All frustrations aside, Haddock knew he had to admire the lad's confidence.
Here he was, trapped inside a suit that no longer fit him, his black hair and beard trimmed much too short for his liking, all in a vain attempt to avoid further crooning criticism from the cataclysm known as Bianca Castafiore—heaven only knew why she had decided to invite herself over again—and then there was Tintin, looking and acting the same as always, without having to worry about a thing.
Well, perhaps he did not look exactly the same as he had during her last visit (invasion, more like), but that was no matter: she had done nothing but dote on him anyway, complimenting his bell-bottoms and the length of his hair, repeating the tireless refrain of my, how you've grown, is that a new sweater?, and worst of all, do keep poor Captain Hammock in line.
"Haddock," he found himself grumbling under his breath yet again, though she was, thankfully, currently out of range of his eyes and ears. "My name is Haddock, Signora Catastrofiore…"
She never seemed to get Tintin's name wrong. Granted, it was relatively simple, but even so…
Oh, and here he came now, his motorbike speeding into view over the horizon, silhouetted against the sunset. Confidence, bravery indeed: where the Captain was reluctant to make any move against her lest insure his certain death, carefree Tintin had spent the afternoon on his own, gallivanting across wherever. He had not so much as blinked an eye as he whistled for Snowy; he had not missed a single beat in announcing pleasantly, "I have some errands to run, but I'll be back later." Haddock could only guess at whether that was an honest obligation or an invented excuse for some time alone, but either way, Tintin got away with what he surely could not.
He was envious, perhaps: but more so, he was smitten. Watching Tintin and Snowy approach the grand old château, realizing his relief that the young man was home again, Haddock smiled and threw open the manor's doors invitingly. The familiar "Ahoy there, landlubber!" brought a grin to Tintin's face as he shook his head free of his helmet, his old tan trench coat billowing in the breeze behind him. He ascended the marble staircase, his perky dog at his heels, and when he reached the entryway, he took the Captain's hand in his.
"Bonsoir, mon capitaine," Tintin said. "Been holding down the fort all right?" This statement contained one part concern, one part reassurance, and one part pure cheekiness.
"Well enough," Haddock replied, not to be outdone, "as best I can with her confounded cacophonies resonating from every corner of the house!" He rolled his eyes, snorting loudly. "She seems to have simmered down for the time being, but of course now that I've said that she'll start again, with my luck." Though he was half joking, he braced himself for any impending onslaught of her beloved Jewel Song.
"She's not all bad, you know…and anyway, we need a little bit of excitement around here now and again, don't you think?" Tintin's hand inched up Haddock's arm before resting on his shoulder.
"Thundering typhoons! Excitement, my foot! We get enough of that when we're whizzing across the continent and beyond! At least then I don't have to pretend to enjoy the presence of gangsters and thieves!
"But I digress," he added, sighing, once men and dog were inside. "What've you been up to, m'boy? Enjoying yourself more than I have, no doubt."
"Nothing too exciting, I'm afraid," Tintin responded, his faithful terrier scurrying away. "Sent some letters, dropped off my latest article, let Snowy run around for a while—"
"Nothing exciting? You? What, you mean to tell me you managed to go out in public without getting shot or kidnapped or knocked upside the head? My, I am impressed."
The reporter chuckled quietly, appreciating the laughter and the warmth in those words while silently acknowledging the truth that lay behind them.
"I've got something for you," he suddenly announced, sliding off his coat and withdrawing a wrinkled brown paper bag from within one of its endless pockets. "I believe you deserve it, after putting up with our, er, esteemed guest by yourself all day."
"What in blazes—" Haddock tentatively reached for the package, and inside he found what had to be a week's supply of his favorite biscuits, the kind that only came from that one bakery in Ostend, which was at least a good hour away from Moulinsart on Tintin's bike.
"Barnacles," he breathed. That word often was for him what "um" or "er" was for others: the natural placeholder when no other form of coherent speech was within his immediate grasp.
"Thank you, lad," he said finally. "But…you didn't have to do that, you know."
"I didn't have to go to the moon, either," Tintin replied nonchalantly, hanging up his coat, "but oh well." Though his back was turned, Haddock knew he was grinning.
Oh, the blasted moon.
