by Wayne Turmel
“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 hea
ring 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.
As the shaman sang, danced and screamed the story the Kel Essuf wished to share, Byron, Chapuis and Caid Belaid compared notes, discussing in hushed tones what was relevant and what wasn’t. By the time the performance ended in wild applause, drumbeats and open weeping, Chapuis was satisfied he knew their destination.
“I know the place. It’s not that big a surprise, pretty much where we thought it was. The thing is, there’s more than one tomb up there. We have to find the right one. I have people up there who can get us what we need.”
Byron nodded. “Good, I’m losing my bloody mind here. Belaid, thank your wife for us, please.”
The Caid gritted his teeth and smiled. If he expressed his gratitude to her much more, there’d be nothing left of him.
“Alright, gentlemen. We’ll leave in three days.”
February 18, 1926
Brooklyn, New York
Byron,
I hope you’re well and staying warm. I know the audiences are eating you up. How’s that new boy working out? I hope he’s better with all that equipment than you are. Ha ha.
I wish things were going well here, but to be honest, they’re not. My family is being quite awful lately. Not with the girls and I, they are being very sweet as usual, but about you. Some of it is left over from Algeria—mostly about the money, which is more than I thought it was, but also the lawyers are involved, and you know how they are. Daddy says this is your last chance to come clean about anything you might have or know. Do you know what he’s talking about? I told him you didn’t even bring the girls souvenirs from your trip, let alone gold or jewelry but he’s being a grumpy old bear about it all. Mary, of course, is on his side as usual.
Also, someone from the Brooklyn Eagle called, and you know how nice they’ve always been to us. This reporter woman was so rude! They are trying to twist everything so you look like a big faker and I set her straight, but I don’t think we’ll be in the society pages in the Eagle for a while.
Since you’ve added another week or two onto your tour, I’m thinking it might make sense to take the girls back to Paris sooner than we planned. Annie is furious, of course, but really I can’t stay and listen to people say such horrible things, especially when they’re not true.
Byron, I feel so alone and scared sometimes, I need you to tell me that what they’re saying is all lies and we are going to be alright. You know that I will always stick by you, but I need to hear your side of the story.
Since I’m going to be traveling, I need to ask you for more cash. I don’t dare ask Daddy or Mother. Will you wire that directly, or should I contact Lee Keedick?
Please write soon, Darling. The girls send their love.
Love,
A
Chapter 13
Milwaukee, Wisconsin
February 20, 1926
The sword hit the floor with a ringing clang that echoed around the cellar workshop. I picked it up with a few choice words, loud enough to feel better, but not so loud Mama would hear me. I didn’t really want to get chewed out this morning.
The Count’s train arrived in less than four hours, and I wasn’t done yet. Painting and polishing the tin took days longer than expected, and now the blade had a big nick out of it. I wanted it to be as perfect as possible, and was making my usual hash of things.
I gripped it in two hands, feeling the leather grip solid in my palm. It made a satisfying “swoosh” as it sliced the air. On stage, the lights would bounce off it, impressing the bejeebers out of the audience. While the Count rattled on about “fierce Tuaregs,” and “bloody duels of honor,” this would look more like the real thing, and less like a cheap prop.
Out of the blue, something odd occurred to me. If it was real, the sword would have been used for gutting missionaries and beheading intruders. It would hardly be in pristine condition. Remembering my boss’s motto—a good story beats the hell out of reality any time—I grabbed a ball peen hammer and gave it a couple of more whacks, knocking another small notch out of the blade and dimpling the metal. Now it looked like it had seen a lot of Arab neck bones and missionary spleens.
Amazingly, the little glass chips along the “T” of the hilt hung on. I was afraid they wouldn’t—gluing glass is notoriously tricky and I sure didn’t have a jeweler’s delicate fingers—but all five of them held in place, glinting white, green and blue.
I wrapped the sword in an oily rag and carefully placed it in a brown cloth drawstring sack, along with assorted bits of copper wire, colored glass and pieces of tin and other scraps I’d managed to scrounge over the last couple of weeks. I didn’t know if I’d need them, but it wouldn’t hurt. God knows I wouldn’t be traveling with much else. But I would be traveling. Out of Milwaukee for good.
More importantly, I’d be out of this house. Away from my father, away from everything that smelled like cabbage, and cheap pipe smoke, and fried sausage fat. Even mama’s hugs smelled of sauerbraten. The very German-ness of it all threatened to suffocate me.
