Of Crab Tins and Diamonds

Chapter 6: Of Coffee and Goodbyes

Save for the excess amount of seagulls parading the upper decks, Tom found early mornings to be an enjoyable experience. To the weathered sailor, the upper deck of the Karaboujan was a quiet, private, place where he could retreat from the rest of the crew, even if it was only for an hour.

But, sadly, on "Departure Days", as Tom liked to call them, the tranquil peace the morning sunrise offered was nowhere to be found.

Bustling and buzzing, Brussels port was anything but relaxed.

Men of all shapes and sizes were scurrying and shuffling upon the open, main deck of the Karaboujan, shouting orders and hauling up numerous boxes and crates to be delivered to different stops on their upcoming round trip. Cradling a tin mug of coffee in his calloused hands, Tom watched all the activity with half lidded eyes, several days of backbreaking labor finally catching up to him.

But it's no matter, Tom mused, taking a gulp of steaming, black coffee, I won my day off fair and square.

It was tradition, that the night before each departure from port, the sailors would play a game of poker, bets consisting of whatever they could fish out of their worn out pockets and starved wallets. However, the most popular form of bidding was making promises, written and signed on scrap slips of paper. Smiling, Tom silently congratulated himself of his sweet victory of the final round of last night's poker: a cup of coffee, a handful of wrinkled cash and a full day off of work. Smirking as he took another sip, Tom wondered how the losers of the game were holding up doing double work down below.

Surely they're sorry that-.

Sputtering, Tom almost dropped his mug when he caught sight of three figures strolling toward the Karaboujan on the docks below, one of the men's auburn hair, blazing brightly in the morning light, instantly recognizable.

The young man walked heavily on the cobblestone port, two older, taller men following close behind. One of them, a bearded man in his late fifties, looked after Tintin with an indecipherable expression, a small canteen of whiskey sticking out of his back pocket. The second, nearly bald, man, adjusted his grip on the brown suitcase, following the pair a little ways back. With a visible sigh, the ginger quiffed boy stopped in his tracks, turning slowly to face the two men who'd accompanied him there. From up above, each man seemed to be touched by Madeus, their clothes bathed in the golden glow of the rising sun. Softly, tenderly, the trio talked among themselves, the tallest man of the holding a soft, but strong, smile. Even the butler, (Tom only assumed he was a butler by the regal way he dressed) held a bright expression, the corners of his mouth rising in a shadow of a grin. Without warning, Tintin, his merry expression faltering, rushed over to embrace the tallest man in a massive hug. Wiping tears from his own eyes, the bearded man hugged the boy back, shushing his trembling form as he rubbed small, soothing, circles on his back. Breaking the embrace, the boy ran over to the butler as well, enveloping the uniformed man in a strong embrace. Surprised, the butler stood completely still before, with a concealed sob, wrapped his arms around Tintin's form, pressing his lips against the side of the boy's head. Slowly breaking apart, the balding man, misty eyed, held the boy by the shoulders, murmuring and patting him gently on the back before Tintin, wiping his eyes, stepped back into place once again.

No words were said.

They could only stare in silence.

Silence was dominant until, Tintin, face determined and glistening in the light, bent down and picked up his battered suitcase, turning and stalking away as fast as he could.

Suddenly, the bearded man shouted, fingers digging in his pockets as he rushed over to the boy's side. Tintin, not wishing to go through the whole ordeal again, took a few steps away from the man before seeing the man's hand, holding out an object, clasped tightly in his fist, for him to take. Gently, the middle-aged man grabbed Tintin's free hand, pressing the unidentifiable object in his palm before, one by one, the man secured the boy's fingers around it, kissing the boys trembling fist. Exchanging a last embrace, a final kiss, Tintin, tears streaming down his youthful face, rushed away from the two men and up the gangplank, the pair looking after him with a faint, trembling smile. The butler, emotions stirring beneath the surface, placed a reassuring hand on the other man's shoulder, the bearded man's breath hitching in his barrel chest as the boy disappeared in the throng of shouting, brusque sailors.