The Count of the Sahara

by Wayne Turmel

  His eyes lit up, or maybe it was the rye. “Because they weren’t distracted. Everything worked tonight, so they could stay with me. No breaks in concentration. Last time they’d be in Algeria one minute, then wiggling their bums in hard gymnasium chairs watching someone turn a slide upside right the next. I couldn’t sustain the magic.”

  He rattled on, explaining about rhythm, and how a good lecture was like a Beethoven symphony, which seemed like a stretch to me, but I didn’t like long-hair music much more than I liked lectures.

  “You can’t have crashing symbols and pounding drums for ninety minutes, you need gentler movements and slow, dramatic builds, but they can’t be interrupted. I mean, you need the big horns and all to keep people awake and excited.” Tonight, according to him, it flowed. Even if Ames was just some cow-college town, it worked. And if they all went like this, well soon it would be real cities.

  “What cities?” I asked.

  “Would you believe New York City? There’s talk of Carnegie Hall in the spring, maybe June. Would you like to see New York, Brown?” My sudden dizziness was only partly due to the rye.

  We talked about what worked (the unveiling of the tomb seemed to really grab them) and what didn’t (that jazz with the robe and the sword looked kind of goofy). He watched me over the lip of his glass as we spoke, listening like I knew what I was talking about, which was completely ridiculous because I didn’t know nothing from nothing and knew it all too well.

  “Your glass is empty.” So it was, and he fixed that little problem immediately. I should have stopped him, but he was in the middle of a story about Madame Rouvier. She was the rich lady with the boobs popping out of her dress in the first movie. At least that’s how I remembered her. He recalled her fondly as the one person in all of North Eastern Algeria who could iron out all the permits for their trip.

  “A charming woman, Denise, but not subtle,” he said cryptically.

  “Did her husband know about you two?” I asked, in that subtle way only an inexperienced, slightly drunk nineteen year old could manage.

  “Brown, I’m married. Happily so, if there is such a thing. She was too, although certainly less happy. No, I never slept with Denise Rouvier, much to her great disappointment, I’m sure.”

  “Then why did she help you?”

  “Because I charmed everything but the pants off her. Charm, Brown—you should try it some time.” Yes, he’d flirted, intimated, cajoled, stroked fingers while reaching for green beans, and stood far too close for propriety’s sake, but he swore up and down her virtue remained intact. At least it was as of the time of his departure.

  “Is that why you always kiss the girl’s hand when you leave?” I was thinking about the way he treated our escort. “I thought for sure, you know, with the blonde at Grinnell. Maybe not so much with the pudgy one here…”

  “I’ll let you in on a secret, Willy. American men think everything is about either sex or baseball. Flirting isn’t about sex. It’s a game. A fun game, too, if you learn how to play it properly.” My blank stare began to irritate him a little.

  “Seduction is complete when you know the other person has given up and you can get what you want from them. Sex is merely the reward for your hard work. Or the price you have to pay. In the case of Denise Rouvier, it would have been a very high price, believe me.”

  “How do you do that? How do you know how to talk to people like that?”

  He took another sip of his whisky, and threw his head back for a moment, silent. “How did you know how to handle the lantern projector the other night, when whats-his-name couldn’t manage?”

  I didn’t see the connection, but he refused to let me off the hook so I just mumbled, “You just feel it. Say it slides real easy. If you push too hard you can knock it off k-k-kilter, or break something so you need to be gentle with it. Sometimes it needs a rough p-p-push. You can tell just by feel.” Anyone who’d ever worked with machines knew that.

  “So you know how things normally work, then you adjust based on how it feels, right?” Yeah, that was about it.

  “Same thing.” He took a big swallow. “It’s exactly the same damned thing.” It sure didn’t feel like the same thing at all, but then I wasn’t as smart as him.

  We talked in easy circles for a long time. The conversation would drift off for a while. We’d gab about Wisconsin, or the South of France, but it always came back around to the lecture that night. Yes, it had gone well, but there were two things that really bothered him, and he couldn’t let them go.

