The Count of the Sahara (10 page)

Chapter 7

Ames, Iowa

January 26, 1926

I squatted near the stage in my new white overalls, looking for all the world like a giant snowball, in plain view—and earshot—of everyone. As I did all the necessary last-minute puttering, I could hear snatches of conversation behind me.

“Who’s this galoot?”

“He must be part of the show.”

“Ooh, I didn’t know there’d be movies. So it’s not just all some joker talking?”

“Yes, Marv, there’s movies. God’s sake, you’re like a little boy. It wouldn’t kill you to have a little culture.”

Behind me, I could hear Marv defending himself. “What? I like the pictures. Makes it more interesting. What’s wrong with that?” I was on Marv’s side.

Marv was going to get his pictures, alright. I knew, because I’d gone through every one of them that morning, ensuring they were upside down and backwards. I also carefully wiped them with a tiny splash of vinegar and water and an old silk shirt of de Prorok’s to remove the accumulated fingerprints, sweat and God knows what. My eyes almost crossed by the time I was done, but it was worth it.

I flexed my right hand. It felt good not to have the bandages on any more, even if it wasn’t a hundred percent healed. A patch on the back of my hand was shiny and smooth, completely devoid of hair or wrinkles. It still felt tight when I flexed it, but no one could really see. Maybe they were too dazzled by the stupid monkey suit I was wearing. Small blessings.

The cue sheet was in place, large block letters on foolscap so I could read it, and the little Niagara flashlight handy, so I could read in the dark. Somehow, in all the lectures he’d given, it had never occurred to the Count to actually write down what came when so someone could actually read it. I felt a little sorry for all his past assistants. No wonder it was usually such a train wreck. The film canisters were neatly stacked and legibly labeled to the right of the table, the magic lantern and the slides to the left. I guessed I was as ready as I was going to be.

I looked over to the wings of the stage. The Count stood alone, muttering to himself. He cut quite a figure. We’d swapped out the sweat-stained cloth that covered his pith helmet so it was whiter than the Iowa snow. I’d spent almost an hour polishing his boots—my old man would choke if he knew—to an onyx shine. Relaxed and confident, he idly twirled his walking stick and paced back and forth, muttering to himself. He looked up, caught my eye and gestured me over.

I “pardoned,” and “excuse me-ed” my way to the edge of the stage. He leaned down and whispered, “Everything ready, Brown?”

“Yeah, it’s all set up.”

“You’re sure?” A fleeting moment of doubt flashed across his face. I nodded again. He turned away and muttered reassuringly to himself, “Good, very good.” I thought I heard a vague ‘thank you’ but his back was to me.

“So you’re our speaker, are you ready?” That perfect smile reappeared in the split second it took to turn to the speaker, a distinguished looking older guy.

“President Pearson, isn’t it? Yes, indeed. Ready when you are, sir. Just checking with my presentation technician that everything’s ship shape.”

Raymond Pearson, president of Iowa State College seemed suitably impressed. “Well, if your technician says we’re good to go, let’s begin shall we?” He checked his note cards. “And it’s pronounced de Proke?”

“De Pro… rock… actually.”

Pearson wrote it phonetically on a note card, gave a curt nod and walked away muttering to himself. “Prorok. De. Pro. Rok.”

According to one of the knowledgeable voices behind me, Pearson was leaving to take over some big school in Maryland, and only came out now for big sporting events. The Des Moines papers were here tonight, though, so he came out to absorb some reflected glory.

I returned to my position, apologized to the people whose view was suddenly obstructed by this giant white blob, and got ready. The house lights dimmed, the stage lights popped on, and the Honorable Raymond Allan Pearson emerged to polite applause. I guess everyone knew he was a short timer, and didn’t need to ingratiate themselves.

