The Ballad of Ballard and Sandrine Read Free Page A

flavors. If I could eat like this every day, I’d be perfectly happy to live in a hut, walk around barefoot, bathe in the Amazon, and wash my rags on the rocks.”
    “I know exactly what you mean,” said Ballard. “It’s like a drug. Maybe it is a drug.”
    “Do the natives really eat this way? Whatever this animal was, before they serve it to us, they have to hunt it down and kill it. Wouldn’t they keep half of it for themselves?”
    “Be a temptation,” Ballard said. “Maybe they lick our plates, too.”
    “Tell me the truth now, Ballard. If you know it. Okay?”
    Chewing, he looked up into her eyes. Some of the bliss faded from his face. “Sure. Ask away.”
    “Did we ever eat this stuff before?”
    Ballard did not answer. He sliced a quarter-size piece off the meat and began to chew, his eyes on his plate.
    “I know I’m not supposed to ask.”
    He kept chewing and chewing until he swallowed. He sipped his wine. “No. Isn’t that strange? How we know we’re not supposed to do certain things?”
    “Like see the waiters. Or the maids, or the captain.”
    “Especially the captain, I think.”
    “Let’s not talk anymore; let’s just eat for a little while.”
    Sandrine and Ballard returned to their plates and glasses, and for a time made no noise other than soft moans of satisfaction.
    When they had nearly finished, Sandrine said, “There are so many books on this boat! It’s like a big library. Do you think you’ve ever read one?”
    “Do you?”
    “I have the feeling … well, of course, that’s the reason I’m asking. In a way, I mean in a
real
way, we’ve never been here before. On the Amazon? Absolutely not. My husband, besides being continuously unfaithful, is a total asshole who never pays me any attention at all unless he’s angry with me, but he’s also tremendously jealous and possessive. For me to get here to be with you required an amazing amount of secret organization. D-day didn’t take any more planning than this trip. On the other hand, I have the feeling I once read at least one of these books.”
    “I have the same feeling.”
    “Tell me about it. I want to read it again and see if I remember anything.”
    “I can’t. But … well, I think I might have once seen you holding a copy of
Little Dorrit
. The Dickens novel.”
    “I went to Princeton and Cambridge; I know who wrote
Little Dorrit
,” she said, irritated. “Wait. Did I ever throw a copy of that book overboard?”
    “Might’ve.”
    “Why would I do that?”
    Ballard shrugged. “To see what would happen?”
    “Do you remember that?”
    “It’s tough to say what I remember. Everything’s always different, but it’s different
now
. I sort of remember a book, though—a book from this library.
Tono-Bungay
. H. G. Wells. Didn’t like it much.”
    “Did you throw it overboard?”
    “I might’ve. Yes, I actually might have.” He laughed. “I think I did. I mean, I think I’m throwing it overboard right now, if that makes sense.”
    “Because you didn’t—don’t—like it?”
    Ballard laughed and put down his knife and fork. Only a few bits of the vegetables and a piece of meat the size of a knuckle sliced in half remained on his plate. “Stop eating and give me your plate.” It was almost exactly as empty as his, though Sandrine’s plate still had two swirls of the yellow sauce.
    “Really?”
    “I want to show you something.”
    Reluctantly, she lowered her utensils and handed him her plate. Ballard scraped the contents of his plate onto hers. He got to his feet and picked up a knife and the plate that had been Sandrine’s. “Come out on deck with me.”
    When she stood up, Sandrine glanced at what she had only briefly and partially perceived as a hint of motion at the front of the room, where for the first time she took in a dun-colored curtain hung two or three feet before the end of the oval. What looked to be a brown or suntanned foot, smaller than a normal adult’s and perhaps a