Of Crab Tins and Diamonds

Chapter 4: Of Tours and Freighters

The next morning at 9:45, Tintin stood on the docks, anxiously checking his watch.

Perhaps I came too early.

Perhaps I came too late.

Perhaps I misread the telegram and missed out on the tour.

If I missed out on the tour, did I lose my opportunity at a job?

Slowly closing his eyes, Tintin took a deep breath to calm his jittering nerves. No need to panic... he assured himself, opening his eyes once again to watch the activity around him. This is where it told you to meet him. Everything's going to be fine.

Standing near a lamppost, Tintin watched a team of men haul up a grand piano from the deck of a nearby ship, the exposed white keys glittering in the morning sun. With utmost care the waiting men motioned for the crane operator to lower the huge package, their gloved hands guiding the large instrument to the cobblestone ground with a soft thunk. A woman, her hair red as her lipstick, stood off to the side of the working sailors, her face glowing in excitement. She beamed at her package, her delicate hands clasped together near her wide smile.

Without warning, the petite lady ran up to the nearest sailor and wrapped him in a huge hug, the younger man stepping back in surprise. With a chuckle, he nervously patted the back of her white dress in an awkward embrace, careful not to touch her with the tips of his dirty gloves. The other two men gave each other a knowing look, soft snickers escaping their pressed lips. Realizing what she was doing, the woman quickly stood up, blushing as she attempted to smooth the new wrinkles in his already dingy sweater. She blushed deeper when she caught the man staring back at her in awe, his face and nose turning pink, and quickly pulled her hands away. She apologized in a low voice, the foreign language stumbling over in her mouth. The man simply chortled softly, consoling her back in perfect Russian, the lady's surprise giving way to a look of gratitude.

Watching the pair continue to talk in soft voices, Tintin's mind wondered for the umpteenth time what his mother had looked like.

In his mind, he always pictured her like the woman standing at the port: with a soft voice and gentle touch, a full head of fiery red hair framing her kind face.

However, in reality, Tintin knew she could've looked like anyone.

The Captain never could find out much about the young reporter's biological family, and was reluctant till Tintin was a young lad to sit down and talk about it. He had faint memories about that conversation, full of throat clearing and shifting from Haddock's usually comfy chair as his papa tried to explain the difference between biological and adoptive parents. According to a few salvaged, half-burnt documents police found at the crime scene, she was a teacher to a long lost elementary school, and was married to an unknown man in her early twenties. Everything else, including her name, her looks, her background, and even the name of her husband, had been lost sixteen years ago in a terrible house fire.

The only survivor of the tragedy was a toddler aimlessly wandering on the streets of Brussels who called himself "Tintin".

Even his own birth name was alien to him.

Snowy looked up at Tintin expectantly as the seagulls cried all around them, a little pink tongue hanging out of his mouth. Finding himself staring at the happy pair still talking together in the warm sunlight, Tintin turned and glanced again at his watch.

"I know it's hot, boy." Tintin murmured as beads of sweat formed on his upper lip, " but this is where the telegram said that Tom would meet us... Watch, he'll be here any minute now."

A buoy sounded, a sailor shouted in the distance.

"Any minute now..."

Standing only a few moments more in the unrelenting sunlight, the young reporter wandered over to the edge of the port, peering along the edge as waves slapped noisily against the sides.