Tropic Moon by Georges Simenon

girl. In bed, she’s something else. But afterward, that’s it. Understood?”
    And Timar found himself on the veranda wearing his knowing look.
    At the governor’s, by contrast, the blow had been brutal. While Timar waited in the anteroom, the boy went into the office he knew so well. Timar heard the governor say, without lowering his voice, “Tell the gentleman I’m very busy. I don’t know when I’ll have any time to see him.”
    Timar’s ears reddened, but he didn’t move a muscle. Even when there was no one around to see, he’d trained himself to wear his cynical smile.
    He went back the way he came—following the esplanade until he reached the shadowy hotel, with Adèle at the register and the regulars. He went on pretending he was just another guest, having his meals with the others. Downstairs, there was never any intimacy between Adèle and him. Just like Bouilloux or the one-eyed man, he’d shout, “Adèle! A Pernod!”
    Because he’d learned to drink Pernod. He’d picked up some other habits, too, and almost made them into rituals. At noon, for instance, before everyone sat down to eat, they played a game of cards at the bar. The loser paid for the round. At night, right after dinner, they arranged for a couple of games of belote. Timar was an avid participant. From time to time, someone or another would cry out, “Adèle! Another round!”
    And he was mastering an entirely new vocabulary. The others would sometimes look at each other as if to say, “He’s making progress.”
    And yet it depressed Timar, too, seeing himself there in the crushing heat, with cards in hand for hours on end, his blood thickened by alcohol. He turned moody then. He’d take exception to the slightest thing, a single word, a look.
    In short, he was no longer one of the enemy. He had nothing to do with officials or sober types. And yet twenty years of this still wasn’t going to make him one of the loggers, or like the notary clerk with the big gut, who played cards using a whole set of words that Timar had never heard before.
    The doors and shutters were locked. Adèle went up first, candle in hand, and the electric generator shut down. On the landing, a moment of hesitation—this was a daily occurrence. Adèle turned to look at her companion. Some days he’d say, “Good night.”
    And she’d say the same, handing him the candle before she went to her room without a kiss or a touch of the hand.
    Other times, he murmured, “Come.”
    Though it was no more than a movement of the lips, she understood. Without a trace of self-consciousness she entered his room, placed the candle on the dresser, opened the mosquito net, and readied the bed before getting in and waiting for him.
    â€œTired?”
    â€œNot at all.”
    He didn’t want to be tired, but in fact—even though he didn’t work and never had to make an effort of any sort—he could barely stand. His exhaustion must have been due to a weakening of his blood. The main symptoms were the hollowness in his head and the shapeless anxiety that sometimes made him shake with terror.
    And the worse he felt, the more furiously and passionately he threw himself on Adèle. When he gripped her in his embrace, he asked himself questions that had no answers. Did he love her? What sort of love could she feel for him? Was he wronging her? Would he wrong her one of these days? Why had she killed Thomas? Why …
    He didn’t ask Adèle any questions. He didn’t dare. He was afraid of her answers. He was crazy about her. When he wandered along the esplanade, he’d think about her naked body under her dress and he was filled with hatred for other men.
    What really disturbed him was her gaze. For a while now, she’d been watching him, and it was too much! Even in the darkness of the room, holding her in his arms, he could feel her eyes