The Count of the Sahara (18 page)

The young woman shyly fingered the item and allowed herself a proud smile, while her husband turned the heat on his rage down to a simmer, still glaring down at Pond. He rattled off a few sentences to Belaid, who relayed them in French in a much calmer voice. “He wants to inform you that if you try to steal it he’ll kill you. There were more details if you want them.”

“No, I get the message, thanks. Please tell him that I only admired it very much and would love to acquire it. How much do they want for it?” Belaid got about halfway through the translation when the couple began arguing in particularly heated fashion.

“He said no,” the interpreter explained, “and then she said it wasn’t his to give, and she said hell no. He said, ‘what do you mean it’s not mine’? And…” he finished the sentence with another shrug. Marriage was a universal language.

By now they had an audience. A couple of older Tuareg women shouted angrily, then the men. De Prorok watched, concerned, from the periphery but said nothing. Reygasse stood several feet outside the circle, smiling smugly and lighting a cigarette, thoroughly enjoying the show.

“It is… comment est-ce que vous dites… an heirloom?” Pond nodded that was probably the right word, so Belaid continued. “Her mother, her mother’s mother and so on… has worn that necklace. It’s part of her trousseau. You understand trousseau?” He did understand, in fact his recent letters to Dorothy contained more veiled talk of trousseaus and dowries than discussions on the finer points of paleolithic anthropology.

At last it was explained that he didn’t want it for himself, or for his own woman, although he did allow himself a quick fantasy of presenting it to Dorothy, but for the Museum. This elicited a long detailed explanation of what a museum was and why anyone would stand in line or pay money to see things like shoes and necklaces and camel bridles. Finally, it was agreed there was no harm meant, no damage done, and Pond was, indeed, an insensitive ass. Everyone but Alonzo Pond seemed satisfied with that summary of the situation.

That night, after Tyrrell introduced another of the master works of Stephen Foster to their hosts, and choruses of “How do you do, Harry Jones?” were sung in a hodgepodge of languages and varying degrees of musicality, Pond, Chapuis and de Prorok were left alone beside their fire.

Each savored the silence, their eyes drifting aimlessly from the sparks rising in the smoke, to the insane number of stars above, then to the other fires dotting the tent village. The night was cooler—not cool to be sure—but less oppressive than it had been all day.

Belaid appeared out of the darkness, and whispered in Pond’s ear, “Monsieur, someone wishes to speak to you about a private matter.” The Count raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. He merely pulled out his pipe, tamped some tobacco in and lit it with a twig from the fire, enjoying the solitude. Pond and Chapuis got up and followed into the darkness. They were met by a tall, unusually thin, young Tuareg warrior.

“Monsieur, the young man has something to show you.” He gestured to the warrior, and from inside his robes he produced a necklace similar, albeit a few stones lighter, than the one he’d tried to purchase earlier that day. “He says he’s willing to sell it to you.”

“Why? I thought these were family heirlooms? Did he steal it from someone?” Belaid asked him if he wanted to rephrase the question, since accusations of thievery often ended in swordplay. Eventually the story emerged: it belonged to the wife, who desperately wanted to go to the North, Constantine most likely, although her dream was Algiers. They were willing to sell it for the right price.

At first, Pond tried to talk the young man out of it but eventually the image of the necklace mounted on a white base behind glass at the Logan, his name prominently featured on the descriptor card, not to mention how irate Reygasse would be, overcame his better nature. They agreed on an extortionate but not unobtainable price. It would take several days for the money to be wired to Tamanrasset, but he’d go into town and pick it up. They had til then to change their minds.

The young warrior agreed, slipping the necklace back into his robe and slinking away into the dark.

“Thank you, Belaid.”

“D’accord.”

When Pond returned to the fire, Chapuis turned to him. “You know, I think you are here just in time.”

“How’s that, Louis?”

“Fifty years ago, we’d have been dead before we even smelled this place. Ten years ago, a couple of us might have been allowed in, but no cameras. Trading only, no money—not francs or silver. Tomorrow, who knows what this will look like?”

