CHAPTER 3
Nestor woke up first. It took him a few minutes to remember where he was and why he had slept fully dressed, wrapped in a woolen blanket that smelled like mothballs and lying on the floor of an airplane, wearing a nightcap that did not belong to him.
Professor Calculus, still asleep, was bubbling happily, curled up next to him, holding close his umbrella. The snow and the morning sun were bathing everything in the cabin in rose gold.
Nestor stifled a small moan of distress when he finally remembered the crash. Oh, mon Dieu, he wished he had never agreed to come, that he had stayed in Marlinspike Hall… and to think Monsieur and Monsieur Tintin often found themselves in such situations… mon Dieu! It made him feel faint.
But a stylish butler must serve his master in any circumstance, and Nestor prided himself on being one of the best. So he got up - with some difficulty, because he was not so young anymore and his joints were creaking after spending the night on the floor - and he dusted his clothes as best he could, before looking around and thinking about what was best to tackle first.
At the back of the plane, the Thom(p)sons, snuggled together like two lost puppies, were muttering and kicking in their dreams, next to the captain who was snoring like a blacksmith's bellows (there were still miracles: how could anyone fall asleep next to such a ruckus?). The ripped suitcases, the overturned seats, the wooden and metal debris, the torn electric wires, all of this had been more or less pushed aside to make room. The (empty) hot chocolate thermos and the (dirty) tin cups were still on the makeshift table from the day before.
Nestor's breath was condensing, and he rubbed his gloved hands together to try to warm them up. He was wearing his coat buttoned up to the top and had put on his rabbit fur-trimmed cap, but even so he was still very cold.
Well, first things first, he needed to make breakfast. There was coffee ready to be ground and, among other things, some home-made cookies in the travel bag from which the thermos had come out the day before. As for water... maybe they could boil some snow? Worst things had been done in order to get a proper meal during the war, after all. But they had neither pots or stove… Ah! Monsieur Tintin, surely, would know what to do about that!
Nestor carefully stepped over the professor and headed for the front of the plane. He lifted the curtain and stooped to go inside the cockpit, dazzled by the sun that was filling it, sparkling on the frosted board.
Snowy greeted him with a short bark and Tintin stirred, poking his head out of the blanket in which they were curled up.
- "Hello, Nestor," he mumbled, blinking at the light.
His face was pale. He had the mauve-tinted dark circles of someone who hasn't slept a wink and who was just starting to fall asleep. There were many scratches on his forehead and chin – cuts from the glass shards of the cracked cockpit when they had crashed, no doubt.
- "Good morning, Monsieur Tintin", said the butler. "Oh, please, don't get up, monsieur. I just wanted to ask you something."
Tintin let his weary head fall back against the leather backrest and he pulled the blanket closer to his neck in a childlike movement. An involuntary wince contracted for a second his drawn features. Snowy jumped from his lap and trotted to the other side of the curtain.
- "Did you sleep well, Nestor? How's the forehead?"
The butler absentmindedly touched the bandage on the small wound that Tintin had disinfected the day before under the moonlight.
- "I slept very well considering the circumstances, monsieur, and I think this little sore is on the mend", he replied.
He hesitated, pressed his gloved hands together, coffee completely forgotten. His brows twitched and his jowls trembled a bit.
- "But you, monsieur… I suppose you don't want to worry Monsieur, the Professor and these gentlemen from the police, but… you are injured, aren't you?" he choked, distraught.
Tintin smiled, touched and amused at the same time in seeing the always so composed old man so flustered.
- "I'm not going to die, Nestor," he said gently. He straightened up with a groan, letting the blanket slip to the ground, and brushed off the situation with a light smile. "I've got a broken rib, that's all."
Or two, or three, if he was to guess from the fire burning in his side every time he tried to breathe in deeply.
Nestor's eyes widened.
- "But you must be in a lot of pain!" he stammered. "Is there nothing I can do to help?"
- "Actually, there is something", said Tintin whose brain had finally woken up enough to calculate that he'd better put the butler on his side if he wanted the rest of the crew to focus on their rescue rather than worry about the youngest member of the family. "I'll tell you what..."
Nestor had seen many bumps, wounds and sprained ankles since he had come to be at Captain Haddock's service. He had visited his master and the young reporter numerous times in the hospital. He wasn't a weak man, but he was far from being prepared for the vision he had when Tintin, shivering in the icy air, lifted his undershirt after painfully taking off his blue sweater and unbuttoning his white shirt.
The lad's left side was only a large bruise, a palette of purple and yellow tender skin streaked with blackish blue veins.
- "It doesn't hurt as bad as it looks", said Tintin very quickly when he saw Nestor recoiling.
That was not true, of course, but he almost felt real relief in pretending otherwise to reassure the old servant.
He handed Nestor the rolled strips of gauze he had collected from the plane's emergency kit the day before. He had neither found the courage nor the strength to bind his chest on his own.