  First was that damned reporter. “Why did she have to go and spoil everything? People were having such a good time, and she tried to bring it all… down. Why do some people always feel the need to revisit dead issues? I mean, it’s settled. Why can’t they just give me credit for doing my bloody job?” I had no answer for him, but I don’t think he really expected one.

  The second bone he continued to gnaw was the mess with the robe. The real props and relics just didn’t generate the excitement of the movies and pictures. “What I really need to do is bring out a real, honest-to-god Tuareg. Scariest people I’ve ever met, including…” he winked at me as he polished off another drink, “Madame Rouvier. You should see King Akhamouk. Impressive as hell in the flesh. The robes, the swords, all very romantic and exciting. And I wouldn’t need to haul around all this projection gear.”

  I wouldn’t have said anything earlier in the evening, but the Templeton truth serum was working its magic on me. “It all looks a bit… girly. The Arabs in movies always look scarier.”

  That drew a contemptuous sniff. “Arabs are a small, suspicious, superstitious people. Scary with a dagger if your back is turned, but not someone you’d worry about in a real fight. The Tuaregs, though, are much, much bigger. They’re all about my height. Or yours.”

  He stopped and looked me up and down. “Jesus, you are a big one. How tall are you, anyway?”

  “About six feet and a bit, I guess.”

  He sat straight up. “Right, and you’re bigger across the shoulders than I am, like he is. Wait!” He leapt to his feet, swayed a second while he corrected his balance, then stumbled over to the trunk with all the robes and props. “Stand up, Brown.”

  I managed to get to my feet on the second attempt. I wondered what he was doing. Then the light slowly dawned. No way. “Unh uh.”

  “Oh come on, I’m making a point here.” He threw the blue robe over my shoulders, and pulled it down over me roughly, while I wriggled like a four year old trying to avoid getting his jammies on.

  Finally, he tugged the burnoose into place, then he attempted to wind the turban around my head—the whiskey making a complicated act even trickier. In frustration, he wrapped it around his own head, then pulled it off and placed the finished product atop my big Kraut cranium. It was just like my Old Man would knot my tie around his own neck, then slip it over my head to finish it up.

  He gripped my shoulders and spun me towards the mirror on the wardrobe door. Facing me was a six-foot tall, pale, slightly the worse for drink Tuareg warrior. I didn’t look much like the scourge of the Sahara. I looked like Fatty Arbuckle in a Christmas pageant, and told him so.

  “Hmmmmm, you’re right.” He inspected me head to toe like a critical haberdasher, then reached into the box and pulled out a scrap of cloth the same deep blue as the robe, lined with beadwork and small metal wires along the top and bottom. He examined it thoughtfully, then wheeled around and held it over my mouth as if to chloroform me.

  “Hold still, dammit.” I wanted to stamp my foot and pout, but settled for shaking my head. He grabbed me by the turban long enough to connect the veil across the bridge of my nose. Then he wheeled me back to the mirror. Except for the bloodshot peepers, my reflection looked more like a denizen of the desert than it looked like me.

  With a final flourish, he handed me the sword and showed me how to take up a warrior’s stance; feet apart, sword upright in the middle of my body. “Take a couple of good swings with
it,” he said after taking a couple of long steps back.

  I mimicked the moves he’d made on stage earlier. I had to admit, it looked pretty terrifying until the blade snapped and fell limply to one side. There was an awkward silence, then he said, “Well, yes, whiskey has been known to do that,” and he erupted in laughter.

  I looked at the broken flyssa. “Has that ever happened before?”

  He wiped a tear of laughter from his eye. “You tell me. How well do you hold your liquor?” I didn’t get it, which made him laugh even harder. I didn’t know what I’d done that was so funny, and this was starting to get uncomfortable.

  He plunked down in his chair, cackling wildly as he poured himself yet another drink. I quickly yanked the turban from my head, letting it unspool in an undignified pile at my feet and then de-robed. I was determined to get out of there while this was still the most humiliating thing to happen.

  “Aww, and you make such a fine Tuareg, Brown. The Akhamouk of Ames. The mightiest warrior in all of Iowa,” he chuckled.

