CHAPTER 4

First, they began with taking a hearty breakfast of some homemade cramique cake, Liege syrup, 'pistol' breads and Passendale that Nestor had packed at random, not knowing what would be on the shelves of the cellar in Villa Sprok (and fearing he'd find there only the terrible Syldavian cheese against which the captain had warned him), all washed down with some black coffee.

Then Tintin, who had barely touched his plate, concentrating on studying a map of Syldavia and scribbling in his notebook, organized the preparations.

It went from inventorying all the food that was left on the plane, to dressing warmly and making sure everybody wore proper outdoor shoes, dividing all they were going to need to go through three or four days of hiking in five bags and packing any personal items that could not be abandoned because, of course, they would have to leave a lot of things atop the mountain and no one - apart from Thomson, perhaps - was a fool: they knew they would probably never come back.

All this made the next two hours very busy and the sun, meanwhile, rose high in the sky, announcing a splendid winter day.

The captain, who was looking for a way to stuff more bottles of whiskey in the rucksack he had used in Tibet - and which Nestor, for some unknown reason, had thought fit to pack in their vacation luggage – paused when he heard a familiar but very incongruous clicking sound.

He went around the cabin and found Tintin in front of an overturned battered metal box, on which was the small suitcase of his typewriter.

It was the sound of the steel keys on which the young man was thoughtfully pressing that had drawn near the captain.

- "A-d-i-e-u, v-i-e-i-l-l-e c-a-m-a-r-a-d-e..."

The typebar pinged! happily and came back in place effortlessly when Tintin activated the lever.

The old Olympia was well maintained.

The captain coughed to signal his presence. He leaned his heavily loaded rucksack on the edge of the metal box and took a light tone to try to dissipate the cloud he could see on the reporter's forehead.

- "Bah, you'll buy another one. This one looks like she already lived longer than she was meant to!"

Tintin's smile didn't reach his eyes.

- "You bet... I bought it in January 52, on the liner, when I was returning from China. It was not new at the time, and I had to do the dishes for the rest of the trip to pay for my meals, but it was worth it. I had to write down that adventure, I couldn't wait!"

- "How old were you, at that time, son?" Haddock asked softly, failing to find something better to say.

- "Fifteen. Chang was thirteen... I was just a kid, yeah, they were right. All the same… it was after that article that people started to take me seriously."

He shrugged but the knot was still there, in his throat, very audible.

- "That old girl spent ten years with me, Captain… I typed almost all my articles on it."

Haddock desperately sought inspiration, a word to comfort the young man while the latter carefully closed the suitcase, but he found nothing again. He cleared his throat loudly.

- "There's still room in my rucksack," he said gruffly. "I don't have to take all of these bot... er ... well, these... er… Anyway. What I mean is that if we carefully monitor our national pair of blundering bumbles, there's no reason we should need to disinfect one from head to toe before arriving at the villa. So, uh... I can probably carry your typewriter in my bag."

Tintin shook his head. He smiled again, but this time with that youthful brightness that was his signature.

- "Thank you, Captain. You're sport."

- "But?" said Haddock, raising an eyebrow.

He knew the young reporter very well.

- "But this is not the time to be sentimental. The survival of our friends is what matters most", Tintin said firmly. "Remember Tibet, when the coolies ran away. This time again, we'll have to crane everything we can in our bags."

And on this, he heartlessly removed several bottles from the captain's rucksack, then dragged him away, putting a hand on his shoulder.

- "Come on, let's go back to the others. I reckon we're pretty much ready for this expedition."

The Thom(p)sons had donned identical black coats - a standard model from Interpol, no doubt - and put on their bowler hats after wrapping their heads in scarves. It was not very fashionable, but it would be effective in protecting them from the cold. They had managed to get all their Tintin-approved things into their twin suitcases and stood ready to go, canes in hand, mustaches freshly sleeked.

Nestor was carefully finishing buttoning up the overcoat of Professor Calculus who had first indignantly protested in a high-pitched voice that he was "a respectable erudite man who did not need to be nannied like an old goat", but who then had been distracted by Snowy who was furiously scratching himself to get rid of his own little coat.

- "This dog is infested with fleas, my boy."

- "He's perfectly fine, professor," said Tintin patiently. "I took him to the vet last week. He just can't stand his coat, that's all. But there's no way I'd let him wander in the snow without some layers, he's getting old, you know."

