Tropic Moon (4 page)

The river was over there, at the lower end of the bay, less than half a mile away. Back in the heroic times of Eugène and Adèle, there'd been no merchants' houses or government buildings here, their red roofs mixed in among the greenery.

She must have worn boots and an ammunition belt. Surely not a black silk dress over her naked body.

He tried to walk in the shade, but it was just as hot there as in the sun. The air was scorching; even his clothes were hot to the touch. Back then, they hadn't had brick walls—or ice to cool a drink.

After eight years, and in defiance of the administrative order, Eugène and Adèle had returned to France with six hundred thousand francs. In a few months, they'd spent them. “Blown it all,” the police chief said.

On what? What sort of life had they led? Where might Timar, barely pubescent, have run into them?

They'd gone back to Africa—back into the jungle. Eugène had had two attacks of snail fever. Adèle nursed him through them.

They'd bought the Central only three years ago.

Timar had held her in his arms one morning, on the edge of a sweaty bed.

He didn't dare take off his sun helmet to wipe his forehead. It was noon and he was the only one walking along that burning path. There was absolutely no one else.

The police chief had told him other stories about other people, not at all indignantly, though he grumbled that they went too far.

Like the plantation owner last month. Thinking that his cook had tried to poison him, he'd hung him by his feet over a washtub. From time to time he would lower the cook's head into the water. Then for more than fifteen minutes he'd forgotten to pull him out. The cook had died.

The trial was still going on. The League of Nations had stepped in. And now another native had been killed.

“There's nothing we can do for them,” the police chief had declared.

“For who?”

“The killers.”

“And the other times?”

“It's usually possible to arrange something.”

When Adèle left the house on the night of the party, what had she gone out to do? And why, a few hours earlier, had she struck Thomas in the face?

Timar hadn't said anything about it. He wasn't going to. But hadn't there been other people who'd seen her coming in from outside?

But once again he'd lost his way; he'd have to retrace his steps. Finally he got back to the hotel, where for once the clinking sound of cutlery wasn't accompanied by the usual noontime murmurs of conversation. They all looked up at him. Noticing that Adèle wasn't there, he went and sat down at his table.

The boy was a new one, very young. Someone tugged Timar's sleeve. Turning around, he saw it was one of the loggers, the biggest one, who had the head and profile of a butcher.

“It's all over.”

“What?”

A nod toward the ceiling.

“He kicked it. By the way, what did he say to you?”

Everything was happening too fast, especially in this stupefying noon heat. Timar couldn't get his thoughts straight. He knew he looked ridiculous asking, “Who?”

“The chief of police! He summoned you first because he figured it'd be easier to grill a newcomer. This afternoon or tomorrow, it's going to be our turn.”

No one stopped eating, but all eyes were fixed on Timar. He didn't know what to say. He was upset by the thought of the dead man up there—Adèle must be watching over him—and by the stories the police chief had told him.

“Did you get the feeling that he knows anything?”

“I couldn't say. I swore I'd seen nothing.”

“That's good.”

Obviously he'd just earned some points. Now they looked friendlier. But did they know he knew something? Did they know, too?

Timar blushed and ate some sausage. He was surprised to hear himself ask, “Did he suffer much?”

Then he realized he shouldn't have asked that question; the suffering must have been terrible.

“The worst thing about it is that it happened right after that hanging business,” the one-eyed logger said.

So they were thinking about that, too! Everybody was! Everyone, in other words, was involved, and they were curious and suspicious about Timar because he wasn't.

Footsteps sounded in the room overhead. A door opened and closed. Someone was coming down the stairs.

It was Adèle Renaud. The café was absolutely silent as she walked to the counter and picked up the phone receiver.

She was unchanged, her breasts showing as clearly as ever beneath the silk of her dress. It was childish for him to notice that, but it was what bothered Timar most—as if grief meant wearing a bra.

