Free Tropic Moon by Georges Simenon Page A

AND SIGN NOTHING WITHOUT APPROVAL. STOP. WISH YOU ALL FUTURE SUCCESS. STOP. GASTON TIMAR.
    Timar didn’t know if he was pleased, furious, or worried. But he noticed something new. Until then, Adèle had treated him with a degree of condescension. Now, however, she was looking at him admiringly. Finally she was showing some emotion. She gazed at him fondly and suddenly kissed him on both cheeks.
    â€œWell, you’re someone—there’s no denying it!”
    She went on glibly, handing him his clothes.
    â€œOld man Truffaut’s downstairs. He’s good for a hundred thousand, with a case or two of whiskey thrown in. Look—you’ve got another bite.”
    She touched her finger to Timar’s chest, just below the right breast, the way she’d done once before.
    â€œYou have a woman’s skin! I’m going to call the notary and set up a meeting.”
    She went out. It was the first time she’d been so excited. Timar rose, with a heavy glance at his surroundings. Glasses clinked below—no doubt she was plying old Truffaut with drink.
    â€œâ€¦ extreme caution … sources of capital …”
    He cut himself shaving, looked around without success for his alum, and went downstairs with a streak of blood on his cheek. He was expecting to find a grimy, bearded backwoodsman. Instead a little wizened old man, neatly dressed in a starched suit, got up to greet him.
    â€œIt seems it’s you who …”
    Was Timar too nervous? Was it the streak of blood zigzagging down to his chin, or perhaps just the glare, stronger that morning than usual? He found himself overcome by a sense of panic that he’d experienced two or three times since he’d been in Libreville, at noon, among others, on that red dirt path, when he’d felt like his sun helmet was too tight and that if he didn’t escape from under the sun right away it would crush him. His vision grew hazy. Things began to wobble, just a bit, the way they do when you look at them through the steam from a boiling pot.
    He was on his feet, facing the little old man who was waiting to take his seat again, and Adèle, her elbows on the counter, was watching them both with an almost animal satisfaction. Standing on a chair, the boy was winding the clock.
    Timar sat down. He ran his hand across his forehead and rested his elbows on the table.
    â€œAdèle—a whiskey!”
    He was struck by that; it was the first time he’d called her by her name in the café, saying it out loud, in the same tone of voice and just as naturally as one of the loggers or the notary clerk.

6
    â€œH APPY? ” she asked him, gazing into his eyes with her chin on her folded hands.
    â€œYes,” he said, draining his glass of champagne.
    â€œWe’ll be there soon.”
    She spoke slowly, watching him, and Timar had the disagreeable impression that he was being tested.
    â€œIs it my fault we’re not there already?” he asked irritably.
    â€œBe nice, Joe. I never said it was.”
    He’d grown morbidly touchy. He was depressed. You could see it in his haggard features, his feverish eyes, his abnormal and shifty glance.
    â€œEverything all right, children?” the owner came over to ask. That night, he was dressed in the white uniform of a cook.
    Because from now on the owner of the Central was Bouilloux, the ex-logger and cleaner of Libreville’s drains. They’d struck a deal just like that, amid laughter, on one of the first nights after it became known that Timar and Adèle had a concession in the interior. The card game was dragging on. Adèle was going over her accounts. In the middle of a hand, Bouilloux had asked, “So, who’s going to take over this place now?”
    â€œI haven’t thought about it yet.”
    â€œHow much are you asking for it?”
    â€œWhat do you care? You’re too poor no matter what.”
    They joked around. Bouilloux came up