- "How? Sapristi, my boy, sometimes you show so clueless, it's almost worrying… Just take him to the vet, obviously…"

Haddock shook his head, sighing, and put in his pocket the ear-trumpet that Tintin had just found forgotten on a torn airplane chair.

- "We're ready, monsieur," said Nestor, straightening up.

He too had opted for a muffler wrapped around his head, but he was obviously hesitant about topping it with his hat. He ended up deciding to do so when he saw his master imitate the local fashion and still wear his navy cap. The captain, who had been travelling in his chatelain clothes, had now put on his good old blue wool sweater with the black anchor embroidered on the chest.

He could still fit in his black jacket in spite of the cholesterol against which the doctor had again warned him and was boasting outrageously about it. Calculus, meanwhile, kept arguing that this blessed return into shape was due to the alcohol-free diet Haddock had followed against his will after their adventure with the Picaros.

It was true that he looked great indeed, the old sea dog, quietly lighting his pipe at the top of the snow-capped mountain as if he could care less about what the world was going to throw at them. Nestor had polished the copper buttons of the jacket earlier this winter, probably caressing the absurd hope that his master would finally donate it to a charity, and they shone like gold in the sun.

His hands on his hips, Tintin reviewed his troops, nodding approvingly.

- "Well gentlemen, I think we've covered everything. Let's go and may Heaven be with us!"

He waited until they had started to go down the gentle snowy slope just below the crash site, to turn to his backpack and glare at it with somber resolve.

-"You and me, my friend."

oOoOoOo

At first, everything went very well. The weather was magnificent, the cold air rather pleasant coupled with the warm sun, the snow firm and crisp, the trekking down quite easy.

The Thom(p)sons, who were walking in front, were in a good mood and had started singing.

- "Boom ! Quand vot' moteur fait Boum ! La dépanneuse Simoun'…"

As they no longer knew the words of the radio jingle, which had gone out of fashion half a dozen years before, they quickly fell back to the original lyrics, quibbling when one of the two was taking the note too high or too low.

Calculus, who came next, his black umbrella in a hand and his suitcase in the other, was quick to accompany them with his shrill voice... but, obviously, not on the same melody.

- "… pourquoi m'avoir donné rendez-vous sous la pluie… j'ai mes chaussettes qui font trempette…"

Nestor was slower to get started, perhaps because he was focusing on his feet, not used to climbing up or down any kind of hill, never mind a mountain. But then, without even thinking about it, he began to hum too - and quite irreverently, actually.

- "Y'a des gens pour être heureux, c'qui leur en faut des choses…"

It was only a matter of time before the captain's beautiful baritone voice joined them, echoing across the cliffs.

- "Viens par ici, veux-tu, ma blonde… là-bas, il y a trop de monde…"

He was getting to the part with the lake of ducks, when the lovers find themselves in a leaking rowboat, when he suddenly realized that Tintin was just behind him. He then abruptly shut up, turning beet-red as if he had been caught singing a saucy verse.

- "Don't worry, there's no risk of avalanche" quipped the young man, not managing to completely hide the sparkle of laugh in his eyes (he had heard much worse from his colleagues of Le Petit Vingtième). "Please, do go on. I'd love to know if that persistent suitor will succeed in the end."

The old sailor turned his back on him, grumbling in his beard something about baby-faced journalists who were know-it-all Casanovas and that he would never be found again celebrating love which was nothing but a pipe dream, Thundering typhoons! … But a few minutes later, caught up in the ambient virus again, he was heartily bellowing "Hardi les gars, vire au guindeau… goodbye, farewell, goodbye, farewell".

Now you could be sure they would not see a bear, an ibex, or the slightest groundhog. All that was missing was Bianca Castafiore at the top of this mountain for this musical to be complete and it really was a shame that nobody could record the vigorous choristers.

- "Woof", snorted Snowy who was not amused at all with this cacophony.

- "You're right, old boy, it's like listening to a band of deaf soloists. It's even worse than Marlinspike fanfare", chuckled Tintin. Then, holding his ribs, he winced: "Oh, don't make me laugh!"

He would have joined in the concert, although he was better whistler than singer - but he was already having enough trouble keeping his breathing steady while walking.

Putting his bag on his back had almost made him pass out. The stars that had exploded before his eyes, plunging him into darkness, had only dissipated after a few minutes, leaving him panting, drenched in sweat, legs as weak as jelly.

