Tropic Moon by Georges Simenon Page B

his voice from the first floor, that he’d even heard him say, “My poor little Adèle!”
    Hadn’t she opened the door a crack, at night, to let Bouilloux have a look at him?
    â€œAnd the Greek?”
    She couldn’t lie because he was sure he’d seen that one, really seen him, and not once or twice but four or five times. A big fellow with greasy hair, a thin tanned face, and a tic: every few seconds he’d wink with his right eye.
    â€œConstantinesco?”
    Yes! After the walls were painted, she’d called for him to hold the ladder while she did the high bits. He had seen him clearly.
    â€œWhat’s he doing here?”
    â€œHe’s the overseer. He’s worked on the concession before, so I hired him. You’ve got to rest, Joe. You’re soaked in sweat.”
    He needed to speak, to question her, to be cruel. There were certain things that he remembered with horror.
    For instance, he’d been colder than he could ever have imagined in his life. And yet he was drenched in sweat, his teeth were chattering, and he’d cried out, “For God’s sake, bring me some blankets! Somebody light a fire!”
    Adèle had replied gently, “You already have four blankets.”
    â€œThat’s not true! I’m freezing to death! Where’s the doctor? How come the doctor hasn’t been called?”
    He’d had hallucinations and nightmares. In the next bed, Timar saw Eugène looking at him with his dull stare.
    â€œYou’re not used to it yet, kid. But you’ll get there. I’ve already gone through it, you see.”
    Gone through it? How? Timar got angry, screamed, called out for Adèle. She was beside him.
    If only he could have killed her! But he didn’t have a gun. She was making fun of him. With Constantinesco, who came in on tiptoe, whispering, “Still a hundred and five?”
    Now he’d get to the bottom of it all! He didn’t have a fever anymore. He could see things clearly. He blinked to make sure he was seeing straight.
    â€œI had snail fever, didn’t I?”
    â€œNo, Joe. It wasn’t snail fever at all. You had a bout of dengue fever, like everyone when they first get to the colonies. It isn’t serious.”
    So it wasn’t even serious!
    â€œYou must have been bitten by a fly on the river, and the sun helped to give you a violent fever. It shoots straight up to a hundred and five, but no one’s ever died of it.”
    He tried to see if she’d changed. Was she wearing her boots? He leaned over to look. There they were on her feet.
    â€œWhy are you wearing those?”
    â€œI have to go supervise the work site sometimes.”
    â€œWhat work site?”
    â€œWe’re fixing the machines.”
    â€œWho?”
    And that “who” was a threat.
    â€œConstantinesco. He’s a mechanic.”
    â€œWho else?”
    â€œWe have two hundred native workers who are busy building huts for themselves.”
    â€œWe? Who’s ‘we’?”
    â€œThe two of us, Joe. You and me.”
    â€œOh. Good.”
    He’d thought she meant her and Constantinesco. Timar was already worn out. The sweat on his body turned cold. Adèle was holding one of his hands and looking at him without sadness, with a hint of irony even, the way you look at a naughty child.
    â€œListen, Joe, you’ve got to try and rest. Tomorrow you can get up. Dengue fever knocks you down like that, but it goes away just as quickly. Tomorrow we’ll have a nice long talk about the business. Everything’s going well.”
    â€œLie down beside me.”
    For a second she hesitated, for less than a second. He was ashamed because he knew that his bed reeked of sickness.
    â€œCloser.”
    His eyes were half closed. He saw her through his eyelashes—a blur. He slid his hand down her legs.
    â€œDon’t tire yourself out, Joe.”
    Too bad! He needed to make sure she