Tropic Moon (12 page)

He was sure that he heard or, with his heightened senses, positively divined the words that Adèle whispered between clenched teeth to the salesman: “You idiot!”

“B
E QUIET
, Joe, I'm begging you—he can hear!”

The voice was a just whisper, and Timar could barely make out her face, still, staring up at the ceiling. The room was pitch-black. The only light came from the rectangular open window. The white trunk of the kapok tree divided it into two unequal sections.

They were naked on the bed. A few moments earlier, they could still hear the salesman moving around in the next room.

“Tell the truth!”

Timar spoke sharply, without moving. He was looking into emptiness, or rather the darkness overhead. As to Adèle, all he could feel was her elbow and thigh.

“Wait till tomorrow. I'll tell you when we're alone.”

“Tell me now!”

“What do you want me to say?”

“You killed Thomas!”

“Hush!”

She didn't move. Her thigh didn't stir. They lay without moving, side by side.

“So? Come on, tell me—you killed him, didn't you?”

He waited, holding his breath. Her voice was calm in the darkness. “Yes.”

Suddenly he turned, grabbing a wrist at random. He groaned. “You killed him and you pinned the blame on someone else! Tell me! You killed him and then you went into that hut and you—”

“I'm begging you, Joe! You're hurting me!”

It was a cry of real physical pain. Timar was hunched over her. He was squeezing hard.

“Listen! I swear I'll tell you everything tomorrow.”

“What if I don't want an explanation? What if I don't want to see you anymore or hear anything more from you again? What if …”

He choked on his words. He was sweating more than ever, and he felt weak in all his extremities. He was so angry that he had to do something, he didn't know what—kill her or put his fist through the wall. Adèle was trying to stop him. No use.

“Joe … listen. He can hear us … I'll tell you, just be quiet!”

Fists bruised, he stopped hitting her. He looked at her blindly. Was there some other way to control his anger?

They were standing, their bodies like two pale smudges in the room. They had to strain to see each other, and yet Adèle was wiping Timar's chest with his damp handkerchief.

“Go to bed! You'll have another attack!”

True. He could feel it. He remembered how sick he'd been and quieted down right away. He found a chair in the darkness, pulled it toward him, and sat.

“Go on! I'm listening.”

He didn't want her to be near lest he hurt her again. He was trying to keep calm, but he was trying too hard. It seemed unhealthy.

“You just want me to tell you, like that?”

She didn't know what to do with herself. She ended up sitting at the end of Timar's bed.

“You didn't know Eugène. He was jealous, especially toward the end, when he knew he was going to die.”

She spoke in a whisper so as not to be heard in the next room.

“Jealous? He seemed to get on fine with Bouilloux, the governor, the prosecutor, and everyone else who slept with you.”

He couldn't see her, but from the interruption in her breathing he could tell she was swallowing hard. At one point it was so quiet that you could hear the jungle outside the window—its immense living silence.

Adèle blew her nose. She said steadily, “You don't understand. It's not the same thing. I came to you as …”

She couldn't find the word. Perhaps the word that had come to her lips sounded too romantic? As a lover?

“It's not the same,” she said again. “Listen! Thomas saw me come out. He wanted a thousand francs. He'd wanted the money for a long time—to buy a woman. I told him no. And when he brought it up again on the night of the party—”

“You killed him.” Timar's voice uttered dreamily from the shadows.

“He was going to talk!”

“If it was because of me …”

Her response was quiet and frank. “No! I killed him so he'd leave me in peace. I couldn't have known that Eugène was going to die anyway.”

And Timar tried to hold on to the shaky self-control that was keeping him from going mad. He stared at the rectangle of the window and the trunk of the kapok tree. He listened to the jungle rustling.

“Come to bed, Joe.”

It was too much. Once again, he felt like screaming, like punching the wall. She'd owned up to everything and she wanted him to lie down beside her, right next to her warm naked body.

It was too simple—she'd committed murder to be left in peace. And he, with his questions, was keeping her from enjoying the repose she so richly deserved. She hadn't denied it when he'd mentioned the governor and the others. But that wasn't the same thing. He couldn't understand—unlike her husband, who had!

There were moments when he wondered if he'd get up and hit her, hit her until he was completely worn out.

“And the black they arrested?”

“Would you be happier if I went to jail for ten years?”

“Stop it! No! Don't say another word, leave me alone!”

“Joe!”

“I'm begging you, shut up!”

He stood and leaned on the window frame. The night air froze the sweat running down his skin. He saw a reflection on the surface of the river, close to the tethered log. He'd been standing there for something like five minutes when a voice behind him said, “Aren't you coming to bed?”

He didn't answer—or move. But he wasn't only thinking about Adèle—and certainly not about Thomas. His thoughts wandered. He said to himself, for instance, that not far away there were leopards, that at about this time in Europe everyone would be leaving the beachfront casinos.

Maybe, in some of those casinos, they'd shown exotic films, with banana trees, a plantation owner with a fine mustache, and a love scene accompanied by native music.

His thoughts reverted to the log. In the rainy season it would flow downstream with the current along with all the other trees that had been cut. Hundreds of logs would be hoisted aboard a little red-and-black steamboat anchored fore and aft in the estuary. First they would float past the little village where Adèle had gone into the hut.

How they'd laughed, laughed until all their teeth showed, and never said a thing—the black boat pilot and the pretty girl with the naked breasts by the river.

So Eugène, when he was still alive, hadn't minded his wife taking lovers—as long as they were influential men who'd help them make their fortune. Wasn't that how the two of them had operated, in any case?