- "Don't be afraid to make it tight", he said bravely. "The less I can strain them, the faster I'll heal." *
The ten minutes that followed were just as interminable for the young reporter who was clenching his teeth fiercely, his face pale and glistening with sweat, than they were for the butler turned into a nurse who was perspiring profusely, squeaking "sorry!" from time to time, forcing his hands that were more used to waving a feather duster into finishing their dreadful but necessary task.
- "There, monsieur, it's done" Nestor finally mumbled, his legs shaky, catching himself up on the dashboard, after he had helped his patient get dressed again.
Tintin sagged into the torn pilot's seat. He felt nauseous, exhausted and dizzy. Black dots were dancing before his eyes and stars were flashing behind his eyelids. Each intake of breath was like thrusting a burning dagger into his side. His stomach was churning, his head throbbing and his ears buzzing.
He opened his eyes when Nestor's cold hand touched his forehead and swallowed hard as the hellish carousel that swept the world away slowed down a bit.
- "Monsieur is calling me," said the butler softly. "Try to get some rest, please. I will hold the fort until you feel better."
Tintin nodded weakly, mumbled "thank you" when the old man tucked him in the blanket and allowed himself to sink into a fog as thick as soup, while the captain's voice was booming somewhere very far away.
- "Billions of blue blistering barnacles! Where have you been, Nestor? That dratted dog wolfed down the cookies you had left lying around. What did Tintin say? Will the radio be repaired anytime soon? I've had more than enough of this stranded ship, I want to go back to Marlinspike Hall!"
- "So do I, monsieur, so do I…" sighed poor Nestor in spite of himself. Then he shook himself back to reality, vigorously dabbed his balding forehead with a checkered handkerchief and resumed his air of studied nonchalance. "Forgive me, monsieur, it's a mistake I won't do again. Now, monsieur, if you'd please wait just a little bit, I'd make breakfast in a moment."
Haddock looked at him curiously.
- "Are you quite all right, Nestor? What were you doing in there? You're no expert in that radio stuff…"
He paused, lowered his voice as if he was worried the others might hear him, although it was quite impossible: Calculus was crouching on the other end of the plane - presumably examining something with his pendulum - and the Thom(p)sons were outside making a snowman, if one were to believe the echoes of their conversation.
- "It's bad, isn't it? The radio can't be repaired?"
Nestor coughed lightly.
- "I don't know, monsieur. I am no expert", he deadpanned, while maneuvering cleverly to place himself in between the cockpit and his master. "Monsieur Tintin is on the case, he just recommended that we don't disturb him. You ... er ... do you have any idea how we could boil some water, monsieur? I'm sure a good cup of coffee would get us all back on track."
-"I'd rather have a good ol' finger of whiskey", Haddock huffed.
Nestor's long face lit up.
- "Oh, I think I may be able to help you, monsieur. I took the liberty of packing several bottles from the small cellar, upon hearing the tale of your previous stay in Syldavia and the bother it had been to find proper liquors around the place."
- "Ah, Nestor! What would I do without you?" cheered the captain, feeling suddenly a lot better, as he followed his butler with the eagerness of a child who has been promised a treat.
The Thom(p)sons came back inside soon afterwards and came up with all kinds of absurd ideas for heating the water - "and toasting the bread, Nestor! Breakfast without butter and jam toasts is like a desert without an oasis!"
- "To be more precise: like a sea without a boat! A lady without a hat! A-"
- "Oh shut up, you pair of babbling baboons. We will be glad if we can have a bite of anything with this confounded four-legged thief lurking around!"
- "Are you suggesting there's a thief in the premises, Captain, that the police is not aware of?" immediately asked Thompson, looking slightly offended, while his colleague leaned over, startled: "You're not talking about... the yeti, are you?"
Haddock rolled his eyes, exasperated.
- "Oh, do follow, you ninny bunch of waterlilies! I'm talking about Snowy who snatched a whole box of cookies from us this morning, while you were busy acting the goat in the snow!"
- "Acting the goat?" popped in Calculus, his little black mustache already bristling dangerously.
- "Not you, Cuthbert, not you!" the captain hastened to say.
- "Oh!" cried the professor, already distracted away. "Oh! But do you happen to be preparing breakfast, Nestor? I don't think you'll be able to boil enough water for us all in that tiny tin cup of yours, not to mention that you might… there you go! I was about to tell you, you'd burn your fingers with this match, my friend."
- "You're the genius here, Cuthbert, so find us a trick or we'll have to pull the boy scout from his radio repairs so he can help us make some campfire", groaned the captain.
Truth be told, Haddock could very well make the fire himself, but he was worried because he had not yet seen Tintin. It was not in the young reporter's habits to lock himself away, without even saying good morning... something was wrong. Was the radio really broken? What was he hiding from them?