There were the obligatory kind words of thanks, blah blah blah, yakkety yakkety, and something about auspicious occasions. Then he told everyone how proud and pleased he was to introduce the discoverer of Tin Hinan’s tomb, the world’s most renowned archaeologist and his personal friend, Count Byron de Prock. I tried to suppress a laugh that turned into a snort and launched a booger onto the sleeve of my white overalls.

The Count never missed a beat. He shook Pearson’s had warmly, gave him a friendly upper arm squeeze and strode to the edge of the stage. The silver tip of his stick struck the ground. Every eye turned to him expectantly. “Thank you, Ray… President Pearson, I’m sorry. This is a formal occasion.” Pearson beamed and magnanimously forgave him.

“Good evening everyone. I’m truly humbled at the greeting you’ve given me. It proves I was right. You see, I said to myself….” It was the same spiel as last time, only last time it was Des Moines, and just like last time when he got to, “That’s when it occurred to me… Ames Iowa,” they laughed just as hard as they had in Grinnell and Des Moines.

Then he turned to the chubby little brunette who’d escorted us around that afternoon. “I’d like to thank the lovely Miss Angelica Carter for her hospitality…” I was a little surprised that the words hadn’t changed at all. It just seemed so effortless and natural that the notion he wasn’t just making everything up as he went along never occurred to me.

The words drifted back to me, “…The Franco-American Sahara Expedition of 1925. Maestro, if you please…” I was so caught up watching him I almost forgot I was the Maestro in question. I snapped to attention long enough to slide the first picture into place. There was pause and a look of surprised relief on my boss’s face as the members of the expedition and their trucks were displayed with their feet and tires pointing in the proper downward direction.

I mentally shouted at myself to pay attention dammit, and focused on the task at hand. The next slide was the entrance to the desert. I checked my notes, clicked the button on the lantern and… right on cue.

“Our first three days were without incident. I’d like to show you something you don’t often associate with the arid Sahara…” Click, whir and the film showed one of the trucks rolling effortlessly across a wide river.

“We were honored at a banquet of local foods in a little village called Stil…” Another click, another picture. This time it was the Americans shoving something in their mouths with their fingers. Another click, and a snapshot of the Count singing to the gathered audience. As much as the Algerians seemed to have a good time, the good people of Ames enjoyed it just as much.

The time flew by. Snatches of his speech were nothing more than cues for me to start a movie or click a new image into view.

“The grave of Pere Lavigerie…”

“The village of Touggart…”

“Machine gun practice,” that one caused quite a buzz.

“They call this Love Mountain…”

The films were actually quite interesting, the little I saw of them. The natives in the movie looked a little like they do in Hollywood films, only more real. And scary. Not like Valentino or Tom Mix, or any of those guys who didn’t look like they’d ever been in a real fight in their lives.

De Prorok’s voice boomed out to the crowd. “They’re not actually Arab or Negro at all. In fact, many experts think the Tuaregs are a lost white race. They’re taller than their neighbors, and infinitely stranger. The men dress in veils and bright blue robes, while the women are unveiled and run the village. The men can’t be bothered with mundane issues, they’re too busy hunting and fighting… and they all are quite expert in this…”

He pulled the blue robe thingy, I remember it was called a
burnooz,
out of the box and struggled to put it on. “Just a moment…” the more he wriggled, the more tangled up he got, like a backwards Houdini. You could hear a chair scraping impatiently on the floor as someone shifted on their seat.

Finally, he managed to yank it over his clothes, more or less. Then he put on the
tagelmus,
a big blue turban, and grabbed the phony sword, giving it a couple of crisscrossed swipes in front of him, slicing the air to ribbons. That drew some uncomfortable laughter from the crowd.

From my position the sword—he called it a
flyssa
—didn’t look nearly as cheap and fake as it did up close, but it sure wasn’t threatening. The way the pasteboard blade wobbled, I knew it wouldn’t last many more performances. I’d have to take care of that.

A flustered Count de Prorok finally admitted defeat. “And then they would dance with their swords. If you would, please…” That was my cue to start the film of the Tuaregs dancing. It didn’t look like much, just a lot of moving back and forth, waving swords then leaning back, kind of an Arab Hokey Pokey.

