Chapter Five

The rain had stopped by the time the taxi drew up outside the Saint-Michel Clinic.

Remi had already gathered his belongings and donned his hat several blocks beforehand. Now he hurriedly rifled through his wallet, extracting a crisp note, which he pressed into the outstretched hand of the cabbie before the man could even state the amount of the fare.

"Keep the change," he muttered brusquely, ignoring the driver's startled squawk of protest. Without further ado, he flung the door open and slipped out into the street.

He very nearly stepped straight in front of an on-coming car.

A large sedan had crossed to the wrong side of the road in order to pass them, very nearly mowing him down. Luckily, Remi's survival instincts were running full-tilt; he managed to flatten himself against the side of the cab just in time. A spray of water from the other car's waving wipers spattered against his cheek. Something dark stuck to its windshield, a dead leaf perhaps, blew free and fluttered past his head to land in the gutter. The car didn't check its speed, but hurtled away up the street, tyres screeching on the wet asphalt.

"Ruddy lunatic!" the cab driver called after the blaze of brake-lights that was rapidly fading into the night, shaking his head in disdain. "Watch yourself, sir, or you might end up the one who needs a hospital!"

Remi didn't hear his warning. He had already slammed the car door behind him, strode across the street (after a cursory glance), and was taking the front stairs of the clinic two at a time.

"You were very lucky, young man."

The stern-faced doctor regarded his patient over the top of his clipboard, half-moon glasses gleaming reproachfully in the harsh overhead lamp. "If you'd hit your head on the floor as you went down, it would have been lights out for you. Luckily the blunt-force trauma from the blow of a fist was only enough to unbalance you, not break your skull open."

Martin grinned ruefully at his words."It's lucky I've always been hard-headed," he quipped, rubbing his scalp with a slight wince. Beside him, Remi gave a half-splutter of exasperation.

The doctor turned his steely gaze on him. "He could still have a concussion," he warned, in strident tones. "He should stay here for another hour at least, for observation. We can't have him running about when he may have sustained worse damage than is apparent. Keep him here for as long as you can, watch him carefully; if he feels faint or starts to lose consciousness, call a nurse immediately. It would also be wise to talk to him frequently, ask him simple questions in order to keep his mind focused and his senses alert. I trust," he went on, with a sardonic lift of his severe eyebrows, "that you will treat him far better than his other 'friend' did."

"Of course," Remi replied shortly, bristling at the implication. "The other man was a menace, barely an acquaintance; certainly not worthy of my young friend's time. I happen to be his co-worker, and we look out for each other at Le Vingt - mostly," he quickly added, wondering whether the boy's injury might be some kind of comeuppance for the blow that had been dealt to Emile earlier.

The doctor pursed his lips but said no more, darting away up the hall with a business-like tread, possibly to lecture some other poor unfortunate. He had been far from impressed, and Remi frankly didn't blame him. He doubted any of the hospital staff much appreciated their charges creating more patients for them by beating up those who came to visit.

As the physician sped away, Martin relaxed, slumping in his seat. They were in a waiting area of sorts, sitting on the hard-backed chairs that lined the main hall of the clinic's general ward.

"Thank you for covering for me," he said, eying Remi gratefully; they had continued the charade that the boy's assailant had been an injured friend who lashed out at him in confusion. "You really d-"

"I told the exact truth," Remi interrupted, speaking more harshly than he meant to. "That man wasn't worthy of your time; nor is this escapade worth any of mine. We could have had the story comfortably done by now, snug in our safe little office. Instead, you stuck your nose where it didn't belong and brought a fistful of trouble down on both of us. If this is the way you intend to behave on the job, don't expect to be working with us for very much longer."

He stopped, eyes flashing wrathfully, and hastily checked himself. The boy, who had boldly faced a bully and fearlessly pursued a criminal, was easily cowed by his colleague. He stared shame-facedly at the floor, not daring to meet Remi's gaze. The corners of his eyes glimmered with what might have been tears. The dog, sitting at his feet, whined softly and licked his hand.

Remi rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly remorseful. He had let his worry get the better of him; he was still severely ruffled by his cross-town dash, and had taken out his frustrations on the poor victim of the affair who, even if he was somewhat misguided, had only been acting in the right.