The captain liked to pose as a father figure in their crazy sort-of-family. It was up to him to bear the burden of worrying about their rescue - or at least he had to carry it with Tintin. It was not fair that the lad was always the one who got them out of trouble…
- "Oh, but I do have it right here!" cried Calculus, who, once again, had heard something he hadn't been told. He rushed to the pile of suitcases, began to scatter everything around him to the great chagrin of Nestor and the Thom(p)sons who had gathered everything the day before and to Snowy's great delight. "Come on, where did I put it? ... I thought it might be fun for the children… and I had hoped Tintin would borrow it for a hike, it would have mean well-written feedbacks and better data... oh, but I didn't know you were aware I was working on this, Archibald!... Sapristi, where is it, now? Ah, there it is!"
Triumphantly, he re-emerged from the pile of luggage with a large oblong duffel bag, tripped over the dog that was jumping around him and was fortunately caught by the captain and Thompson.
-"I beg your pardon, little girl," the scientist said absently, pushing back his green hat and rolling up his sleeves. "Behold, gentlemen," he said, "Cuthbert Calculus' camping kit! Everything you need to go study butterflies and weather variations without leaving comfort behind!"
And he unpacked before their amazed eyes a travel-size stove in perfect working order, a red enamel coffee pot, an assortment of cups, plates and nestable pans, a foldable seat which he assembled in a jiffy and on which immediately settled a rather pleased Thomson, a small table equipped with an umbrella and a dozen iron rods which he explained were parts of a tent's frame.
- "… because the bag, you see, is actually a folded canvas, gentlemen, made of fabric as impermeable to rain as it is to the sun's rays and capable of keeping indoors temperatures that are quite cozy, even when it's freezing outside!"
Thompson, in wonder, was nodding stupidly. Nestor had joined hands, grateful and devoured by the urge to use these shiny utensils right away. The captain grabbed Calculus by his scrawny shoulders and stuck a resounding kiss on each of the old man's cheeks.
- "Cuthbert, I don't think I say it enough, but you're a darn genius!"
- "Well, I wouldn't say it'd be a fuss, but making it fireproof would take quite some time, still", replied the good scientist placidly. "But if it'd make you that happy, I can work on it… once we get back home, of course."
- "Professor, if you didn't exist, someone would need to invent you", said Tintin's bright voice behind them.
They turned on their heels at once, opening their mouths all together, but he silenced them with an imperative gesture, calming at the same time Snowy who was jumping happily around him. He handed his ear-trumpet to Calculus and gathered everyone around the providential camping kit.
- "Gentlemen, this here is our good news. With the Professor's invention, we will be able to put all the odds on our side when going down the mountain."
He didn't seem hurt. Pale, tired ... you had to count on the fact that he had certainly spent the night thinking of a way to get them out of this. A little stiff, perhaps - probably bruised here and there, like them all - but except for the small cuts on his face, which were nothing, really, compared to the scratches the condor had left on his face in Peru, he seemed unharmed. All was well.
Haddock was too busy sneaking worried glances at Tintin to think about asking the inevitable question, but others did it for him.
- "So… what's bad news, then? asked Thompson.
- "To be precise: what's mad booze, then?" chimed in Thomson.
The young reporter came closer and put the charred radio box on the makeshift table.
- "Bad news is that nobody knows where we are," he said darkly. "We have no way of reaching the emergency services and I even suspect the flying taxi company to be bought: I doubt they will report the loss of one of their planes before several days - maybe even several weeks. We can only rely on ourselves. "
Haddock nodded, while the gravity of the situation sank in each heart, then he patted Tintin's shoulder, not noticing the young man's slight wince.
- "Well, we will rely on ourselves, then. And that'll be more than enough! We made it out of worst places in the past, mates."
- "Aye, aye! Well said, Captain!" cheered Thompson.
- "To be precise: whale sad, Kepten!" chimed in Thomson.
- "I knew it! That's the spirit of the man who did not hesitate to go to the Moon for the good of humanity!" cried Calculus admiringly. "A pioneer, a leader of men who deserves to be freed from the influence of alcohol!"
- "Thundering Typhoons! Hold me back, Tintin", roared the captain. "Or I swear to Loch Lomond, if he talks about these blasted pills again, I'll throttle him!"
- "Oh mon Dieu, oh mon Dieu", bawled Nestor while Snowy barked and jumped all around them, adding to the ruckus.
Atop the pristine mountain, the crashed plane was glittering like a piece of glass in the sun. Vultures that were nested a little lower noticed it and took flight in the blue sky to go to examine it more closely.
And down in the valley, a Bordurian peasant who was tapping his boots full of snow against the step in front of his door, saw this strange shining reflection and signed himself just in case.
TBC
* Well… although it was common to do so in 1961 (my setting time for that story), binding your chest can actually be quite dangerous and could lead to further injuries, so I'd advise you not to do the same at home if you ever find yourself with broken ribs (whether after a dreadful plane crash or a plain fall down the stairs). Do ask a specialist on the matter.