The Adventures of Tintin (17 page)

The only way he was ever going to find out was if he stopped Sakharine and captured all three scrolls.

“The concert is happening tonight,” Tintin said. “We must get to the palace immediately.”

Outside Ben Salaad’s grand palace, Tintin found a manic scene. Reporters were shouting over one another, paparazzi were shooting a million pictures, and fans of the Milanese Nightingale were crowding against the velvet ropes clamoring for autographs. The entire city seemed to have traveled to the palace courtyard to get in on the show. Bianca Castafiore, the Nightingale herself, was a large and
imposing
figure in an emerald silk gown covered in sparkling gold brocade. Her blond hair was swept into a complicated knot. Diamonds sparkled in her ears and at her throat.

“She would have been a fine figurehead on the
Unicorn
herself,” Captain Haddock said, marveling at her. It was the greatest compliment a Haddock could give.

From the back of the crowd, in the shadow of the looming grand hall, Tintin took note of the garage and driveway at one side of the palace, and identified all the outside doors. At some point, he was going to have to make a quick getaway, and he wanted options. Surveying the grounds, Tintin was again struck by the difference between the palace grounds and the rest of the town. Inside Ben Salaad’s walls, everything was lush and green, perfectly groomed and flowering. Fountains and decorative canals cut here and there alongside stone sidewalks. The air was fragrant with flowers and freshly mowed grass.

Outside the walls, dead grass and brown struggling shrubs stuck up out of parched earth. The entire town looked as if the water had been squeezed out of it long ago. Tintin felt sorry for the people of Bagghar. He vowed to do what he could to bring justice to them. Sheik Ben Salaad had to be forced to acknowledge that what he was doing was wrong.

But their first objective was to capture the third scroll.

The Nightingale smiled and smiled at everyone, posing for photograph after photograph. Handing back an autographed program, she laughed at something someone said, and the laugh rose to a trill that would have hurt Tintin’s ears if there hadn’t been so much other noise already.

At her side stood Ben Salaad himself, bespectacled and a little mousy-looking, sporting a wispy mustache on a round, soft face. One would not have taken him for the rich and powerful man he was. He made a great show of bowing and kissing her hand. The photographers clicked away. “Enchanted,
signora
,” Ben Salaad said. “
Bienvenuto!
Welcome! We are blessed with your presence.”

“Yes, indeed,
Signore
Salad,” the Nightingale said, mispronouncing her host’s name. He did not appear to notice, and she kept waving to the crowd. “What charming peasants!” she said, more quietly. Tintin read her lips as she leaned in close to Ben Salaad and said, “May I introduce my escort, Monsieur Shuggair Addeitiff . . .?”

And from behind her stepped Sakharine, dressed in a tailored tuxedo!

The photographers kept snapping pics. Between Tintin’s feet, Snowy growled. Captain Haddock growled, too.

“He has been very passionate in his support of this concert,” the Nightingale said, raising her voice again so the whole crowd could hear. “It’s my first visit to this part of the world.”

“Please forgive me,” Sakharine said, bowing to Ben Salaad. “I must escort Madame to her dressing room. Excuse us!”

He and the Nightingale entered the palace to a final chorus of questions from the assembled reporters. Tintin had a few questions of his own.

But they would have to wait. For now, he and Captain Haddock applauded along with the rest of the crowd as Ben Salaad and his secretary shouted, “Bravo!” over and over again to the retreating Nightingale and her sinister escort.

The money in Tintin’s wallet, plus what they had received from the sale of the camels, was enough for two tickets to the opera. Tintin and Captain Haddock got themselves cleaned up as best they could and a little while later were waiting in line to enter for the performance. Tintin watched the palace guards keeping an eye on everyone who went inside. He got worried that maybe Sakharine might have told the guards to look out for him, and on the spur of the moment he made a decision.

He took the scroll from his wallet and handed it to Captain Haddock. “Here,” he said. “I want you to look after this.”

“Me? Are you sure?” Captain Haddock looked uncomfortable.

“I think they’re watching me,” Tintin said. “If I’m caught, I don’t want them to find this on me. Just keep it hidden.”

Captain Haddock dramatically dropped to one knee, clasping the folded parchment to his heart. “I will guard this with my life!”

“No, no,” Tintin said, pulling him back up. The last thing he wanted was Captain Haddock making a scene and drawing attention to himself. “Shh. Just keep it safe.”

Then they were passing close to the guards. Tintin tried not to look at them, and also tried not to look nervous. Captain Haddock stood stiffly, looking like he had just swallowed a sea urchin. But the guards took no notice of them, and an usher escorted them to their seats. Snowy stealthily padded in under the cover of a lady’s skirt. He didn’t need a ticket!

