Read Online Tropic Moon by Georges Simenon - Free Book Online Page B

yellowish-green light and the oppressive heat, something that seemed inexplicable since there was no sun overhead. Timar noticed that even the blacks at the market were sweating heavily.
    You waited without thinking for a clap of thunder for days, but no—there were going to be days and weeks of this draining atmosphere before a storm broke, days and weeks without rain or a trickle of water. And you were afraid even to remove your sun helmet to wipe off your forehead!
    Timar meant to pass the governor’s house looking the other way when the chief of police hailed him from the top of the steps.
    â€œComing in?”
    â€œWhat about you?”
    â€œI’m just leaving. But go have a whiskey with the governor. It’ll please him; he’s told me a lot about you.”
    In spite of the oppressive humidity, things were happening fast, too fast. Timar found himself in a large drawing room exactly like a prefect’s back in La Rochelle, Nantes, or Moulins. Some leopard skins added an exotic note and clashed with the tapestries and carpets from the rue du Sentier.
    â€œAh! It’s you, young man!”
    The governor’s wife was summoned, a woman of about forty who wasn’t ugly or pretty. A woman trained to make tea and listen to men talk.
    â€œYou’re from La Rochelle? You must know my brother-in-law, the departmental archivist.”
    â€œHe’s your brother-in-law?”
    Whiskey. The governor sat with his knees slightly apart. He exchanged a look with his wife. Timar understood why the governor was glad to have company. He liked to drink. His wife didn’t like him to. When he had a guest, he kept filling his guest’s glass so he could fill his own, too.
    â€œCheers! So, what are you going to do? SACOVA is getting worse and worse. I’ll tell you this in confidence, but …”
    Their chat lasted a quarter of an hour. Not a word about the murdered black or the investigation. Once again Timar’s head was thick with drink before lunch. He liked the feeling: his thoughts floated free, avoiding the rough edges.
    At the hotel, they looked at him with distinct curiosity—probably because he’d had a drink with the governor. The loggers were in the middle of a conversation: “… so I gave him the hundred francs and a kick in the ass, and he left, happy as can be …”
    Timar soon realized they were talking about the tail end of the night in the forest. Maria’s husband had shown up, making a fuss —he’d even threatened to hire someone to write to the League of Nations. A hundred francs and a kick in the ass! Everyone handed over twenty francs, except Timar. They were afraid to ask him.
    He napped until five and came back downstairs feeling queasy. Two glasses of whiskey restored him.
    â€œDid the governor have anything to say?”
    â€œNothing of interest.”
    â€œI sent a black to tell Truffaut we’re ready to make a deal.”
    â€œBut we don’t know yet if—”
    â€œWe can send him back home if it doesn’t work out.”
    He looked at her in alarm. And yet she was a woman, a real woman—with soft skin, a good figure, a yielding body.
    Just before dinner he walked to the water to check out his half-repaired boat.
    â€œYou can leave in two days,” the mechanic told him.
    Dusk was subdued, the sea and the sky a poisonous green. Lights came on. Dinner. Billiards and card games with the loggers and the notary clerk with the enormous gut.
    Maritain asked Timar, “Do you play chess?”
    â€œYes … no … not today.”
    â€œHave you come down with something?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    He felt bad all over; he didn’t know what to do with himself. He didn’t feel at home anywhere, and he wondered what was going to happen with Adèle that night.
    Would they simply end up in the same room and sleep in the same bed? The whole thing was starting to feel