Rather than the clean, bright colors the rest of America favored, and folks like my Aunt and Uncle eagerly adopted, I was completely surrounded by heavy curtains, carved dark wood and ever-present reminders of a Bavarian existence I never knew. Decorated porcelain plates with “Gott Segne Unsere Heimat,” in heavy Gothic letters, embroidered tea towels with stags and fir trees, and little figurines of milkmaids and hunters covered every flat surface. Like most of my friends, also the children of immigrants, our home was packed with yearning souvenirs of countries our folks had been all too eager to flee.
But after a few weeks of being able to breathe, I was back, however briefly. And paying for the privilege. I’d barely put my bags down and managed to squirm out of my mother’s embrace when he started in.
“Sho, you’re back. Didn’t find a job in the Promised Land?” He looked over his glasses at me, but didn’t bother getting out of his chair.
“Only for a couple of weeks. Then I’ve got a full-time job, Papa.” Mama smiled dotingly, and was about to ask for all the glorious details, but she never got a chance.
“Until then?” Gerhardt Braun never let a potential silver lining spoil a big, black cloud. “You’re going to live here for free?” That had been my plan, truth be told, but now he was making a big deal out of it. I was too exhausted to fight. The bus had gone Cedar Rapids-Dubuque-Fort Dodge-Madison-Milwaukee, stopping at every wide spot on the road along the way. I needed a bed, a sandwich, and some motherly head-stroking.
“How much?” I pulled out the eight dollars I had left to me, which fortunately was in large-sized notes, instead of coins and looked more impressive.
“A dollar and a half a week,” his chin jutted out, daring me to take a swing at it.
“Oh, Papa,” my mother moaned.
“Okay, fine.” I peeled off three bills and thought about throwing it in his face, but instead handed it pointedly to my mother while looking at him. At least she’d get to see the money, and he’d have to ask her for it before drinking it away. “But I get to use the workshop.”
“What for?”
“Work.” I knew he couldn’t really argue that one.
I knew I’d miss those three dollars, and if the Count was late, which his last letter indicated he might be, it would cost me a buck and a half more, but short time work wouldn’t really be a problem. One thing about the Old Man’s employment record, he knew every foreman and straw boss at every factory in Milwaukee, and most of them knew me by association. I could pick up a day’s sweeping here, or filling in on a loading dock there, enough to save a little. They all respected the Old Man as a hard worker, and knew the apple wouldn’t fall far from the tree. They’d take a chance on me, even if they couldn’t hire my
father, who was known far and wide as “The Crazy Kraut.”
It wasn’t his being German, specifically, or even his drinking that bothered them, although booze usually factored into the inevitable dismissal. It was his politics. Gerhardt Braun was a committed Wobblie, and while he took pride in his work, that same pride sooner or later resulted in a challenge—often of a physical nature—to an authority figure. That resulted in yet another job in yet another factory and another extorted promise to “just keep his head down and do the work.” It didn’t all make much sense to me when I was younger, but then a lot about him didn’t make much sense.
Like how the other fathers Americanized their names. What was the harm in that? Slava Boycic was, “Sam,” and Giuseppe Iaccobucci, Maria’s father, was “Joe.” Yet Gerhardt steadfastly refused to become a Gerald, or better yet, a Jerry. It only dawned on me after the War that being a German named Jerry might not exactly be an asset when seeking employment. He grudgingly allowed me to morph from Wilhelm to the more palatable Willy, although he couldn’t understand why a real man would deliberately give himself a baby’s name. Wilhelm was a perfectly good working man’s name. I had been named for his father, after all, not the Gottverdammter Kaiser.
So I job hopped and tramped my way through the next two and a half weeks. There was another, completely unexpected advantage to my working so many jobs. I was able to scrounge scrap tin from Mallory’s Cannery, blobs of colored glass scraped off the cement floor at Wisconsin Glassworks, and thin copper wire which soon became sword blades, beads from Tin Hinan’s tomb, and devices to secure Tuareg veils behind big Kraut ears.
Everything was fine until the Count’s letter arrived a week ago, telling me the schedule had changed and he wouldn’t be in the Midwest again until his arrival on the twentieth. That meant another buck and a half, but the worst part was explaining my late departure.
Mama smelled my disappointment, but couldn’t hide her happiness at my being around a few more days. Explaining my presence meant telling the Old Man exactly what I was doing. That went about as well as I expected it to.