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logger with the butcher’s face came up to the counter.
    â€œSay, Adèle, don’t you think it would be better to close up?”
    â€œThat’s what I’m planning to do.”
    â€œAnd … I guess … someone will be watching over the body? If you want, obviously, you can rely on us.”
    It was comical, the contrast between his brutal appearance and his childish expression, like a schoolboy asking permission for something.
    â€œWhy watch over him? He’s not going anywhere.”
    There was a gleam in the logger’s eye. He must have been struggling not to smile. Less than five minutes later, everyone was outside, Timar included. They left with an affectation of carelessness, a look of reluctance that was badly put on.
    â€œWe’re going out for an hour before bed.”
    â€œTill tomorrow, Adèle.”
    Looks were exchanged. The logger touched Timar on the shoulder.
    â€œCome with us. She wants to be alone.”
    The café was empty. They were six men on the road in the darkness; one of them turned the starter crank of a little truck. The moon shone, the sea murmured—silvery behind the screen of palm trees—just as they had in Timar’s imagination when, in Europe, he had tried to picture the tropics.
    He turned his head to the café. Its emptiness disconcerted him. The boy was clearing the tables. Adèle was giving him orders from the counter.
    Timar noticed that the assistant director of the bank was with them, too. He was jammed against him, standing up, in back of the little truck when they drove off. Already somebody was sighing, “Adèle overdid it. I thought I was going to suffocate before the end of dinner.”
    â€œWait! Stop at my house!” said another, leaning over the driver. “I want to pick up some Pernod.”
    It was hard to make out the faces, since the moonlight distorted them. The six shadowy figures tried to keep their balance as they were bounced around by all the ruts in the road.
    â€œWhere are we going?” Timar asked the assistant director in a low voice.
    â€œTo a hut, to spend the evening.”
    Timar noticed that he looked different than usual. He was a very tall, very thin young man with blond hair and a studied manner. But tonight he seemed suspiciously tense; there was something odd and shifty about his look.
    While they were waiting for the Pernod, Timar exchanged a few hushed words with his neighbor. He learned that Bouilloux, who looked like a butcher, had never been a butcher at all but instead a schoolteacher in a village in Morvan.
    The banker broke off in the middle of a sentence, in a paroxysm of good manners. He leaned over in the little truck and stuck out his hand.
    â€œAllow me to introduce myself: Gérard Maritain.”
    â€œJoseph Timar, of SACOVA .”
    The vehicle drove off again. Timar didn’t know the road they were on, and the noise of the engine made it impossible to talk. Though the truck was little more than a jumble of rusted parts, the driver was speeding, and the passengers were flung together at every turn.
    A few lights could be seen on either side, then nothing at all. They made out a fire in the distance. The black cones were native huts.
    â€œTo Maria’s?” someone asked.
    â€œTo Maria’s!”
    Then Timar was brutally drawn into a nightmare. This was the first time he’d been out at night in Libreville. Everything was unrecognizable under the moon. He didn’t know where he was or where he was going.
    Shadows gathered about as the truck went by—blacks, no doubt—only to melt back into the jungle. The brakes squealed. Bouilloux got out first, went up to a hut, and kicked the door.
    â€œMaria! Hey, Maria! Get up!”
    The others got out in turn. Timar kept close to Maritain, the one who seemed most like him.
    â€œWho’s Maria? A prostitute?”
    â€œNo, a black like the others. With them, all they want is a white