He turned. He saw Adèle's open eyes and pretended to slip back into a trance. He was sleepy. He was a little cold. To put a good face on things, he lit a cigarette.

What was he going to do? The concession was in his name. He'd staked the credit of his uncle and his family.

Out in the jungle there must be elephants. Constantinesco had told him so that afternoon.

Was Adèle sleeping with Constantinesco, too? He could hear her breathing more loudly and more steadily. He took advantage of that to slip into the bed.

Maybe he'd been wrong—because he kept thinking that afterward her breathing had changed. She was pretending to be asleep, or maybe he'd woken her up and now she was controlling her breathing.

They weren't touching and they couldn't see each other, but each of them knew the other was there. The slightest tremor was multiplied a thousand times.

She didn't get it! At the end of the day, she acted by impulse and the way she'd been brought up to. Still, it hadn't seemed like she'd sleep with just anyone. All those kisses hadn't left a scar—or any trace at all! He liked her indolence and her yielding flesh. He was amazed by her directness.

What did the elephants do out there in the night? Wander around like other smaller animals? Timar must have been half asleep, since he could hear himself breathing like someone who was asleep. Adèle reached out and touched him on the chest at the level of his heart.

He didn't move, he didn't let her guess that he wasn't in fact fast asleep. He remembered nothing after that apart from the noise of the clock and the bands of light and shadow.

He opened his eyes. It was day. He heard the workers heading out into the jungle. Timar's hand groped the other side of the bed. No Adèle. The sheets were already cold.

He stayed in bed another fifteen minutes; he looked at the ceiling and was astonished to find himself so tranquil. He was like a convalescent who'd exhausted all his strength at one go. His fists hurt. He'd split the skin on his knuckles.

Finally he got up, slipped into his pants and shirt, and pushed his hair out of his face. Downstairs he found the traveling salesman eating breakfast and reading an old newspaper.

“Sleep well?”

Timar looked for Adèle. All he could see was Constantinesco in the courtyard, giving orders to some half-dozen blacks.

“Did she go out?”

There was nothing to say, but he missed her. He needed to see her, if only to ignore her.

“She left you a message.”

Timar found himself in front of a mirror. He looked at himself. His face was expressionless. It amazed him. He felt proud. And yet within everything was utter turmoil.

“A message?”

The salesman handed him a piece of paper. Timar realized he'd never seen Adèle's handwriting. The letters were careful and too big.

“So she caught the first train?” Timar said in a biting tone.

“She must have taken the flatboat in the night, because when I got up an hour ago she was already gone.”

There was nothing for Timar to add. He paced the room, face set, hands behind his back.

“You know, it's nothing serious. I was the one who brought the news. The prosecutor needs to see her to wind up this business with the blacks.”

“Oh—it was you who …”

And Timar shot him a look of contempt.

“It's all set. From the moment they had a suspect in hand it was all over. But for form's sake they have to speak to her, given it was her gun that—”

“Obviously.”

“Where are you going?”

Timar went up to his room, shaved, and got dressed with unusually rapid, decisive motions. He went back downstairs and asked the salesman, “Could you rent me your flatboat?”

“That's impossible. I've just started on my rounds.”

“Two thousand.”

“I swear, I—”

“Five thousand!”

“Not even for fifty thousand! It's not my flatboat, it's the company's. If I didn't have the mail …”

Timar went outside without a look. The sound of an engine came from the machine shop, where Constantinesco was working. He was lying on the ground adjusting the generator.

“Did you know about it?” Timar asked without a hello.

“Well, I—”

“Fine! I want a canoe and men to paddle it. In five minutes.”

“But—”

“Did you understand me?”

“When she left she said—”

“Who's boss here?”

“Listen, Mr. Timar, you're not going to like it, but no. I'm doing it for your own good. In your condition—”

“My condition what?”

“I have to refuse—absolutely.”

Timar had never felt so calm—and he'd never had so many good reasons to blow his top. He felt capable of using his gun and shooting the Greek in cold blood, of heading off in a canoe even if there was no one else with him.

“I'm pleading with you—think it over. Later on—”

“Now!”

Already the sun was hot. Constantinesco put on his sun helmet, left the shop, and headed over to the huts by the water. The salesman's flatboat was still there and Timar thought of taking it without permission. But why make things messy?

The Greek spoke to several blacks who were standing around him. They looked at Timar, then at the canoes, then down the river.

“So?”

“They say it's late. They say they'll have to stop at night.”

“That doesn't matter.”

“They also say that it'll take three days to get back—because of the current.”

The Greek looked at Timar more sorry than surprised. He must have seen similar cases. He was following the progress of the attack the way a doctor follows the course of a disease.

“Then I'm coming with you.”

“Not on your life! You stay here—keep an eye on the concession. I don't want the work to stop at any cost.”

Constantinesco issued a few more orders to the blacks, then followed Timar back to the house.

“Let me offer you some advice. First thing, don't let your men drink any alcohol, and don't drink any yourself. In a flatboat you get some air because of its speed—in a canoe the sun is a lot more dangerous. Take the folding cot in case you have to sleep in the brush. Then—”

He was more agitated than Timar.

“Let me come with you! You're scaring me! Think how your turning up is going to make a mess of everything! On her own, Madame Adèle is sure to succeed, but if—”

“She's told you things?”

Constantinesco frowned.

“No! But I've seen it all before. I know how things happen. You come from Europe. You see life differently. Once you've been in Gabon for ten years—”

“I'll probably get my kicks killing blacks.”

“One of these days you're going to have to do it.”

“You've had to do it, have you?”

“I came at a time when, in the jungle, whites were greeted with volleys of arrows.”

“And you responded with bullets?”