“Hello? Yes, two-five. Hello? Is Oscar there? Yes, it's me. As soon as he comes in, tell him it's over; he should bring everything he needs. The doctor doesn't want us to keep the body any later than noon tomorrow. No! Thanks, that'll do very well.”

After she hung up she stayed where she was for a long time, elbows on the bar, chin on her fists, staring straight ahead. Then, barely turning her head, she spoke to the boy: “Well, why haven't you cleared the table in back yet?”

She opened a drawer and shut it again. She was about to get up and leave, but then she changed her mind. She went back to her earlier pose, her chin on her clenched hands. A voice from the loggers' table asked, “Will he be buried tomorrow?”

“Yes. The doctor says it wouldn't be wise to wait longer.”

“If you need help …”

“Thanks—everything's taken care of. They're coming with the coffin soon.”

She was looking at Timar. He could feel it. He didn't dare raise his eyes.

“Did you see the police chief, Mr. Timar? Was he very unfriendly?”

“No … I—he knows my uncle, who's a counselor general, and he—”

He fell silent. Once again he felt himself surrounded by their mocking curiosity, now tinged with a bit of respect, and it unnerved him. And just then he saw it: the soft smile quickly crossing Adèle's sinuous lips.

“I had to move you to another room. I don't have any other to keep the body in tonight.”

She turned to the line of bottles behind her, selected a calvados, and poured herself a glass. She drank it with a wince of disgust. Then in a neutral voice she asked, “What did they do with the black?”

“Took him to the hospital. They're performing the autopsy this afternoon. It seems that the bullet came out between the shoulder blades. It hasn't been found yet.”

The logger's words were pronounced with distinct intent. He shrugged and swallowed an apricot half that looked like the yolk of an egg, then went on: “There's a black policeman on the scene to prevent anyone from coming for the bullet if it's found.
If
it's found. Anyone for a billiards game?”

Wiping his mouth with a napkin, he stood. Confronted by the general silence, he muttered, “Maybe not today. Give me a calvados, Adèle.”

And he leaned his elbows on the counter across from her while the others finished their meal. Timar's cheeks flushed. He ate mechanically. A fly was buzzing around him; each time it passed by he felt a spasm of anger.

The atmosphere was heavy. Not a breath of air outside. You couldn't even hear the thin rippling of the sea nearby.

Nothing but the occasional clatter of plates at the opening to the kitchen. The first to go was the assistant director of the bank, a large young man whose manners bore some resemblance to Timar's and who ate his meals at the hotel. He put on his sun helmet, lit a cigarette, and left.

The others soon followed, some stopping at the bar for a drink on their way out. By the time the clock struck two, only Timar and Adèle would be left in the café.

Timar wondered if he'd stay until then. The four whiskies he'd drunk that morning had made him sluggish. His head was empty and aching, but he didn't feel up to sleeping in a new room while the body was moved into his.

Someone asked, drink in hand, “Is there going to be a viewing before they close the coffin?”

“I don't think so. It'll be all over by five.”

“Poor old fellow!”

The person speaking was the same age as Adèle's husband. Some of the younger men had already had their second attack of fever. The police chief had told Timar that quite a few of them had made fortunes and gone back to France to spend them in less than a year. There was a time when the one-eyed logger with the gold tooth had been in Bordeaux on the night of a big gala at the opera; he'd hired all the taxis in town just to watch the people in their fancy dress walk home in a driving rain. Now, after an attack of fever, he scraped by making light deliveries in a little old truck and doing odd jobs for the department of public works.

A factory bell sounded 1:30. Only three or four people were left in the café. Still at his table, Timar was staring at the floor.

The last drinker drained his glass and took his sun helmet from the hat rack. Timar's heart began to beat faster, and he wondered anxiously what they were going to say to each other.

The footsteps trailed off in the distance. With enormous effort, he raised his head. He'd decided to have a drink himself—resigned to oblivion for the rest of the day.