"Well, I didn't have to go either, and oftentimes I wish we hadn't! It was the Godforsaken moon for crying out loud! If it weren't for barmy old Cuthbert, if it weren't for you, I never would have set one foot inside that flying coffin…" The Captain shook his head slowly, unable to stop smiling even in the midst of his complaints. "I swear, Tintin, one of these days you'll be the death of me."
The younger man was facing him again now. "Oh, I daresay I can think of worse ways to go," he teased.
"Ah, you've got me there." Haddock released a contented sigh. For all of his apparent annoyance, the retired sea captain knew that if he had died on the moon, or in Tibet, or anywhere else beyond the rusty hull of the merchant ship Karaboudjan, it would have been worth it to have had the honor of knowing Tintin, of loving Tintin, and as he now knew, being loved by Tintin. He lifted the journalist's chin, and he kissed him.
Though his eyes were closed, the Captain knew Tintin was smiling; he could feel the youth's lips turning upwards as they pressed against his own. Then he felt him rise up onto the toes of his oxfords to wrap his arms around his neck, returning the kiss and returning it again. Oh, Haddock might have been in love before, a long time ago, but no other pair of arms or lips had ever felt so much like home.
It had started slowly. The two had been friends for years before they realized, let alone understood, let alone believed, let alone confessed what they truly felt for one another. Even after that, it came little by little, in a peck on the cheek in place of a good-morning or a term of endearment in quaint Belgian French—Haddock's clunky yet warm, Tintin's quietly poetic. Recently, however, it seemed that with each passing day they fell further into each other's embrace, further under each other's spell, and further away from finding any reason not to. In moments like this, nothing else mattered—
"Oh, Ca-a-ap-tain! Captain Pa-a-ad-lo-ock!"
Suddenly, something else mattered.
Tintin was first to pull back, his eyes snapping open in surprise and, dare he ever admit it, deep, hidden anxiety. As their bond deepened, Haddock had come to realize that Tintin's greatest fear, his worst enemy, was his own emotions. Handling smugglers, kidnappers, and all matters of criminals, fine; charming, injuring, or simply putting up with other people, no trouble at all; but when it came to interacting with himself, well, that was different. It involved denying, avoiding, brushing off, and denying again. A single tear was proof of weakness, a solitary sigh was impolite, and he had better always stand alone and hold his head high, for relying on anybody else was foolish. It was how he had been raised, and what he believed for most of his life. Learning to loosen up and simply be human was one of the hardest things Tintin had ever done—and he would never admit to that, either.
Haddock often reminded the lad that he was perfect even if he was not flawless, that he need not spite himself for having a heart. "It makes you better than those freshwater pirates we're always up against," he would say, and Tintin would blush and lower his head and smile sheepishly.
It was not as if Tintin was uncomfortable in love—not anymore, anyway, especially since he now knew that his feelings were not only reasonable, but also requited. Even so, the fact remained that Tintin and Captain Haddock were not the sort of couple one always saw in the cinema or magazine advertisements. The fact remained that they were far from the flashy blonde girl and the dashing muscular man perhaps a year or two her senior. The fact remained that they were divergent from the pressing expectations of so-called society, and so, at this point in time, neither man wanted anyone to see them differently. To the rest of the world, they were the best of friends, nothing more and nothing less.
It was not as if they were ashamed of what they had. No, that was the wrong word entirely. Scared of the repercussions, perhaps; frustrated with what they had to live with, definitely; but not ashamed, not of one another. They wanted nothing more than to be just another pair of lovers in the crowd, to hold each other's hand without a thousand confused or disapproving glances, but the fact remained that they could not be fully confident in that, not yet. They wanted so desperately to show the world that they were not ashamed, but more than that, neither wanted to put the other through unnecessary scrutiny or pain.
"Crumbs…" Tintin's voice snapped the Captain back to the present. "D-d'you think she—"
"I have absolutely no thundering idea if she knows or not," Haddock answered, shrugging. "What does it matter, anyway? If she does know, she hasn't said anything, so I assume we're all right." Even in saying those words, he felt uncertain. La Castafiore was a gossipy old bird and a worldwide celebrity. If she had realized the full extent of what was occurring between the two, then she certainly had the power to make their lives a great deal more awkward, if not completely miserable.
"You best not keep her waiting, no matter why she wants you. She'll only get worse if you ignore her," Tintin pointed out.