  We made vague plans for the next morning, and I made slow, deliberate progress down the stairs, careful not to wake whoever had managed to sleep through our performance to that point.

  When the bed stopped spinning, I drifted off to sleep watching snow fall outside the window. I made a mental note to fix the fake sword before our next stop in Moline. I also had the nagging feeling I’d agreed to do something else for the Count, but couldn’t remember what it was. It probably wasn’t a big deal, I decided, and passed out cold.

  Chapter 8

  Touggart, Algeria

  October 16, 1925

  “Ack, ack, ack, ack.”

  Bradley Tyrrell, millionaire business owner and philanthropist, squatted in the mud making pretend machine gun noises, while Martini and Pond watched and nodded approvingly.

  Martini managed something like a smile. “Très bien. Let’s do it again. Alonzo, allez-vous.”

  In putting the expedition together, De Prorok decided a machine gun would be a good thing to have. For some reason, ammunition wasn’t an equal priority. In order not to waste what little they had in rehearsal, they pretended to fire into a group of imaginary rampaging Tuaregs and made the most convincing noises they could muster.

  Another thing they lacked was any kind of fighting experience. Pond had been an ambulance driver in the War, his experience with weapons limited to avoiding them whenever possible, and picking up the remains of those who couldn’t do the same once the firing ceased. Tyrrell had seen a lot of movies and once met someone on a business trip to Chicago who knew someone who had met Al Capone. Martini served with a French artillery unit in La Guerre Mondiale. That made him commanding officer.

  The two Americans clumsily disconnected the gun from the collapsible stand and loaded it back in Lucky Strike. Then, on Martini’s command, they hauled it out again, reassembled it and Pond took his turn firing imaginary bullets into the hypothetical attackers. “Ack, ack, ack, ack.”

  Pond knew he looked ridiculous, but the optimum time to learn the use of this contraption wasn’t when swarming tribesmen and rampaging camels were bearing down on you. For that reason, they decided to take the morning and practice, rainy as it was.

  It was fairly hostile territory, in its own way. They were surrounded by bemused locals.

  “Can I try?” a young boy called in Arabic.

  “C’mon, give me a turn,” yelled another.

  “Agggh, you got me,” shouted the littlest one, spinning wildly where Tyrrell’s phantom projectile hit him and he fell, giggling, into a puddle where he was immediately dogpiled by his friends.

  The elder locals were far less amused. They sat in front of their houses, sipping coffee and shouting obscene jokes about the Americans’ guns shooting blanks that brought howls from the youngsters who didn’t get the joke but appreciated any mocking of foreigners.

  Alonzo looked down at his bleeding and blistered fingers. The gun was an old St Etienne with very finicky works—probably as much a danger to the operator as the people on the muzzle end. He was already in a bad mood, waiting all day for news from home, and this wasn’t helping. He had work to do, real work. “Why us? Why do we get the gun?”

  It was Martini who pointed out that the options were more than a little limited. Who did they want to bet their lives on? The Count? Monsieur Reygasse? Did they want their lives in the hands of the Renault mechanics? Or fat Barth the photographer?

  “But you know, the cars can drive faster than any camel born, we could just outrun them,” Tyrrell said with uncharacteristic churlishness. Martini nodded. “D’accord, as long as we’re on the road and not stuck in the sand. Then…” he gave a most eloquent shrug. “Encore, please.”

  They were saved by a loud, piercing whistle from Chapuis. “Post’s here.”

  Pond and Tyrrell re-packed the St Etienne and the stand along with the unopened ammo box with considerably more speed and gusto than they’d managed to that point, wiped their hands on their pants, and hustled back to the hotel in higher spirits. Alonzo watched over his shoulder as Martini carefully locked the vehicle and informed the children in curse-laden Arabic what would happen to them if they touched anything. Then the little Italian wandered off in the other direction, enjoying the chance to be alone.