Just then Adèle sighed like someone with an unwelcome task ahead. He heard her close the drawer of the cash register. Without saying anything to him or looking at him, she went out. For another instant he saw her through the opening to the kitchen: she was issuing orders in a low voice. At last she headed upstairs. Her footsteps echoed over Timar's head.

D
INNER
was more or less the same as lunch, except that the body upstairs was no longer lying in bed but in a coffin supported by two chairs.

The regulars exchanged knowing glances, as if to remind one another of a pact they'd made. When the meal was over, the logger with the butcher's face came up to the counter.

“Say, Adèle, don't you think it would be better to close up?”

“That's what I'm planning to do.”

“And … I guess … someone will be watching over the body? If you want, obviously, you can rely on us.”

It was comical, the contrast between his brutal appearance and his childish expression, like a schoolboy asking permission for something.

“Why watch over him? He's not going anywhere.”

There was a gleam in the logger's eye. He must have been struggling not to smile. Less than five minutes later, everyone was outside, Timar included. They left with an affectation of carelessness, a look of reluctance that was badly put on.

“We're going out for an hour before bed.”

“Till tomorrow, Adèle.”

Looks were exchanged. The logger touched Timar on the shoulder.

“Come with us. She wants to be alone.”

The café was empty. They were six men on the road in the darkness; one of them turned the starter crank of a little truck. The moon shone, the sea murmured—silvery behind the screen of palm trees—just as they had in Timar's imagination when, in Europe, he had tried to picture the tropics.

He turned his head to the café. Its emptiness disconcerted him. The boy was clearing the tables. Adèle was giving him orders from the counter.

Timar noticed that the assistant director of the bank was with them, too. He was jammed against him, standing up, in back of the little truck when they drove off. Already somebody was sighing, “Adèle overdid it. I thought I was going to suffocate before the end of dinner.”

“Wait! Stop at my house!” said another, leaning over the driver. “I want to pick up some Pernod.”

It was hard to make out the faces, since the moonlight distorted them. The six shadowy figures tried to keep their balance as they were bounced around by all the ruts in the road.

“Where are we going?” Timar asked the assistant director in a low voice.

“To a hut, to spend the evening.”

Timar noticed that he looked different than usual. He was a very tall, very thin young man with blond hair and a studied manner. But tonight he seemed suspiciously tense; there was something odd and shifty about his look.

While they were waiting for the Pernod, Timar exchanged a few hushed words with his neighbor. He learned that Bouilloux, who looked like a butcher, had never been a butcher at all but instead a schoolteacher in a village in Morvan.

The banker broke off in the middle of a sentence, in a paroxysm of good manners. He leaned over in the little truck and stuck out his hand.

“Allow me to introduce myself: Gérard Maritain.”

“Joseph Timar, of
SACOVA
.”

The vehicle drove off again. Timar didn't know the road they were on, and the noise of the engine made it impossible to talk. Though the truck was little more than a jumble of rusted parts, the driver was speeding, and the passengers were flung together at every turn.

A few lights could be seen on either side, then nothing at all. They made out a fire in the distance. The black cones were native huts.

“To Maria's?” someone asked.

“To Maria's!”

Then Timar was brutally drawn into a nightmare. This was the first time he'd been out at night in Libreville. Everything was unrecognizable under the moon. He didn't know where he was or where he was going.

Shadows gathered about as the truck went by—blacks, no doubt—only to melt back into the jungle. The brakes squealed. Bouilloux got out first, went up to a hut, and kicked the door.

“Maria! Hey, Maria! Get up!”

The others got out in turn. Timar kept close to Maritain, the one who seemed most like him.

“Who's Maria? A prostitute?”

“No, a black like the others. With them, all they want is a white man. There's no bar in Libreville, so tonight we had to …”

Even at night it was hot. Nothing stirred in the other huts. The door in front of them opened and the shadowy figure of a naked black came out, waved a greeting, and disappeared into the deeper darkness of the village.