Tropic Moon Read Online Free PDF Page B

move you to another room. I don’t have any other to keep the body in tonight.”
    She turned to the line of bottles behind her, selected a calvados, and poured herself a glass. She drank it with a wince of disgust. Then in a neutral voice she asked, “What did they do with the black?”
    â€œTook him to the hospital. They’re performing the autopsy this afternoon. It seems that the bullet came out between the shoulder blades. It hasn’t been found yet.”
    The logger’s words were pronounced with distinct intent. He shrugged and swallowed an apricot half that looked like the yolk of an egg, then went on: “There’s a black policeman on the scene to prevent anyone from coming for the bullet if it’s found. If it’s found. Anyone for a billiards game?”
    Wiping his mouth with a napkin, he stood. Confronted by the general silence, he muttered, “Maybe not today. Give me a calvados, Adèle.”
    And he leaned his elbows on the counter across from her while the others finished their meal. Timar’s cheeks flushed. He ate mechanically. A fly was buzzing around him; each time it passed by he felt a spasm of anger.
    The atmosphere was heavy. Not a breath of air outside. You couldn’t even hear the thin rippling of the sea nearby.
    Nothing but the occasional clatter of plates at the opening to the kitchen. The first to go was the assistant director of the bank, a large young man whose manners bore some resemblance to Timar’s and who ate his meals at the hotel. He put on his sun helmet, lit a cigarette, and left.
    The others soon followed, some stopping at the bar for a drink on their way out. By the time the clock struck two, only Timar and Adèle would be left in the café.
    Timar wondered if he’d stay until then. The four whiskies he’d drunk that morning had made him sluggish. His head was empty and aching, but he didn’t feel up to sleeping in a new room while the body was moved into his.
    Someone asked, drink in hand, “Is there going to be a viewing before they close the coffin?”
    â€œI don’t think so. It’ll be all over by five.”
    â€œPoor old fellow!”
    The person speaking was the same age as Adèle’s husband. Some of the younger men had already had their second attack of fever. The police chief had told Timar that quite a few of them had made fortunes and gone back to France to spend them in less than a year. There was a time when the one-eyed logger with the gold tooth had been in Bordeaux on the night of a big gala at the opera; he’d hired all the taxis in town just to watch the people in their fancy dress walk home in a driving rain. Now, after an attack of fever, he scraped by making light deliveries in a little old truck and doing odd jobs for the department of public works.
    A factory bell sounded 1:30. Only three or four people were left in the café. Still at his table, Timar was staring at the floor.
    The last drinker drained his glass and took his sun helmet from the hat rack. Timar’s heart began to beat faster, and he wondered anxiously what they were going to say to each other.
    The footsteps trailed off in the distance. With enormous effort, he raised his head. He’d decided to have a drink himself—resigned to oblivion for the rest of the day.
    Just then Adèle sighed like someone with an unwelcome task ahead. He heard her close the drawer of the cash register. Without saying anything to him or looking at him, she went out. For another instant he saw her through the opening to the kitchen: she was issuing orders in a low voice. At last she headed upstairs. Her footsteps echoed over Timar’s head.

3
    D INNER was more or less the same as lunch, except that the body upstairs was no longer lying in bed but in a coffin supported by two chairs.
    The regulars exchanged knowing glances, as if to remind one another of a pact they’d made. When the meal was over, the