It actually made them seem less terrifying. Then I imagined what they’d think if they saw my father and his friends jumping around in their lederhosen and Tyrol hats, wielding nothing more dangerous than steins of beer. Maybe it wasn’t so silly and embarrassing after all.

Shedding the robes proved easier than putting them on. They fell in a heap on the floor, and he unceremoniously kicked them aside as he continued. “Finally, we reached the resting place of the great Berber Queen, the Mother of all Tuaregs, Tin Hinan…” I cranked carefully and the screen burst into light.

The tomb didn’t look much like a movie set, just a small pit with a stone slab room. The Count, and damned if he didn’t look good even after digging in the desert, wore a floppy French hat that drooped over to one side. One of the other guys kneeled beside a tiny, darkened skeleton. Jewels or beads or something were scattered all over the platform. A metal—gold I guess—armband and necklace adorned the bones. The Count lovingly caressed the skull as they all shook hands and smiled to the camera.

For a moment, we were no longer in snowy, Methodist, Iowa, but a big budget Ronald Coman movie. Any minute now, Vilma Bánky would scream for help and our heroes would have to run to her rescue. The spell stayed cast until the film ran out, and the screen erupted into white light accompanied by the flap-flap-flap of the trailer against the projector.

I clicked off the light, and the place was completely dark except for the row of stage lights. The Count, eyes flashing happily, took two steps forward. His eyes scanned the crowd back left to front right, then front right to rear left. Every audience member was convinced he looked straight at them. Slowy he tilted his head upwards and opened his arms wide. The tip and handle of his walking stick caught the light and glinted in his right hand.

“The New York Times called it…” and he went into his finishing speech. “…With you, the good people of Ames, Iowa, tonight.” He paused, taking in each face in silence. After a short, wordless pause, he placed his hand over his heart and gave a small, elegant bow.

The place went crazy. Everyone applauded. Even Marv behind me risked his wife’s displeasure by breaking decorum and putting two fingers in his mouth, whistling his shrill appreciation. The ‘pictures’ really had made things better.

I rocked back on my heels and began rewinding the film. I was so busy it took me a moment to catch onto what he was saying from the platform, but finally it filtered through.

“And if you notice that we didn’t suffer the slings and arrows so often associated with projectors and equipment, it’s because of the unsung hero of the evening…” Oh Christ no. He wasn’t really going to do it. Of course he was. “My presentation technician and aide de camp, Willy Brown.” He extended an open palm my way and several hundred eyes locked on my burning red face.

I managed a weak wave in acknowledgment, then returned to my equipment. I wished I could have crawled into one of the crates until everyone was gone. Ignoring the good wishes of the crowd, I set to work while my employer finished up with the usual question time.

Inevitably the first question was, “is there a Countess?” Then “What’s your next trip?” Something was different about the next question, though.

“Count de Prorok, the New York Times reported there’s some controversy with your discovery. Some even claim the body you say is Tin Hinan isn’t even female…” The young woman, a pretty enough redhead with a perfect triangle of a nose was interrupted by the surprised muttering of the crowd. It didn’t seem to faze the Count.

The perfect smile stayed perfectly in place as he raised a hand to shush the audience. “What paper do you work for, my dear?” Turns out she worked for the Ames Daily. “And has the Register ever said one of your stories was untrue?”

The audience cracked up at that. The Register and its ruthless bastard of a publisher Cowles spent as much time trying to disprove anything the State’s other papers wrote as they did putting out news of their own. She smiled politely and conceded that it had. She was about to follow up, but never got the chance.

“There is always going to be a healthy skepticism about any find like this, and of course some unhealthy jealousy. There should be—it’s how we guard against frauds and charlatans. But surely, you also know that an independent pathologist from L’Institut Scientifique d’Algier has cleared all that up.” He moved forward, taking each member of the audience into his confidence.