Read Online The Count of the Sahara by Wayne Turmel - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Wayne Turmel
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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
“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
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