By Georges Simenon
Newly translated for this edition.
A younger Frenchman, Joseph Timar, travels to Gabon wearing a letter of creation from an influential uncle. He wishes paintings event; he desires to see the realm. yet within the oppressive warmth and glare of the equator, Timar doesn't understand what to do with himself, and not anyone turns out susceptible to aid other than Adèle, the inn owner's spouse, who takes him to mattress someday and rebuffs him the following, leaving him unwell with hope. yet then, during a unmarried evening, Adèle's husband dies and a black servant is shot, and Timar is bound that Adèle is concerned. He'll hide for the crime if she'll do what he desires. The repair is in. yet Timar can't even start to think how deep.
In Tropic Moon, Simenon, the grasp of the mental novel, bargains an incomparable photo of degeneracy and corruption in a colonial outpost.
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Extra info for Tropic Moon (New York Review Books Classics)
Sample text
I frowned. “I have to THE FIRE 45 sleep, Kevin. ” My voice trailed away. ” I jumped, tried to refocus my attention on him. ” I sighed. “No. I hit him with a stick—knocked him out. ” “Wait a minute …” I seemed to drift away from him. It became too much trouble for me to go on listening and trying to understand, too much trouble to answer. I sighed again and closed my eyes. I heard him get up and go away, heard water running somewhere. Then I slept. 6 I was clean when I awoke before dawn the next morning.
He got up. I felt him lift me. ” “Listen, don’t be afraid. ” “No. Look, all he did was hit me a few times. ” Suddenly I had strength again, now that I needed it. “Kevin, I went from here the first time, and this second time. And I came back here. ” But he had stopped. “No one who sees you leave or come back will believe it. ” “Please. Just let me sleep. That’s all I need really—rest. The cuts and bruises will heal. ” He took me back to the bed, probably against his better judgment, and put me down.
The four men rushed in with it, and a moment later, three people were shoved, almost thrown out of the cabin. Two of them—a man and woman—were caught by the riders outside who had dismounted, apparently expecting them. The third, a little girl dressed in something long and light colored, was allowed to fall to the ground and scramble away, ignored by the men. She moved to within a few yards of where I lay in the bushes near the edge of the clearing. There was talk in the clearing now, and I began to distinguish words over the distance and through the unfamiliar accents.