"Have you had anything to eat yet, lad?" he asked, in a gruff voice which somehow betrayed his concern more plainly than he had intended.

"A little," Martin replied; with his head still down, he appeared to be addressing his words to his own knees. "I had an apple back at the flat, while I was getting ready. And I put another paper of biscuits in my- oh."

As he spoke, he dug a rustling packet out his coat pocket, identical to the last. A slight shake and a pattering of crumbs was enough to tell them that the crackers inside had been reduced to rubble.

"I must have landed on it when I fell," he said, in a very low voice.

The dog, which had been looking downcast, perked up; it licked its chops, tail wagging frantically.

"You had better save those for your little friend," Remi said, a reluctant half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He got slowly to his feet, towering over the lad in an authoritive, yet protective sort of way. "I will see if I can find any real food in this place. After everything you have been through, you need to rebuild your strength."

Though Martin was hardly very hungry - in fact, he felt slightly nauseous at the mere thought of trying to eat anything - Remi's tone brooked no argument.

Asking a nurse for directions, Remi soon found the tiny kitchen that served the hospital's patients. After a quick consultation with the matron on what nourishing fare might be best for a convalescing boy, he returned with two fresh white rolls stuffed with stewed beef, onions and cheese; two mugs of very strong, sugary milk tea; and a long, strangely-shaped paper parcel tucked under his arm which, when unwrapped, revealed a very large bone.

Martin frowned, as the dog gazed at it ecstatically. "I don't know if dogs should be given dirty old bones," he said; the dog, salivating and desperately begging in front of Remi, pointedly ignored him. "It doesn't seem very wholesome."

"I can vouch for the cleanliness of this one," Remi retorted. "The matron assures me that it came out of yesterday's soup, and you can't find tasty food for dogs better-washed than that." He set the bone down on top of the paper of biscuits. The dog gleefully set about devouring its feast, while the two reporters ate their meal in a more sedate fashion.

Remi regarded his companion with a sidelong glance. At first, Martin baulked at the food, barely able to choke down a mouthful; however, after a few resolute bites, he seemed to find his appetite, and began to eat with the gusto one would expect of an adolescent boy.

Remi was glad of it. Turning his attention to his own roll, he chewed thoughtfully. He couldn't shake the paternal concern that the whole affair had sparked in him, strengthened by something the kitchen matron had said when he explained his errand to her.

"Such a good papa," she had complimented him, and though he had opened his mouth to protest, he had ended up closing it again, finding neither the energy nor the inclination to bother correcting her. It riled him to think that it was so similar to Annalise's teasing; but then, her words had provoked ideas of their own. Was there no one else to watch over the boy with fatherly concern? Perhaps that was why he ran amok with such abandon.

If their new cadet had reason for acting out in this reckless manner, he wanted to know about it - as good as Martin was at his office duties, Remi couldn't have him become a liability out in the field.

As he finished his well-earned meal, the reporter silently formulated a line of questioning, resolving to go about it as tactfully as he could.

"The doctor said I should ask you things," he said, casually brushing stray crumbs from his coat, "in case you have a concussion. Do you mind if I start?"

Martin swallowed the last morsel of his roll, washing it down with a large swig of tea. "Fire away," he said, cheerfully.

Remi was faintly amazed by how quickly he had bounced back; for all the joie de vivre with which he sipped from his mug, they might be sitting around a fire at Christmas. Acutely feeling his age, he cleared his throat and began.

"What is your name?"

"Martin Paul Delamarre," the boy replied, with alacrity.

"What is your non de plume?"

"Tintin," he answered, pulling a face.

Remi allowed himself a grin, before stating his next question. "How old are you?"

"Fourteen years - to the best of my knowledge."

"Who is your worst enemy?"

Martin had to think for a moment, smiling wryly. "Emile, I suppose - though I wish him no ill will, we simply got off on the wrong foot. So no, I guess my enemy is..." He gingerly touched his aching head. "...the man who hit me. Whoever he is."

This answer stoked Remi's temper again, though he had been expecting it. He pushed all of these minor queries aside; they were irrelevant. Using his skill in reportage, he had been gradually prodding at his subject's defences, slowly putting him at ease, preparing to strike. Now he launched the question that he had been secretly working up to.

"Who is your closest family?"

