again. Sandy led the parade, as always, followed by Hot Dog with Lucky Strike bringing up the rear.
Byron looked out the window. So far, the trip had been a disappointment, especially to the Americans. Instead of a dangerous adventure in the mighty African desert, they were in comfortable automobiles, leaving one hotel on the way to another, on roads that wouldn’t have been out of place in most of America outside the big cities. Every few miles they’d pass another hamlet, usually containing a gas station, a market of some kind, an inn, and the life-giving town well. True, the pictures could be manipulated, but somehow all this was missing the sense of drama he and his audiences craved.
The terrain rose slightly as they neared a ridge up front, and Martini cursed.
“What is it?” Pond asked. “They can’t be out of gas again, can they?”
De Prorok stood beside Sandy happily waving his walking stick. The occupants of the other trucks got out, stood and stretched, curious as to the source of the excitement. “Everything okay?” Tyrrell shouted.
“Couldn’t be better, but I thought you’d want to see this.” The road peaked at a narrow gap between two stones, then dipped sharply downwards. The Count stood atop the rock to the left, making a majorette’s twirling baton out of his walking stick.
“Get your good first look at the real Sahara gentlemen.” He spread his arms wide in welcome. The clicking of Barth’s camera drifted by them on the breeze, almost drowned out by the dull grumble of the three engines. Byron noticed that Reygasse chose not to share in the moment, staying in Hot Dog, feigning sleep and moping.
Pond, Tyrrell and Denny came forward to look over the crest of the hill. Ahead of them lay a vast, flat plain. Despite what the travel books said, the first expanses of the Sahara from the North weren’t sandy, but rock strewn and brown, broken up by small patches of light colored sand. The plain lay two hundred feet below them and stretched infinitely southward.
“Isn’t it wonderful, Pond?” De Prorok prodded for an elusive sign of happiness from the American.
Alonzo wasn’t sure he could provide it. “It doesn’t look very, I don’t know, Sahara-like, does it?”
Byron wondered what it would take to make the American happy. “Oh, you’ll get your sand and your camels. Not to worry. The rain will stop, too.”
Along the southern and western horizons, Pond could make out the green blots indicating a well or spring, surrounded by date trees. Some of those trees grew over eighty feet tall, but from their vantage point they were smudges of green on an unending flat, tawny canvas.
Looking directly past de Prorok and down the mountainside, Alonzo could see a thin, curved goat track of a road carved in the side of the mountain. A steep switchback led downwards and, assuming they survived that, a single straight line led southwest towards the horizon and El Kantara. It looked for all the world like God, or Allah, or whoever ruled here simply dragged his finger in the dust to show the way.
The little ceremony over, they jumped back in the cars and Sandy disappeared over the ridge first, followed closely by Hot Dog. Martini and the Lucky Strike sat for a few minutes. Pond and Tyrrell shot silent questions back and forth until Tyrrell couldn’t take it anymore.
“Martini, why aren’t we moving?” Martini turned with a sly grin.
“I’ve driven this road before. They haven’t. They’re going to go down too slowly, and maybe burn out their brakes. That one in the lead, Escande? He’s probably pissing his pants right now,” and he chuckled a little harder than Pond thought tasteful or appropriate.
“I give them a head start so we can do it right and spare the brakes.”
“So you’re actually going to go down faster than they are?” Pond was delighted Martini was looking after the brakes but then thought about the sharp turns snaking down the mountainside. The part about doing so faster than everyone was considerably less comforting.
At long last, Lucky Strike lurched into action and they headed up the hill, then sharply down and to the right. The view out the right window by Pond was a sheer wall of crumbling grey and brown rock and the occasional sere bush. On Tyrrell’s side, there was a lot of air, then the brown expanse of the desert floor.
The big truck slowed, maneuvered a sharp left turn, and the passengers traded views. Pond watched Martini nervously. The driver’s left hand locked onto the wheel, the right alternated between the gear shift and the hand brake. His eyes were fixed on the dusty track ahead of him and the herculean task of keeping all twelve tires on the ground at the same time. For the most part, he succeeded.
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 100th 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 tr
avel.” 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.
