Tropic Moon by Georges Simenon Page B

wasn’t the jungle that scared him. Since he’d been in Libreville, he’d learned that wild animals didn’t attack men, especially not white men; that fewer people died of snakebites than from being hit by lightning; and that the blacks out in the brush, the savage-looking ones, were actually the most docile of the lot.
    Leopards, elephants, gorillas, gazelles, and crocodiles: every day, or nearly every day, hunters came in with their skins. Even the insects, the tsetse flies he had seen in the town, no longer terrified him much, and when he gave a start, it was purely instinctive.
    No, he wasn’t scared. It was just that he was being forced to leave Libreville, the hotel, the room with its bands of light and shadow, the red earth of the esplanade, the sea edged with palm trees—everything he hated, when you got down to it, including the Pernod-soaked card games and the calvados-fueled belote. They’d ended up forming a comfortable environment where he moved without effort, trusting his reflexes.
    That was what was so precious—because he’d grown lazy through and through. He no longer shaved more than twice a week. Sometimes he stayed in one place for hours on end, staring straight ahead, thinking about nothing.
    He’d left La Rochelle, which he’d loved, without giving it a thought; only when the train lurched into motion and his relatives began waving handkerchiefs had he felt a pang. And yet he couldn’t manage to tear himself away from Libreville. He was stuck there. Seeing the boat in the outer harbor hadn’t even made him want to leave, though he’d been depressed for days.
    Everything disgusted him—especially himself. But his disgust, his listlessness, was something he needed. That was why he got so irritated when Adèle prolonged her steady gaze. She knew—and what she didn’t know, she guessed.
    Then how come she loved him, or was pretending to?
    â€œI’m going to bed,” he said, getting up.
    He looked at the guests. They were all drunk. Today he didn’t need to wait until closing time. Adèle was no longer the boss. It was Bouilloux who would shut down the generator, lock the doors and shutters, and go upstairs last, a candle in his hand.
    â€œGood night, gentlemen.”
    Adèle rose when he did, and for the first time that night he felt satisfied. She’d made it seem entirely natural.
    â€œGood-bye, friends!”
    â€œWell, can’t you give us a kiss? We’re not going to see you again after you take off in the morning.”
    She made the rounds of the men gathered there, extending her cheek to each one. The one-eyed man was so excited he stroked her breast when he kissed her. She pretended not to notice.
    â€œComing?” she asked, walking up to Timar.
    They went upstairs; the bursts of conversation went on behind them in the loud café. They were still in the same room, where Timar had slept on his first day in Africa.
    â€œYou were in some mood tonight. Not feeling well?”
    â€œMe? I feel fine.”
    The same sequence of movements as on every other occasion: first she opened the mosquito net, then she smoothed down the sheet and plumped the pillows, after making sure the bed was free of scorpions or small snakes. At last she took off her dress the way she always did.
    â€œWe’ll have to be up at five to get there before nightfall.”
    Timar took off his tie and looked at himself in the mirror. The mirror was dirty and the light from the candle weak. It was the puffiness around his eyes that made his reflection seem especially sinister.
    He thought about Eugène, who’d been twice as strong as he was, and how he’d come down right in the middle of the party, his voice still not quite reduced to a croak, to say that snail fever was killing him.
    He turned and saw Adèle naked. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, taking off her shoes.
    â€œYou’re not getting