He was right, of course. "Oh, fine," the Captain muttered. "Where can I find you after she's done talking my ears off?"
"I suppose I'll be in my study," was the response; no real surprise there. "A reporter's work is never truly complete, after all…"
"Right, then. See you there, mon petit." Hearing the dreaded diva's call echoing through the corridors again, more harshly this time, Haddock left Tintin with one last soft kiss, carefully planted just beneath his orange hairline. Stuffing one of the cookies into his mouth for strength, he set off in the direction of the high-pitched summons.
After turning a single corner, he ran into the singer, almost literally. Somehow, he had succeeded in stopping his momentum mere inches from her sharp nose. Bianca was dressed in a vibrant pink gown, the hue a hideous overstatement even for her. She looked him up and down, her expression impossible to read.
"There you are, Captain Fatstock!" she scolded. "It's about time you showed your face! I've been calling you for hours!"
This was an obvious exaggeration. Haddock, and likely the entire village, would have heard her long since. Even more aggravating than that was the way she always insisted upon speaking to him as if he were a child, or a dog. Worse still, he never knew the proper way to respond.
"Don't you worry, caro mio," she chuckled after a few moments of awkward silence. "I saw Tintin come home; I won't keep you away from your little partner for long. I just have one teeny-tiny question…" She trailed off into a curious combination of giggles and erratic sing-song, as she so often did.
Haddock's mouth went dry. That word, "partner". What was she insinuating? Had she discovered their secret? No, no, of course not! That was one of those words that had more than one meaning, and she meant something completely different—
"My pah—partner?"
Castafiore's laughter increased at the sight of the Captain's nervous, bewildered expression. "Oh, Captain Hatbox, you must think me awfully, a-ha-ha, shallow! Do you think I hadn't noticed? The way you speak to him, the way he looks at you…" She seemed almost wistful for a moment or two, a faraway look filling her eyes. No doubt she was reminiscing, reminded of one of her precious operas. Haddock could not imagine, though, that there were very many operas about plucky ginger reporter-sleuths and bad-tempered alcoholic ex-sailors.
At this point, Haddock was not sure whether he was humiliated, enraged, or simply terrified. No matter which, his face was now a bright crimson hue and his hands were clenched into fists. He stood there stupefied, shouting inwardly, This wasn't supposed to happen!
"Now, now, Captain," Bianca cooed, "There's need to be ashamed of it…"
"I'm not ashamed." What was intended as a roar came out as a hiss.
No, not ashamed, that was the wrong word entirely…
"Indeed? Then it should be no trouble for you to admit to the truth, no?"
The Captain bit back a cry of "Admit to what?" There was no reason for further protest. Clearly, this woman had greater perception than he had previously assumed, and now he was trapped. He realized he could not lie to her. Even more terrifying, he no longer wanted to.
"All right," he grumbled. "All right, all right! Blistering barnacles, I…" Confounded words, they had the nasty habit of slipping away right when they were needed most.
What's so hard about this? he found himself wondering. By thunder, this is something I should be proud of!
"I am in love with Tintin." Haddock sighed, submitting. "And—and, thundering typhoons, he loves me!" he added, practically spluttering. "We are a couple! There you go! Are you happy now?"
There it was, out in the open at last.
Then again, if Castafiore knew, there were surely others who knew, though for whatever reason they had not said a word about it. Maybe it was foolish to think that something of this significance could be hidden forever. Maybe it was foolish to want it to be hidden forever.
Bianca parted her makeup-coated lips to respond, but she did not have the chance to form a single syllable.
"Now tell me why that's so wrong," Haddock growled. "Tell me all the reasons why the idea of two men in love is scandalous, abhorrent, delusional! Believe me, I'm sure I've heard all of it before!"
His voice rose little by little, paralleling the intensity of his emotion. "Tell me why I in my right mind should never be attracted to someone like him, why he in his right mind could not possibly be attracted to someone like me! Tell me it's a conscious choice, and we're deliberately straying from some predetermined proper path! Tell me he belongs with some pretty little thing his age, and tell me I belong with—with—with someone like you!"
The Captain thrust his hands out towards the opera star, and she flinched in response. For a moment, he wondered if he had offended her, but that notion soon passed. Indeed, he figured, this Milanese oftentimes more resembled a duck than a nightingale; whatever substance was thrown at her slid right off her back in an instant, and then she would carry on quacking obnoxiously. So much so, in fact, that he was surprised that he had not been interrupted yet.