There was silence. The boy nursed his teacup, shifting it nervously in his hands. Remi waited patiently, slowly counting to ten; when he still got no reply, he gently probed a little further. "I mean 'close', in either sense of the word. You need someone nearby to watch you tonight, in case your condition takes a turn for the worst; and your family should be notified of your injury, wherever they are. Is there somebody I can telephone for you - your parents, another relatives, perhaps a family friend...?"

He trailed off, waiting expectantly. After a minute, the boy raised his head, a surprisingly bright smile upon his face.

"I don't mean to be evasive," he said, apologetically. "But the truth is... there isn't anyone."

"...isn't anyone?" Remi repeated, slowly; he only sounded half-convinced.

"No. I'm not lying," he added, correctly interpreting Remi's doubts. "There is no one I know in Brussels, and only a few elsewhere who could be loosely termed as 'guardians', though their role as such is quite done with by now. There is the director of the orphanage I stayed at, who has the concerns of many others to attend to without having to worry about me any longer; and the leader of my scout troupe, who has done so much for me already, I wouldn't want to bother him with all this. Oh, I suppose there is my landlady here in town; but she's more like my neighbour than my housekeeper, and she's away visiting her cousin in Majorca at present. So no, there really isn't anyone."

Given the frankness of his manner, Remi had to believe him; he had faced enough liars to know that the boy was telling the truth. Still, he could hardly believe it - surely orphans who were left all alone in the world didn't exist anywhere but in a Dickens novel nowadays?

Martin seemed to feel the inquisitive look that was focused upon him. "I suppose you want to know all about it," he conceded, with something like resignation. "You're a reporter - it's your job to find things out."

"I don't mean to pry," Remi quickly assured him; he didn't want his cadet to think he was a mere professional busy-body, like those deplorable mud-rakers at Paris Flash. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to; but, as your employer, I am responsible for you, and I feel as if I know next to nothing about you."

Martin shrugged modestly. "There isn't that much to know. Do you really want me to tell you about my family background? I don't particularly mind, but it makes for a pretty boring article."

"This will stay strictly off the record," Remi replied, gravely, as if he were conducting an official interview. Then he said, in a lighter tone, "I would be interested to hear it. After all, the doctor told me to keep you here and keep you talking. We've earned ourselves another hour's break; it would help to fill in the time."

Martin grinned ruefully at that. "Well, in that case. It's nothing I'm ashamed of, and I don't want you to feel sorry for me. It's just things that have happened in my life." He paused for a moment, as if collecting his thoughts; then he began.

"My parents were foreign diplomats. They travelled a lot for their work; in fact, they were required to visit the Belgian Congo soon after I was born. I was to accompany them there, but I came down with a slight illness - nothing really threatening, a cold or something similar - just before the scheduled departure. So I was left behind with a nurse, who was to bring me along to join them once I had recovered. Soon after they arrived, they were on a passenger train that derailed while travelling from Tanzania to Ruanda-Urundi. They lost their lives in the incident, along with the thirty-two other Belgian nationals who were also on board."

He stated all this dispassionately, as if he were simply reeling off statistics. Remi realized that he must have told this story before, in a similar fashion; he was only so comfortable telling it because he had had a lifetime to come to terms with it, however relatively short his fourteen-or-so years had really been.

"I had no assigned guardians, and no other family to speak of; my nurse already had children of her own and couldn't take in another. So, for the first few years of my life, I was raised in several different foster homes. They were all very nice people, and they all meant very well; but because they were mostly friends of my parents, they also worked in the foreign ministry, and also had to travel a lot. It was agreed between them that I should not be taken out of the country of my birth; so every time one of them had to leave Belgium, I was sent elsewhere, only for the same thing to happen over and over again. Over the course of a decade, I was shunted from one place to another countless times. It was very trying," he admitted, heaving a small sigh at the memory. "I was quite well-cared for, but I had no stability. Just as I got settled into one home, I would be moved to another, and I never knew where I would end up next."

"That would be very upsetting for a child," Remi assured him, encouragingly.