They were far from the stage, toward the back of the main floor of the hall. On either side of the floor rose decks of special boxes, and two balconies jutted out over the display area at the back of the hall. Tintin needed opera glasses to see anything, and luckily they were being handed out for free to all of the distinguished guests. Ben Salaad was in the first row, dead center. The great hall of his palace was alive with excitement. Every dignitary in Bagghar, and quite a few of the Nightingale’s traveling fans, had packed into the hall for this unprecedented show. The orchestra struck up the overture to a famous opera, and a hush came over the hall as the lights dimmed save for a single spotlight shining on Bianca Castafiore at center stage.

“It’s her!” Captain Haddock said, poking Tintin with his elbow. It seemed the captain was already quite a fan.

Tintin had his opera glasses out and was panning through the crowd. He stopped when he had the display case containing the third model
Unicorn
in view. It was near the doors at the rear of the hall, below the overhang of the first balcony. Where was Sakharine? How was he planning to get it?

Tintin wished he could have gotten Thompson and Thomson into the concert, but both of them had felt that they would be of more use out in the town. They had pledged to make sure that Tintin got back to Europe once he had achieved his objective, but neither of them wanted to attend the performance. Tintin had a feeling that they were not opera fans.

The overture came to a climax and died away, and the Milanese Nightingale began to sing. She had a huge voice, that much could not be denied—but Captain Haddock was clearly not prepared for what he heard. He looked horrified as the first notes of the Nightingale’s high-pitched aria drilled into his ears.

“Blistering barnacles, what’s that noise?” He clapped his hands to the sides of his head. “My ears! They’re bleeding!”

“No, they’re not,” Tintin scoffed. Haddock didn’t seem to hear. He bent forward and banged his head against the chair in front of him. On the floor at Tintin’s feet, Snowy began to whine. Nobody other than Tintin could have heard him, so loud was the Nightingale’s voice.

She began to climb to the higher notes in the middle of the aria, and Tintin’s ears started to ring. “Oh, Columbus!” Captain Haddock cried. “It’s every man for himself!”

He stood and pushed his way up the aisle past annoyed patrons, crying out, “Make way, make way! Medical emergency!”

When he was out in the lobby, Captain Haddock breathed a sigh of relief. He could still hear the accursed noise from inside the hall, but at least it was muffled by the doors.
Time for a little relief
, he thought, removing a medicinal spirit bottle from his jacket pocket.

As it came out, so did the scroll Tintin had given him. “Whoops,” said Captain Haddock. He snatched it out of the air and folded it up again, holding it tight in his fist.

“Whew,” he said. He started to open the bottle . . .

Then he paused. Tintin had trusted him with this scroll. He had to live up to that trust. And he was a Haddock! He came from a long line of sea captains and mighty adventurers!

He didn’t need the bottle.

A great sense of peace came over Captain Haddock, and he put the bottle down on a marble-topped table at the edge of the lobby. As he took a step away from it, someone stepped in front of him. Haddock looked up and gasped.

“Hello, Captain,” Tom said.

“You!” Captain Haddock said. He spun around, and there was Sakharine’s other goon, Allan. Before Captain Haddock could move, Allan snatched up the bottle and brought it crashing down on Captain Haddock’s head.

TINTIN LEANED FORWARD
, his anticipation growing as the Milanese Nightingale approached the climax of her song. From the corner of his eye, Tintin saw something move that distracted him. He glanced up at the upper balcony, feeling uneasy, just as a figure disappeared from view. And there had been another motion . . . what was it?

He picked up the opera glasses and scanned the balcony. Suddenly, he saw him! Sakharine!

The notes of the Nightingale’s aria went higher still. “Oh, no,” Tintin said. His musings had been right. From around him came the sharp tinkle of breaking glass as the power of the Nightingale’s voice began to shatter the guests’ champagne glasses—and even the lenses of their spectacles.

That was Sakharine’s plan, thought Tintin. The woman onstage could sing notes so high that they shattered glass!

From the balcony, he saw a flutter. A flutter? Yes. Sakharine’s falcon! It was a great majestic bird. It tensed its wings, as if prepared to take flight at any moment.

A glass chandelier shattered into fragments that rained down into the waiting area behind the seats. Along the wall of that waiting area stood the display case holding the model ship. Cracks were spreading across the bulletproof glass as the Nightingale’s voice soared higher and higher. The lenses of Tintin’s opera glasses cracked and fell out of the casing.

Tintin stood. It was time to act!

The Nightingale raised her arms, summoning all her strength to hit the final notes . . .

. . . and the display case shattered, shards of glass spilling across the expensive plush carpeting of the waiting area. Urgently, Tintin started pushing through the crowd toward the aisle. Down in the front row, Ben Salaad heard the crash even over the onslaught of the Nightingale’s voice. He looked over his shoulder and saw Sakharine lean forward with a smile as he launched the falcon from the balcony.

“The falcon!” Tintin cried. “Snowy, after it!”

Snowy slipped under the seats and took off. At the same moment, Captain Haddock burst in from the lobby, shouting, “Tintin!”

Mad applause was breaking out for the Nightingale even as Sakharine leaned out over the balcony and pointed at Captain Haddock and Tintin, using both hands. “Those two!” he yelled over the din to Ben Salaad. “They’re here to steal your ship!”