We're speeding along the country roads that take us out of Brussels into the little village of Moulinsart—home—in the same yellow car I've had for quite a while now, I suppose. I still remember when it was brand-new, though. I had just moved into Marlinspike Hall and everything seemed peaceful, but before I knew it, we—that is, Tintin, Calculus, and I—were off full throttle into another adventure, this time first on the trail of a mysterious illness and then the Professor's kidnapping, from château to crypt and back again. How can that seem like so long ago and just yesterday at the same time?
Neither of us has said much since we've been driving. That's all right, though. I'm happy just to be able to look to my side and see my young friend, leaning his head out of the open window, deep in thought about who-knows-what. Just like always.
"Cuthbert's only just come back from another one of those conference whatnots he always runs off to," I comment, apropos of nothing. "Naturally, no matter what I say to him, it never gets through his head, so he has absolutely no idea you're coming home. He'll be delighted to see you."
"I can't wait," Tintin replies, without turning to face me, without even smiling. Though I don't doubt his sincerity or his devotion, there's something missing in his demeanour that I can't quite put a finger on. Looking back, it's not just disappearing now. Though being on the battlefield certainly made it worse, he has been slowly changing for a while. I guess I'm just realising that now.
"We can only hope that now that you're back we won't have any…er…unexpected droppers-by," I say, only half-joking.
"You're telling me," he agrees. "All I want is some rest, in peace and quiet. No opera soloists or insurance moguls today, please!"
Blue blistering barnacles, he's turning into me! Heaven help us!
"It's not that I don't want to see our friends," he adds hastily. "It's just…" He sighs. "I'm worn out, is all."
I'm not sure what to think. On the one hand, it's only human for him to feel that way. On the other, putting "Tintin" and "worn out" in the same sentence doesn't seem to make much sense. Not to me, anyway. I have seen him tired before—the time in the Arctic Ocean when he passed out in the middle of a conversation comes to mind—but I haven't ever seen him look like this.
Some more time passes in silence. I'm unaware of how much, exactly. The only way I can tell any time has passed is that I have the gates of Marlinspike Hall in front of me and Tintin fast asleep beside me, the late autumn breeze tossing the uneven remains of his distinctive quiff of hair, the sunset playing across his face which, once almost infantile, now fully bears the mark of time.
I park the car and nudge the boy with one elbow. His storm-coloured eyes blink open slowly, and before too long, he recognises where we are. He smiles again, ever so slightly.
"Welcome home, Tintin," I say.
He stretches and yawns. "Home at last? What a feeling."
Quite the feeling or me, too. I plead to whoever's up there that the joy lasts.
I still have to make an effort to convince myself that I'm not dreaming as I walk next to him again, up the ever-familiar marble staircase. It reminds me of the first time we ascended these stairs together, the first day that I could say I owned this place. Not even an hour later, we found Red Rackham's treasure, after searching for it halfway across the world. I can't seem to stop the overflow of nostalgia, especially considering this massive dread I have that those days are not only far behind us, but impossible to regain.
I feel an elbow jab my side and I turn to see Tintin, raising an eyebrow at me in a mix of amusement and frustration. He tilts his head forward a smidge, and there's the door, only centimetres in front of my face! Ten thousand thundering typhoons, I'm hopeless! I'm so distracted that I can't even tell when I'm about to walk straight into a wall!
"You haven't changed a bit, Captain," Tintin teases me.
"Neither have you," I reply. I can only hope that I'm right. Well, if anything, he's still ribbing me as heavily as ever, without meaning any harm. We're both that way. We always have been—and always will be?
He sighs again, looking as if he's biting back his words. Maybe I am wrong after all.
What are we still doing standing here? Oh, Columbus, I'm the one with the key! And we call the Professor the preoccupied one!
I fumble with my pocket for half a mo', which incites a few light chuckles from Tintin's direction. Not that I mind, of course. Not really. Finally, I close my fist around the key, I turn it in the knob, and I swing the door open.
I walk right inside, and, turning behind me, I see Tintin taking a few tentative steps forward. I suppose this is even more unreal for him than it is for me. He's the one who hasn't seen the place in years, after all.
"Are you crying again, lad?"
"No—no, I'm not, I'm just—ah, crumbs…Okay, okay, you got me. Just a little." He swiftly dries his eyes with one finger, and he doesn't stop me when I cast an arm around his shoulders.
Barely have we taken a few steps inside when Nestor the butler walks past, armed with a feather-duster. I'm honestly surprised he's stuck around this long. He worked for the Bird brothers before me, and granted, they turned out to be criminals, but he had no trouble swiftly reassigning his loyalties. I know I'm not always the most pleasant company, but he clearly doesn't mind all that much. He does his job and not a great deal besides that. Sometimes I wish I had taken the time to get to know him better. I'm sure he, just like the rest of us, has a story to tell.