Martin nodded, grateful for the commiseration. "It was. I had nothing much else to complain of, yet I wasn't really happy. The only thing I really enjoyed was Boy Scouts." He smiled broadly, suddenly looking his tender years, in all their naiveté. "It was the one constant in my life, something I knew I could always look forward to, wherever - and with whomever - I happened to be living. I suppose I liked to feel like I was part of something bigger than myself; the rest of the time, I was on my own, for all I was surrounded by different families. In Scouts, we felt more like a united front, I truly had a sense of belonging there.

"I can't thank my troupe leader enough. He noticed the positive effect it had on me, and suggested I go to live at the nearby orphanage, where a lot of the other Scouts were from. My foster families were worried at first, but they assured me I could try it out, and come back to them if I wasn't happy. Well, I was very happy there. For the first time, I arrived at a place knowing I wouldn't have to leave it suddenly, and I had all the other boys there for company - some would leave every so often, to be adopted by families or seek out work when they came of age, but I would still see many of them at Scouts every week. We had such fun together, and learned so many useful things - survival skills, orienteering, boxing-"

"Ah," Remi interrupted, "that's where the mean right hook that felled Emile comes from."

Martin nodded assent, allowing himself a small, self-deprecating smile. "Well, when I finished school, I decided I wanted to be a journalist. I knew there were more opportunities to find such work in the city. I am not destitute; my parents left me a comfortable sum of money in their will, and each month I have access to enough allowance to afford rent on a small flat-"

"You really do live all on your own, at your age?" Remi interposed; he couldn't quite hide the surprise and disapproval in his voice.

"Yes. It really is no big matter," Martin demurred, with a shrug. "I have been alone all my life, even when I have been surrounded by others. Living in the city is not so very different. Besides, I had never had a place that I could entirely call my own before. I like my flat - though I must admit, I am already looking for a new one. One that will let me keep pets; and preferably one that is closer to the office, so you won't have to pay cab fees for me all the time."

They shared a companionable smile at that. The dog snuffed heartily in agreement; on both points, but mostly for the first.

"But really," Martin went on, "it doesn't matter that much, I suppose. I want to become a proper journalist and travel the world, chasing stories all over the globe. I doubt I'll spend very much time in any apartment I have here in Brussels; I just need somewhere I can come back to every now and then. Anyway, once I decided I wanted to be a reporter, I discussed my options with my guardians. I was lucky; my scout leader was acquainted with Mr. Wallez, and he arranged a cadetship for me. The rest, as they say, is history."

Having finished his story, he raised his mug and tilted it back for the last mouthful of tea.

Remi did the same, then absently toyed with his empty cup, considering all he had just heard. He was not so hardened by experience that he didn't feel the tragedy of the tale, however matter-of-factly it had been told. Despite Martin's calm demeanour, he himself felt like he had passed through several harrowing moments of loss and hardship. He now had far more insight into his cadet, which was what he had wanted. That was his stubborn, independant streak; the beyond-his-years capability, all explained right there. Still, there was one nagging question that he didn't yet know the answer to.

"What I don't understand," he said, "is why you are so keen to take up this profession over any other. It has a few perks, assuredly; but I can't say I see why it has a particular appeal for you. Is it because your parents were such avid travellers? Do you wish to become a foreign correspondent, in order to emulate them in some way?"

Martin put his mug down on the floor. The dog dipped its snout into it, and was disappointed to find it empty. He reached over and filled it from a jug of water on a nearby table; it began to lap at it eagerly.

"I guess that is part of it," he admitted, after those few moments' consideration. "I've never really travelled anywhere, save here to Brussels. With all the coming and going my foster-families did, I am curious to find out what the appeal is; I would be very glad to go abroad myself, to see what I've been missing out on."

"Huh," Remi muttered; he had expected as much.

"But it's not just that," Martin added quickly, worried that he had been mistaken as simply ambitious or vain-glorious. "I suppose the real motivation is something I found out a few months ago, before I arrived in the city to stay."

"Oh?" Remi enquired. He felt like he was finally striking at the heart of the matter; his fact-finding instincts told him so.

"Yes. You see, once I came of age, I wanted to find out more about my family situation. Most of the necessary documents - passports, marriage license, birth certificate and such - were lost in the train wreck, so I had very little to go on. I wrote to many of my parents' old friends - those that I could manage to track from abroad, at any rate - and found out from them a lot about how they lived. But I also wanted to know how they died, something that these acquaintances either weren't able, or weren't willing, to tell me.