He struggled to ignore the possibility of tears burning in the corners of his eyes. It seemed that Tintin was not the only one who had been constantly fighting to conceal his emotions.
Somehow, though, letting his feelings fly was strangely liberating for the Captain, even in the presence of somebody whom he thought he despised. Everything he had been fearing, she now was hearing, and so far, the world had yet to implode.
"Now you know everything. Go ahead: tell me why it's so terrible, like anyone else would," he spat, averting his gaze. "And—and sell it all to the press while you're at it. I see I can't hide from it anymore." His shoulder faced her now, rather than his head.
Not uncharacteristically, Bianca began to make some sort of high-pitched noise. He couldn't tell what, exactly, not without looking at her. Was she screaming? Was she crying? Blue blistering barnacles, was she singing? She had better not be singing!
No; she was laughing.
"A-ha! Ah-hah! Ah-ha-ha-ha! Now why on earth would I want to do that? Poor Captain Hemlock, he's got it all backwards!"
How dare she insult him? How dare she patronize him? Thundering—
"Love is love! Both you and Tintin are adults, yes? So make your own decisions! Follow your hearts! Embrace the sheer beauty of romance! I for one am overjoyed for you, you little darlings!"
For once, there was something more significant in her speech than her earsplitting laughter. It suddenly seemed so simple, the way she said it: love is love. Yes, her sentiments were a touch clichéd, resembling a cheap Valentine's card on some level, but they were heartfelt, and more importantly, they were true. And had he heard her wrong, or had she genuinely acknowledged the fact that he was an adult?
"Barnacles," Haddock murmured. Castafiore tousled his hair, and though he was utterly embarrassed by the gesture, he was no longer angry.
"So, er, now that all that's over with, what did you want me for in the first place?"
"What did I—oh!" she gasped. "Oh, silly me, I almost forgot! I have a favor to ask of you."
Oh, no. What did she want now? Had he let his guard down too soon?
"Eh…what would that be, Signora…?" Haddock could not afford to lose his composure now, not again.
"I have a very important appointment bright and early tomorrow morning and I was wondering if a you would be a dear and look after my jewel-case for me while I'm gone."
That's all? It was all the Captain could do to keep himself from bursting with laughter. It had looked like his whole life was about to turn inside-out for a moment there, and it was all for this—something so simple, so frivolous—it was ridiculous! Completely ludicrous!
Even so, he decided he had better do what she asked, recalling the previous catastrophe over her famed jewelry the last time she had descended upon Marlinspike Hall.
He would not, however, inquire at the nature of her "appointment". Certain things were better kept private.
"O-of course I would," he replied. "I-I'd be…erm…honored."
"Oh, you sweet man!" Bianca gushed. "Well, then, that's all settled. I'll leave the key in your room. Now, I believe I must practice one last time with Signor Wagner before bedtime. Ciao, Captain Harrock! Give Tintin a kiss for me!" With that, she waltzed off, presumably towards the maritime gallery where the piano still stood.
"My name is Haddock, Signora!" the Captain called after her, but she did not respond; he had either been unheard or ignored completely.
Ah, no matter, he thought, in spite of himself. Someday she'll learn…maybe.
She's not all bad, you know. Tintin's words from earlier came back to him, and he found himself agreeing. That is, until the first cries of "Ah, je ris!" reached him. He soon decided he ought to go upstairs to protect his poor old ears.
He would find Tintin there, entranced by his notes and maps. He would startle the youth from his work with playful kisses: the one from Bianca and at least two more from him—no way was he going to let her show him up! They would share a few more of the biscuits, Snowy picking up the crumbs they left behind. Perhaps, if they felt so bold, they would save a couple for their esteemed guest.
Then, after they spent a few minutes enjoying each other's company, Tintin would ask Haddock what had happened between him and Castafiore, and he would oblige, discussing not only the words of the conversation but the revelation buried in them.
"You've spent your whole life standing up for what you believe in, without regard for anyone who disagrees," he would say, gently taking Tintin in his arms once more. "Tell me why this should be any different. We've been through so much together already; tell me why we can't make it through this, too.
"We're perfect the way we are, even if we're not flawless."