Tropic Moon by Georges Simenon Page B

her hand as a sign for him to take it.
    â€œAdèle!”
    It was hard to go on. He didn’t know what he wanted. He was like a little boy whining for no reason, or simply because he’s unhappy—unhappy about everything and nothing.
    Adèle was half in shadow. There was a hint of a smile as she took the two steps to Timar’s door and opened it. She let him in first, then closed the door behind her and set the candle on the dresser.
    â€œWhat do you want?”
    Maybe it was the light that made her body stand out so clearly under her dress, its blackness tinged with red.
    â€œI want …”
    He stretched out his hands the way he had the night before. He touched her, but he was afraid to take her in his arms. She didn’t push him away. She barely moved.
    â€œSee, you’re not going to be leaving in three days. Get in bed.”
    She spoke and pulled off her dress. She opened the mosquito net, smoothed the sheets, and fluffed the pillows. After stripping to the waist, he paused.
    She got in the bed ahead of him, as if they’d always slept together there. She waited without impatience.
    â€œBlow out the candle.”

5
    H E FELT better when he woke up. Before he even opened his eyes, he could tell that the bed beside him was empty. He felt around with his hand and smiled, straining to hear the sounds of the house. The boy was sweeping the big room. Adèle must be behind the counter. He rose lazily, and his first thought looking out the window was: “It’s going to rain.”
    Just like Europe! And just as he used to in Europe, he frowned for an instant at the thought of having to carry an umbrella. The low sky was a solid dark gray. The downpour seemed to be only minutes away, but the soft, hot radiance of the missing sun was still palpable. It wasn’t going to rain. It wasn’t going to rain for another six months—Timar was in Gabon. The thought made him smile with resignation, but a little aggressively, too, as he reached for the pitcher.
    He hadn’t slept well. Several times, half awake, he’d opened his eyes a little and seen the milky form of the woman beside him, against him, her head resting on one bent arm.
    Had Adèle slept? Twice she’d made him shift position; he’d been lying on his right side and having trouble breathing. When he’d opened his eyes yet again it was daylight. Adèle was standing by the door, looking for hairpins she might have dropped during the night.
    Timar blew his nose and wiped it. He looked at his tired face in the mirror. Something was bothering him, but he didn’t want to think about it because he was too inexperienced with women to solve it. Last night Adèle had given herself for sure, but somehow it seemed like she’d given too much. She’d done it for him, not for herself.
    He was almost certain she hadn’t slept or even closed her eyes, that she’d spent the whole night against him, her head resting on her folded arm, staring straight ahead into blackness. What was that about?
    Timar was sick of worrying. He’d come to a decision as he washed: leave it to chance and let things turn out the way they would.
    He went downstairs and realized that the heavy sky was making it even hotter. After taking a few steps he was sweating. He pushed open the door to the café. Adèle was there, behind the counter, the tip of a pencil between her lips. He didn’t know what to do, so he stuck out his hand.
    â€œGood morning.”
    She batted her eyelashes in reply. Then, licking the point of her pencil, she returned to her accounts.
    â€œBoy! Mr. Timar’s breakfast!”
    Twice he caught her studying him, but perhaps she wasn’t aware of it herself.
    â€œNot too tired?”
    â€œI’m okay.”
    She shut the register, put away the papers on the counter, and came to sit at the table where Timar was eating. It was the first time she’d done anything like