"So, earlier in the year, I came to Brussels for the first time, to look through the collection of newspaper archives at the city library. I found an article written by a foreign correspondent - for a different paper," he hastily clarified, making Remi raise a curious eyebrow "-that briefly reported on the accident and its casualties. It didn't tell me much that I didn't already know, but it stated the name of a witness who had been working on the Congolese rail line at the time. Since it was the only lead I had, I looked up that gentleman, and found that he was living in Brussels. I arranged to visit him, and this is what I learned."

He learned forward, looking Remi straight in the eye, suddenly very earnest. The reporter, who had been marvelling at the lad's natural investigative skill, had no idea what he was about to impart.

"The article had extensively covered the deaths of the thirty-four Belgian delegates. What it didn't say was that many Africans also perished in the same incident. The Brussels-based newspaper didn't see fit to give that fact column space. It reported the loss of our own citizens, and dismissed all the others. All eighty-six of them.

"I couldn't believe it when that railway-worker told me about it. He was very glad to tell it all to me; he had wanted someone besides himself and his colleagues to finally know about it. After all these years, it had become some kind of scandalous secret, when he felt it should have been common knowledge from the start. He tried to tell the papers about the other victims, at the time; but they brushed it aside, edited out anything that he said about them. Afterwards he read all the local and international bulletins, waiting for something to be said about them; but it never was. Those eighty-six people simply ceased to exist."

His brow furrowed as he spoke; he averted his gaze and stared at the floor again, though his voice lost none of its strength.

"There were so many of them, and they were people too, just like any of us - women and children, some of them - who died in just the same way as the foreign nationals. Yet they were completely overlooked by our press. All those people had families of their own - they were someone else's parents, someone else's children. If I had been born in Africa instead of Belgium, to an African family in place of my own, it could have very well been me, or my parents, who were left out of the pages, lost forever, their deaths unmentioned and meaningless. All because they seemingly had nothing to do with our national interests. And also, to give them any attention would make the incident seem far worse, dissuading our people from visiting the colonies; the loss of profits generated by inter-continental travel would have been a terrible blow to the financially-secure bureaucrats who held office at the time. And the newspapers were very eager to please those who were in positions of authority."

His tone had been steadily gaining in vehemence. Remi was rather startled by the drastic change the lad had undergone, the incredible conviction that lay behind his impassioned words. He himself, with his years of experience covering political affairs, well knew how close to the truth Martin's assessment probably was; but he would hardly have credited such an astute guess to the same idealistic boy of two hours ago. He had no idea that such fires burned behind the mild-mannered, amiable exterior that faced him.

"I suppose I felt a kind of kindred spirit with them," Martin went on, "those eighty-six people, and the families they left behind. People like me who had lost someone near to them, in just the same way. Yet they weren't treated the same. Those thirty-four Belgian citizens - my parents included - were at least laid to rest with some sort of acknowledgement. Why should those eighty-six others be given any less respect, just because some hack reporter sitting in an office hundreds of miles away decided that they weren't worthy? Then I started to wonder how many times this had happened before, in other parts of the world, in other situations - how many people, suffering in silence, have been dismissed by the media in much the same way."

He frowned fitfully at the floor, his fist clenched, as if he meant to strike down the offending journalists, just as he had done to Emile.

"I made up my mind then and there; I resolved to become a reporter myself, so that I could write and publish the exact truth, make sure no one was ever left out or disregarded ever again. That is the real reason why I want to be a journalist: because everyone deserves to have access to the truth, and to have their truth told, whoever they are or whatever circumstances they are born into. I want to be a better journalist than any other - one who keeps his integrity, reports nothing but the whole truth, no matter how unpleasant it may be, or unfashionable, or even how unprofitable. I don't care if being a reporter makes me famous, or earns large paychecks, or takes me all over the globe; I just want to do my best to make sure that everyone who needs a voice has one, no matter how forgotten or downtrodden they are. I feel I owe it to everyone who isn't able to speak up for themselves."

They sat quietly after he had finished talking. Remi didn't say anything, simply taking it all in.