In that moment, he notices us. I can tell it's an effort even for him to retain his composure. "Welcome back, sir," he says with a nod towards me. "Welcome home, Mr Tintin," he adds with a larger smile than I think I've ever seen on his face. He stands there awkwardly, his internal enthusiasm battling with his external poise. Tintin isn't sure exactly how to respond, either. The two eventually subconsciously agree to share a firm handshake.
"Thank you, Nestor," says Tintin, nodding politely. "It's good to be back."
After another self-conscious moment or two, Nestor strides on past us into the next room. I need to remind him to take a breather every once in a while. He deserves a break.
"So, what do you want to—" I begin, before I'm abruptly cut off by the sound of the front door opening behind us. My heart begins to race for a second, and then I'm utterly embarrassed by that fact. It's only the Professor, back from his laboratory. Blistering barnacles! He doesn't know that Tintin was to come home today.
Immediately Calculus's hazel eyes widen behind his horn-rimmed spectacles. He takes them off and wipes them clean with one green sleeve, clearly not believing what he's seeing. Once he realises, however, that his eyes are not deceiving him, he looks as if he could burst from glee. He takes one of Tintin's hands into both of his, his shake much heartier than Nestor's. "Tintin, dear boy! You've come home! Why, I can't believe it! I-I'm overjoyed! It's just so incredibly wonderful to see you looking well, and after all this time, too!"
"I-I've missed you too, Professor." Though of course he's telling the truth, Tintin looks rather disconcerted, where he used to be quite tolerant of our eccentric friend's unpredictable behaviour. "It has been a long time; I'm happy to be home."
"Captain, why on earth didn't you tell me Tintin was returning today? I would have liked to have been more prepared!" Calculus chides me.
I groan. "I tried telling you, Professor," I answer, raising my voice, "but you didn't know what I was talking about!"
"Don't try pulling that on me! You most certainly were not out catching trout! You've been here at the house doing nothing for weeks! Months, even! Don't deny it!"
I glance back at Tintin, raising my eyebrows. His shrugging in response tells me he understands my unspoken message: some things never change.
Breaking off from his bout of irritation, Cuthbert quizzically looks Tintin up and down. "You know, Tintin," he comments, "camouflage really isn't your colour."
"I'll admit I've missed my blue sweaters," Tintin confesses sheepishly.
The Professor suddenly looks concerned. "Oh, I do, too," he says. "I do hope your wounds get better."
Tintin stiffens and grits his teeth, softly sucking in a sharp breath of air and then letting out a short sigh. Whatever upheaval could this innocent mishearing have triggered within him? He looks as perfectly fit and healthy as ever, despite his altered disposition. I try to avoid worrying about it. If there were actually something serious going on with him, he would tell me, right?
This entire day has consisted of nothing but awkwardness, it seems.
"Goodnight, my friends," Calculus says finally, tipping his bowler and abruptly climbing the stairs toward his bedroom. I shake my head. Blistering barnacles, it's barely seven o'clock and he's off to bed, when sometimes it's impossible to pry him from his gadgets before three in the morning. I've never fully understood that man. I don't think I ever will.
"Looks like it's just you and me, Tintin," I declare cheerfully. "So…er…what do you want to do? Do you feel like…eating something? Or I could start a fire, pour us a drink—"
"Captain…" The sternness of the boy's narrowed eyes contrast with the softness of his subtle smile. To tell the truth, I don't mind him reprimanding me, if only it's a sign that he's still the same old Tintin underneath it all.
"Sorry," I mumble. What else can I say? What excuse can I give? As per usual, I'm no good with words—not like him. "Well, it's your call, Tintin. It's your first night back home, after all."
"Actually," he responds, rubbing his eyes with one clenched fist, "I think I'm going to follow the Professor's lead on this one."
I stare back at him, uncomprehending. "You're going up to bed? It's not even—"
"I know, but I could really use a long shower, I'd like to get out of these wretched clothes, and I can't remember the last time I had a solid night's sleep. You understand, don't you?"
"Fair enough," I admit. I stop myself from complaining about how I only wanted to spend some time with him. I need to stop being so self-centred! There'll be plenty of opportunities for that after he's taken some time for himself, which I'm sure he desperately needs. We have all the time in the world, now. "Well…goodnight, then."
"Goodnight, Captain." Tintin stands still for a moment, and then, rather than immediately ascending the limestone staircase, throws his arms around me in a forceful embrace. Taken aback, I slowly reciprocate the gesture. His grasp is powerfully tight, as if he is deathly afraid of something and holding onto me for dear life. In that moment, I know for sure: he's been through something thundering terrible, and it will take a lot—perhaps more than I can give—to repair whatever damage has been done.
"Welcome home," I whisper in his ear, hoping he understands that hidden behind those words is my solemn vow that I will do anything for him, anything and everything I can. It's the least he deserves.
When Tintin finally heads upstairs, I can tell that I won't be getting any sleep tonight. I sit in the parlour, alone, trying to unwind, but instead I'm constantly distracted by the faint sound of the shower running, the flames in the fireplace dancing in the corner of my eye, memory after memory of years past, and the bottle of whisky on the table beside me.