Pond looked around the village as they slowly made their way back to the fire. “You know the same thing happened at home. The Ojibway, the Sioux, they were warriors, too. Wanted nothing to do with us. Then they made peace—they had to, of course. Now the only way to see their way of life is to look at old pictures, or buy moccasins by the side of the road.” He thought of the arrowheads, baskets and beadwork he’d personally shipped to Reygasse’s museum in Algiers.

“That’s why you’re so good at this, Lonnie. You know what’s at stake,” said De Prorok from his spot on the ground. Pond sniffed derisively. “No, really, you’re very good. Careful with your documentation, absolutely meticulous…”

“That’s the easy part.”

“No, it’s not. Not at all, I’m absolute rubbish at it. At the real work, that is.”

Pond sat down, and the two men looked at each other, then away in embarrassed silence.

“How’s your Dorothy, doing?”

“Fine. Very well, I think.”

“Is she proud of you?”

“I think so, as much as she understands of the work, although she tries. What about Alice? What does she think of what you do?”

De Prorok puffed philosophically for a moment. “She loves being the Countess, almost as much as her mother likes her being the Countess, and the babies of course.” Three slow, wet sucking puffs on his pipe-stem later, he added, “She’s an awfully good sport about it all. Oh, Pond, you should have seen her at Carthage. She’d never held a shovel before and she’s out with the diggers, and whisking off artifacts like a maid with a feather duster. Until then I think she thought I showed up in my lecture outfit and just picked things out of the dirt. But she just dug in. Do both of you a favor. Before you marry that girl, take her out in the field.”

“If I ever get home, they’re talking about sending me to Poland in the spring.”

“Won’t happen,” De Prorok declared. “Plans are in motion, Lonnie.”

“What plans?”

“It’s still not official, of course, but I think I’ll be granted exclusive administrative rights to this region for the next three years. It’s all but signed. Reygasse has the paperwork in motion, just waiting on the desk jockeys in Algiers. The Logan, of course, will have first choice of sites. This could be very good for you.”

“What does that even mean, exclusive rights?” Damn it, Pond didn’t sound nearly as excited as de Prorok thought he should be.

“Someone has to administer the permits, decide who digs where, what they can take, what stays here with L’Institut. All that red tape nonsense and, of course, there are fees to collect.” He raised a conspiratorial eyebrow and let that sink in. “Naturally, you and the Logan are first in line, and you’ll get the family rate. What do you think? Would coming back a couple of times beat spending the summer in a Polish swamp?”

Alonzo looked up into the star filled sky and let out a satisfied sigh. “I’m sure it would.” A minute or so with the fire crackling providing the only sound, he asked, “Do you think it will still be here a few years from now?”

“Not like this, not like it was. That’s why they need us, here, Pond. To document it and share it all. Get it down while there’s still time. I’ve seen it at Carthage. They get caught between the Mullahs and the French… neither fish nor fowl. They’ll have to make choices and none of them pretty, but going back to their old ways isn’t one of them. Someone needs to tell their stories after they can’t.”

“We could just leave them alone.”

“We’d be the only ones who did.” Pond couldn’t argue.

By the fifth day, the Count was bored out of his mind. He and Barth filmed or snapped every interesting move anyone in the village made. Most of them twice, just for coverage. He wanted to move on and find Tin Hinan’s grave but didn’t yet have the information he needed.

“When will we get the location?” he demanded of Tadêfi.

She didn’t much care for his tone of voice. “The Boka will tell you when he tells you. But you might find out tonight, assuming you mind your manners and open your big stupid ears.” Belaid tried to stifle a snicker, thoroughly enjoying his role as neutral translator.

At last, an invitation came from Akhamouk to attend a special feast. The special entertainment was to be the Boka, a shaman and storyteller. Besides being a historian, the old man was a “friend of the
Kel Essuf
,”
the silent, lonely spirits of the desert. They spoke through him in the form of stories.