  De Prorok sat at a table in the lobby of the hotel with a short glass full of brandy and a thick stack of envelopes, addressed in a host of languages, in front of him, sorting them by recipient. Each Renault driver had a letter, Martini had none—but then the Italian had no family he was aware of. Hal Denny had two or three letters, none of them official looking. Brad Tyrrell received only a couple of postcards, sent from friends in Europe apparently having a swell time and wishing he was with them. Three envelopes awaited Alonzo Pond; a thin one from Dorothy, Pond’s new flame back in Wisconsin, one from his parents in Janesville, and an ominously bulging packet from the Logan Museum.

  I wish I knew how to make Lonnie happy. He’s not a bad sort, if a bit serious about everything. And God only knows what he’s reporting back to Collie, de Prorok thought. Beloit College’s support was important for this trip, even more critical to his plans for the next few years. There had to be a way to make the little American get fully onboard. Far better to have Pond as an ally than an enemy, and they were off to a demonstrably shaky start.

  He examined his own stack of mail. An imposing manila envelope clearly marked Beloit College lay on top, and he quickly moved it to the bottom of the pile. The same with what was probably a scolding letter from his mentor, Professor Gsell. Why ruin a nice afternoon until you absolutely had to?

  He picked up the expensive-looking embossed envelop, slit the seal with his thumbnail and opened it up. Alice’s round, girlish handwriting filled the page:

  October 14, 1925

  Paris

  Dearest Byron,

  How are you? The girls and I are well and missing you terribly. Little Alice smiled at me today, although Annie says that’s only gas, and she’s too young. I told her the baby is every bit as smart as her father and is ahead of the other children, and she just laughed. M-T misses her Papa something awful, and has been very naughty, but she is two and they say that’s what they do at that age. I don’t know.

  I hope you’ve solved your little problem with the local suppliers. Daddy agreed to wire the money, but he was awfully cross about it. I know that when you come back such a success he’ll appreciate you more, like I do. Please try to be nicer to him, you’ll win him over and he’ll come around.

  Mother is looking forward to having us for Christmas, and I have to admit I’m looking forward to going home. To Brooklyn, I mean. I like Paris, but the only person I can speak English with is Annie. The rest of the staff speak English reasonably well, but insist I speak in French to learn, then make fun of me because I’m so awful. They think they’re helping but it just seems mean.

  I don’t mean to complain, I just miss you so much. Sometimes I wish I were with you in
the desert, like back at Carthage, instead of sitting here by myself changing diapers. Mary says she’s coming over in a few weeks, then will go back to NY with us. Won’t that be nice?

  Be safe, and come back to me dripping with gold and diamonds and glory like you promised.

  All my love,

  A

  Byron felt a glow that was only partially from the brandy. He really did miss Alice and the babies. The details of the household, which used to bore him to tears, seemed absolutely charming at this distance. For the first time in a while, she sounded like the Alice he married; the spunky New York heiress who was game for anything. She was such a good sport she spent her honeymoon at a dig in Carthage, eating camp food and shoveling sand into a sieve. She found it all great fun, and loved being the center of attention, especially by the press.

  No one could possibly love being Countess de Prorok more than Alice de Prorok née Kenny. Unfortunately, just as the fun was beginning, she came down with two off-setting conditions; an itch for travel and a suddenly swelling belly. For a while, she seemed to resent Byron for her plight, but his last visit home, and this letter, seemed to bode well for their future.

  Her father, however, was a different matter. Like all fathers-in-law, Bill Kenny thought Byron beneath his daughter. Like all sons-in-law, he found that an insulting notion, but when your only yardstick was money, completely reasonable. Oh well, that will change soon enough. Let the nouveau-riche bastard complain when we find the treasure, and I come home with the digging rights and the income that goes with them. Let’s see if Mr. “I’m good friends with Al Smith” lords it over me then.

  He looked over the rest of his mail. One letter bore very good news—an offer to speak at Grinnell College, wherever the hell that was. Byron checked the address again. Iowa, he knew, was somewhere near Chicago, so maybe he could string a decent run of dates together and make it worthwhile, although the idea of the Midwest in January was less than enticing.