He understood now why their cadet had refused to back down from false allegations of spying; why he had pursued a suspected crook with little regard for the consequences. What he had taken for a mere bleeding-heart was more like a battle-ready warrior. This boy lived and breathed a need to fight back against any kind of wrong - not just for his own sake, but for anyone else he came across as well. Remi could not remember having ever met anyone - young or old - throughout his storied career, who had displayed anything like the compassion and determination that this humble boy possessed. The discovery of it left him more than a little staggered.

After a minute, Martin turned to his companion with a sheepish smile, breaking the silence that had fallen between them.

"I'm sorry," he said, almost shyly. "I wasn't having a go at you. You are a great local journalist in your own right, and if I can be half as good at the job as you are, I will be satisfied. I should have listened when you told me to stick to the story. However well I meant, it was wrong of me to go off and do something like this without authorization. I acted in a way that was not good for the reputation of the paper, and even worse for my own well-being. Everything I just said... well, it was nonsense, really. Just the concussion talking. The aims that I have are highly impractical, foolishly idealistic."

"Perhaps," Remi said; and, to his embarrassment, his voice was a little thick. The boy's dedication to his cause had affected him, though he was trying his best to hide it. "But then, I have always had a sympathy with idealists," he went on, rapidly formulating this philosophy on the spot.

"Truthfully," he reiterated, seeing the boy's look of faint surprise, only realizing right then how much he truly meant it. "Many long, cynical years on the job have not swayed my affinity with them. Idealists can be surprisingly practical people, in the most unlikely situations. In fact, I would go so far to say that an idealist is the most useful person to have around, especially under the worst circumstances. A realist will only see things as they are, and concede or despair; but the naive idealist can see past what is to what should be, and never stops pushing for it, no matter how fanciful or unlikely it may seem. They chase after what they know to be right, while the rest of us follow in their wake; and all those numbers will eventually forge a path, however long it takes. But such tides of change tend to start with an ideal, and who better than an idealist to carry it forward, at the head of the charge. In my experience, idealists are quite often the ones who really get any meaningful things done."

Martin mulled this over with grave solemnity. "I hope you are right," he said, simply.

Remi glanced at the boyish profile alongside him. "I think I might be," he murmured softly to himself.

He smiled a hopeful sort of smile, leaning back as comfortably as his seat would allow, enjoying the inaction while it lasted.

One day, their cadet was going to be formidable indeed. Having the boy around the office could only get more interesting - and, he strongly suspected, more trying - from here on in. But for now at least, he was sincerely looking forward to it.

The Emiles of the world would need to watch out.

Author's note: well, this is my take on Tintin's motivation for the life of adventuring he leads and his role as the ultimate boy scout, international champion of humanitarianism. I don't think it's particularly original; it's just one possible reason why he is so socially-aware and willing to risk his own life for the sake of others. It is not so much survivor's guilt, as it is a natural abhorrence for all forms of wrong-doing, and a powerful drive to personally see things set right; as well as fairness and kindness, he values awareness, prompting him to become the official spokesperson of the disadvantaged through his journalistic role. That is the way I see it, anyway.

The food that Martin and Remi eat is somewhere between carbonnade flamande and frikandel, two home-style Belgian dishes that are somewhat like beef casserole and hot dogs, respectively. I was trying to think of something nutritious, filling and convenient that they might find in a Belgian hospital cafeteria, and this is what I came up with. Do not consider it in any way authentic.

For the person who asked, since it is mentioned again in this chapter: yes, this story takes place in Brussels, Belgium. 'Paris Flash' is taken directly from 'The Castafiore Emerald'; it is a publication that a certain opera diva particularly deplores.

This story-within-a-story was what I really wanted to tell; everything after this is going to seem slightly anti-climatic. Still, I have a mystery left to solve, and I will stick with it if you will. I hope to see you at the next chapter, whenever that may be! ~ W.J.

p.s. thank you to everyone who bought one of my Tintin prints, more than $120.00 AUD was raised for the Red Cross Nepal earthquake appeal, the response exceeded all my expectations! I have a slightly defective print that I am giving away; if you want it please send me a message, all I ask in return is proof - a receipt or transcript - that you have given a donation of any amount to Red Cross. Check out my deviantArt profile (Wai-Jing, with a hyphen) for details!

I am thinking of doing a new, similar print for UNHCR and the refugee crisis in Syria. If anyone would be interested in it, please let me know!