Disclaimer: I do not own or profit from The Adventures of Tintin, but art is for everyone, so I would like to think that I can lay some claim to Tintin.
A/N: I would like to apologize, in advance, for any mistakes I may have made in my spelling, grammar, and idiomatic usage of the Italian and Portuguese languages. In my head, I picture San Theodoros as a close neighbor of Brazil, thus the natives speak an unusual (and completely fictional) dialect of Spanish and Portuguese.
Chapter 1:
Signora Bianca Castafiore, the Milanese Nightingale, the darling of Europe, and the queen of the operatic stage, sighed dramatically and sank a little lower into the inadequately padded seat of a stiff and uncomfortable chair in the capo della polizia's office. The events of the morning had quite overtaken her, traumatic as they were, and she was quite put out. In fact, put out did not even begin to convey the calamity of the situation in which she found herself. Overcome with mortification suggested itself to her mind as an expression much better suited to the occasion. Yes, overcome with mortification. She sighed again, this time with a note of pleasant soprano wistfulness, and buffed her well-manicured nails against the vivid pink fabric of her ever-so-stylish morning suit.
Fame is a giddy and fickle mistress, she reflected philosophically. One day the rabid crowds scream for encores and shower the stage with roses, the next they throw tomatoes and call for one's head. Metaphorically speaking, of course. Bianca Castafiore, for her part, had never been on the receiving end of actual tomato-throwing, though she had heard many stories in her youth, as a member of the chorus at La Scala. Not for a moment did she imagine that anyone would ever throw tomatoes at her; no indeed, for when she sang, the Milanese Nightingale was unmatched for lyrical beauty, articulate phrasing, and sheer vocal power combined with a magnetic stage presence. Yes, magnetic was the word. But, though it differed significantly from tomato-throwing, being arrested for conspiracy could hardly be considered an improvement in circumstances. Unless, of course, one was aware of the advantageous effects of notoriety. A delicate flower-bud attempting to bloom and overshadowed by a hedge of thorns, that was what she was, and that was an image powerful enough to conjure sympathy in even the most jaded of music critics.
Signora Castafiore sank a little deeper still into her chair and crossed her legs primly, a small smile playing about her full lips as she hummed a few measures from one of Signor Verdi's arias. This little embarrassment in San Theodoros would be resolved quickly, of that she had no doubt. She had friends, dear Captain Padlock and his charming companions Tintin and the little Professor not least among them. They would rescue her from this dreadful place, and then on, on to the adoring crowds showering her with undying love and effusive praise.
The Milanese Nightingale would sing again. Oh, yes indeed, she would.
OOOOO
She felt a little less confident when she saw her cell, and even less so when she was introduced to the prison's resident chef. The man was short, thin, and bad-tempered, no doubt on account of his extremely underwhelming mustachio and dreadful haircut. Signora Castafiore could forgive him for the mustachio and haircut, but in her experience, thinness was never a good sign in a chef. There were no thin chefs in Italy; it was unfashionable, and therefore not done. She looked the man up and down and sniffed regally, perfectly shaped eyebrows raised. He scowled and made a curt bow.
"What will senhora be wanting for dinner?" he asked, his accent a rather curdled mixture of Portuguese, Spanish, and pidgin English.
Signora Castafiore raised her eyebrows a little higher. Her English was adequate, but she much preferred French or her native Italian. Even German would have been preferable. As far as she was concerned, Spanish and Portuguese were unsuitable languages for people of taste, culture, and artistic education. The odious little man stared at her, apron carelessly hung around his neck, awaiting an answer.
At long last, she deigned to reply. "If you please, I would like rigatoni con la pagliata," she trilled, rolling the r and enunciating the t as if sprinkling seasoning on a dish. "And mind the salt, little man: too much salt is the ruin of a good sauce."
The underwhelming mustachio twitched, its owner pursing his lips before responding. "We don't make that dish."
The signora sighed, placing hands on her ample hips. "Well, tortelloni alla zucca then," she said, sparkling consonants complementing perfectly mellow vowels.
The chef reached up and scratched his head as if thinking hurt, tilting his uniform cap forward as he did so. "We'll make spaghetti, if you like, senhora," he countered, his words sticking to each other like over-cooked rotini.
The signora stuck out her lower lip somewhat petulantly. Spaghetti? How typical. "Benissimo, if you will," she said, "but mind the salt."
The skinny little chef shrugged his shoulders, huffing pointedly as he turned and headed back toward the kitchen.
Signora Castafiore returned to her cell, expression not quite as cheerful as usual. The Milanese Nightingale would sing again, but first she had to eat, and a future of endless and unvarying spaghetti was a bland prospect indeed.
OOOOO
The spaghetti, when it came, was dreadful: a sticky, oily, clump of noodles stuck together on a plate, like a poorly executed trill in a delicate Rossini cantabile. And it was overwhelmingly salty. Signora Castafiore took one sniff and turned up her nose, convinced she had never been served anything so horribly unappetizing, not even in America, where the pasta was tasteless and had become a regular victim of culinary abuse. She hummed in displeasure, brow furrowed and lips pressed tightly together.
The skinny chef, having hand-delivered the disgusting plate, was standing solicitously alert on the other side of the table, clearly expecting something. His gaze flicked up and down from the plate to her face a few times, as if to encourage her. Realizing that he would remain in that position until she tasted the dish, she picked up her fork, dipping it into the coagulated mound and spinning it expertly until she had one or two noodles wrapped around the utensil. Lifting it slowly to her mouth, she took a bite, forcing herself to chew and swallow, then wiped her lips on her napkin, careful to avoid smearing her lipstick. Then she sat up straight, laying the fork down, and coolly returned the chef's gaze.
"You like, senhora?" he asked, gesturing vaguely at the plate.
"No, I don't like," she replied tartly. "It is over-cooked, and I cannot eat it. And furthermore, pasta is not pasta without a proper sauce."
The chef's eyes narrowed, and he stuck his head out of the door to yell something in Spanish down the corridor. Directing his attention back to the table, he lifted the plate of noodles and regarded them closely with a critical eye. "We'll try again, senhora. You'll see."
With that, he turned and shuffled out of the small dining room, plate held before him.
Signora Castafiore sat in her chair a few moments longer, not worrying. Most definitely not worrying; worrying was for the poor unfortunates who hadn't the natural charm and grace to win the adoration of thousands. No, the Milanese Nightingale never worried. But she did, from time to time, admit to a certain small measure of justifiable anxiety. And after one supremely disappointing dish of pasta, with more undoubtedly to come, she felt unquestionably that her current situation was just such a time.
A/N: Before you send a nasty PM condemning me as a racist, consider: Signora Castafiore is an opera singer most comfortable with the bel canto and French Grand repertoire. As such, she would be fluent in Italian and French, adequate in English and German, and completely unfamiliar with Spanish and Portugese. It isn't right for her to look down her nose at Hispanics, but it is a logical inference to make. If you still feel uncomfortable with the situation as I have written it, you are free to disagree with me and stop reading at this point.
Otherwise, please review. Constructive criticism helps me improve my writing and motivates me to write more.