Tropic Moon by Georges Simenon Page A

francs.”
    An obscure force was driving Timar on, a need for action, for heroism. He opened his wallet.
    â€œHere’s a down payment of a thousand. It’s urgent.”
    â€œAll I need is three days. Something to drink?”
    So the die was cast! In three days, the flatboat would be repaired and Timar would head off to take over his post. That would be a real feat.
    Timar opened the door to the hotel with a firm, categoric movement. The big room was empty, bathed in the familiar shadow of African houses. The tables had already been set for lunch. Adèle was alone behind the counter.
    Before he even sat down, Timar announced, “I leave in three days.” He wasn’t looking at her.
    â€œFor Europe?”
    â€œNo. The interior.”
    The word, which was so nice to utter, brought Adèle’s ambiguous smile to her lips. Annoyed, Timar went off to sit in the corner and pretend to read newspapers he’d read twice already. She didn’t pay him any attention. She came and went, gave orders to the kitchen, rearranged bottles, opened up the till.
    He was furious. He needed to stir things up. From the very first word he knew he was making a mistake, but it was too late to stop.
    â€œYou know they found the bullet casing?”
    â€œAh.”
    â€œThe casing of the bullet that killed Thomas.”
    â€œI understood the first time.”
    â€œThat’s all you have to say?”
    She turned her back to him and arranged the bottles.
    â€œWhat do you want me to say?”
    They exchanged words across the empty damp room with its bands of light and shadow.
    â€œYou should watch out.”
    He didn’t mean to threaten her. Still, he would have liked to give her a bit of a scare.
    â€œEmile!”
    Her only response was to call for the boy. He came running.
    â€œPut these carafes of wine on the tables.”
    The boy kept darting in and out between them after that, making his way from one table to another. The raw white of his waiter’s outfit was like a stain.
    The loggers showed up, then Maritain, as well as a notary clerk, and a traveling salesman from England, and the atmosphere was just like every other meal, though this time the events of the previous night led to murmurs and stifled laughter.
    Timar’s bleary-eyed face was the most haggard of the lot.
    That night, he remained in his corner until the very last moment, pretending to read. Maritain had left first. The loggers had gone on playing card games with the clerk until ten, when they all trooped off heavily. The boy had locked the doors, closed the windows and blinds, and turned out some of the lights. Timar still hadn’t spoken a word to Adèle. He hadn’t even looked at her.
    But now that the doors and windows were shut, he was relishing the intimacy.
    She was at the counter, locking up the drawers with a key. Had she guessed his thoughts? Had she been looking at him? Had she glanced at him sometimes in the course of the evening?
    He heard the boy declare, “All done, ma’am!”
    â€œGood. Get to bed.”
    She lit a candle, because the electric generator would soon cut off.
    Timar stood up, uncertain, and approached the counter. When he was almost there, Adèle headed for the door and the staircase, candle in hand.
    â€œComing?”
    All he could do was follow. She climbed in front of him and he saw her naked legs, the dress that spread like a corolla. She stopped on the landing, and he stammered, “Which room do I …”
    â€œYour old one, of course.”
    The one he’d slept in the first few days, the one where she’d come to him one morning, the one he’d been exiled from so they could put the coffin in there. She was handing him the candle. He realized clearly that, when he took it, it would be all over. She’d go to her own room. He’d have to go off to his bed. That was why he remained standing, awkward, hesitant. She jiggled the candle in