The others had stopped to wait for him and called out to him, puzzled that he was not leading the way. He had caught up with them, bravely putting up a front, joking and diverting the attention from his red and tense face, but he was starting to wonder how long he would last, let alone hide his injury. The weight of the rucksack was taking his breath away, each step was a torture and only the thought that he had to bring everyone back home gave him the strength to move forward.

The slightest distraction was welcome and, listening to the others singing romances at the top of their heads, he got lost in a strange reverie.

"Une valse à trois temps qui s'offre encore le temps… une valse à cent ans… une valse a mis l'temps, de patienter vingt ans…" *

Although none of them had white hair yet, his friends were no longer so young. At the time when the songs which returned to them so spontaneously had been engraved in their memories, what had they looked like? What had they been dreaming of?

Somehow, these old bachelors who seemed so attached to their "freedom" had remained hopelessly romantic - or terribly old fashioned, as you liked. They hadn't married, but had that really been a choice? Was their teasing in fact regrets or disguised advice? Life flies too fast, Tintin. If you find it, don't let go of happiness, it might never come back...

The reporter had once heard Thompson saying that his colleague had been engaged in the past. It was hard to believe now, but war changed a man… especially one who had been a prisoner...

The two good-natured police officers loved children, familiar routine, and it was not difficult to imagine them going home - on neighboring doorsteps, of course - and being greeted by nice ladies wearing polka dot aprons and chubby kids who would put on their bowler hats and climb happily on their shoulders…

And these white roses which Professor Calculus took so much care of… perhaps he would have preferred to offer them to a young girl with bright shining eyes, whose forehead he would have kissed before leading her to the altar...

Maybe these songs only told of a mirage, a chimera that faded after a few years of marriage... but Tintin tended to want to believe in it anyway.

Perhaps because the last memory of the only real home he had ever had, before it had shattered in a million pieces a certain December 16, 1944, during the reprisal bombings on Antwerp, was of his mother's smiling face while she tied his scarf, before they'd go to the cinema with his father to see Buffalo Bill...

He had been quite happy at Saint-Boniface Institute - as much as you could be when you were seven and sent to a boarding school by distant cousins who didn't want to raise you and had made it clear that you were one too many mouth to feed – but the good fathers could not replace a family.

He had fond memories of his apartment at 26 Rue du Labrador, despite the neighbors' noise, the heat in summer, the freezing cold in winter, the windows that got stuck, the multiple burglaries... because he had paid the first rent with his first real salary and because it was also the first place that had been his (and Snowy's!).

But it was with visiting regularly his friends in Marlinspike Hall, then coming to live there with them - and he still couldn't pinpoint exactly when he had moved in. It had happened quietly, quite naturally... - that he had remembered what a home was.

A window that would light up when you were on your way home... someone who was always waiting for you... people who forgave you for your faults and were even happier than you for your successes... a dozen little things so important that the idea of losing them made you feel sick…

Strolling together in the countryside, chatting about everything and nothing... waking up on Saturday morning and listening with a chuckle to the usual argument over the need to polish the brass every week... running to the rescue to realize that this cloud of red smoke at the back of the park was just another false alarm in the laboratory... reading curled up in the bow-window's cushions on a rainy day, Snowy's fluffy head heavy on his lap... the familiar sizzle of a jazz record... the blissful warmth of the fireplace… the smell of a certain brand of Belgian brown tobacco...

- "Everything all right, lad?"

Tintin blinked. He did not immediately understand where he was.

The sky was very big, very blue above him, and the snow-covered mountains were sparkling in the sun.

He felt fuzzy, peaceful, detached from everything… like if he was floating… and when Captain Haddock's dark beard and cap appeared in his field of vision, he smiled vaguely at them... and then he was pulled from his torpor by a resounding slap.

- "Blistering barnacles, landlubber, come back to your senses! What's with you keeling over out of nothing?"

TBC

* Jacques Brel, La valse à mille temps (1954). I had to bring him in since he was Belgian and contemporary of Hergé !

As for the other songs (which are just hilarious), here they are if you want to listen to them:

The Thom(ps)sons are singing Boum from Charles Trenet (1938).

Calculus is singing Rendez-vous sous la pluie from Jean Sablon (1936).

Nestor is singing La Java de Doudoune from Jean Gabin & Mistinguett (1928).

Captain Haddock is singing Toi et moi from Maurice Chevalier (1937).