Byron’s mood brightened considerably. Maybe this was the word he needed to move on. Not that things were unpleasant. In fact, they were settled into a kind of mind-numbingly happy routine. Reygasse and Pond had reached a détente now that there was enough material for everyone. They were even sharing observations. Notepads were filled, replaced, and filled again. There was good, solid, anthropological work being done. It bored him to tears.

At dusk, everyone began to gather. Each family brought something to be shared, even though the King was supplying most of the meal. He could afford such largesse, because he was feeding everyone with gifts the Expedition gave him earlier. No one would ever accuse Akhamouk of being less than open-handed.

Byron waited, impatiently sucking on his pipe, through the requisite speeches and several rounds of their new nightly ritual, “How Do You Do, Harry Jones?” Women sang lovely, haunting songs full of dazzling moonlight, disappointed lovers, and bloody murder. Most of the blood shed belonged to unfaithful or cowardly husbands. Tuareg warriors were afraid of nothing, it was said, but Tuareg wives.

Finally, the Boka stood up and let out a long ululating cry. An expectant hush fell over the crowd. He moved closer to the fire, to the center of the circle, extending his arms to welcome the
Kel Essuf
to speak through him.

Pond scribbled as best he could in the firelight. The Boka was an old man, egg-bald under his turban, wrinkled and stooped, but still imposing. He wore a white robe, with a thick sash around his waist, and from the sash dangled a black skin bag full of stones.

Belaid translated for Byron and the others. “On special nights, the Boka reaches into the story bag. Each rock represents a certain story. You never know what stories the
Kel Essuf
want to be told each night. Whatever he pulls, that’s the tale he tells.”

He explained no one knew on any night whether it would be a romance, a recounting of great bravery in battle, or hilarious stories of torture befalling unwary desert travelers who didn’t properly fear the plainly superior Tuaregs.

They watched the Boka thrust a bony hand into the bag and pull out a large white stone. “Tonight,” he announced, “we tell the story of our Queen, Tin Hinan, Berber Saint, Mother of all Tuaregs.” The crowd oohed and aahed in surprise. This story hadn’t been told since Akhamouk’s ascension to the crown. Belaid explained that rulers tended not to care much for tales that glorified their predecessors. They often failed to shine in comparison. Random selection or not, this was one of the most loved, and least told, stories in the shaman’s repertoire.

De Prorok looked across the fire, and could tell by the relieved look on Tadêfi’s face this was no coincidence. She returned his gaze and gave an imperious nod. He quickly called Chapuis and Belaid to his side and pulled out a notebook, even though he could barely see to write.

At the top of the page, he wrote, “Story bag?”
What a marvelous gimmick
, he thought.
The audience would eat it up
. He had so many great stories now, it was hard to fit them all in. What if he could leave it to random chance, or better yet, plan certain stories and make it look like random chance? It was a plan worth exploring. But that could wait. He forced himself to focus on the matter at hand.

Alone in the circle, the old man bowed low to the King and the royal family, then straightening as best he could, put out his arms and slowly spun around. He looked skyward, and called for the help of the Kel Essuf. “Help me do honor to the story of Our Mother, Tamenukalt, Tin Hinan, and how the Tuaregs came to be the most feared warriors in the world.”

Byron watched, in awe, as they apparently complied with the humble request. The Boka’s wide white eyes shot open and his spine stiffened. His chest expanded and his voice, stronger and more virile than before, boomed out over the assembly.

Always looking for tips to be a more effective speaker, Byron sat spellbound as the crowd was regaled with tales of Tin Hinan’s beauty and her bravery in the face of the Muhammedan invaders. He sat bolt upright on hearing that last detail. He knew most modern versions of the story anachronistically portrayed Tin Hinan as a dutiful, if very independent minded, Muslim woman. That detail was a clear message; the Boka’s way of promising he’d get the real story tonight. Including, hopefully, clues to her final whereabouts.