Tropic Moon Read Online Free PDF

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.
    â€œIt’s all over.”
    â€œWhat?”
    A nod toward the ceiling.
    â€œHe 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?”
    â€œThe 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.
    â€œDid you get the feeling that he knows anything?”
    â€œI couldn’t say. I swore I’d seen nothing.”
    â€œThat’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.
    â€œThe 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.
    â€œHello? 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?”
    â€œYes. The doctor says it wouldn’t be wise to wait longer.”
    â€œIf you need help …”
    â€œThanks—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.
    â€œDid you see the police chief, Mr. Timar? Was he very unfriendly?”
    â€œNo … 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.
    â€œI had to