The Ballad of Ballard and Sandrine by Peter Straub Read Free Book Online

run. The man on the other side of the street jumped down from the curb and began sprinting toward her. His shoes made a sharp
tick-tick
sound when they met the stony asphalt. As the ticks grew louder, Sandrine heard him inhaling a huge amount of air. Before he could reach her, she came to a cross street and wheeled in, her bag bouncing at her hip, her legs stretching out to devour yard after yard of stony ground.
    Unknowingly, she had entered a slum. The structures on both sides of the street were half-collapsed huts and shanties made of mismatched wooden planks, of metal sheeting and tarpaper. She glimpsed faces peering out of greasy windows and sagging, cracked-open doors. Some of the shanties before her were shops with soft drink cans and bottles of beer arrayed on the windowsills. People were spilling from little tarpaper-and-sheet-metal structures out into the street, which was already congested with abandoned cars, empty pushcarts, and cartons of fruitfor sale. Garbage lay everywhere. The women who watched Sandrine streak by displayed no interest in her plight.
    Yet the slum’s chaos was a blessing, Sandrine thought: the deeper she went, the greater the number of tiny, narrow streets sprouting off the one she had taken from the avenue. It was a feverish, crowded warren, a
favela
, the kind of place you would never escape had you the bad luck to have been born there. And while outside this rat’s nest the lead man chasing her had been getting dangerously near, within its boundaries the knots of people and the obstacles of cars and carts and mounds of garbage had slowed him down. Sandrine found that she could dodge all of these obstacles with relative ease. The next time she spun around a corner, feet skidding on a slick pad of rotting vegetables, she saw what looked to her like a miracle: an open door revealing a hunched old woman draped in black rags, beckoning her in.
    Sandrine bent her legs, called on her youth and strength, jumped off the ground, and sailed through the open door. The old woman only just got out of the way in time to avoid being knocked down. She was giggling, either at Sandrine’s athleticism or because she had rescued her from the pursuing thugs. When Sandrine had cleared her doorway and was scrambling to avoid ramming into the wall, the old woman darted forward and slammed her door shut. Sandrine fell to her knees in a small room suddenly gone very dark. A slanting shaft of light split the murk and illuminated a rectangular space on the floor covered by a threadbare rug no longer of any identifiable color. Under the light, the rug seemed at once utterly worthless and extraordinarily beautiful.
    The old woman shuffled into the shaft of light and uttered an incomprehensible word that sounded neither Spanish nor Portuguese. A thousand wayward wrinkles like knife cuts, scars, and stitches had been etched into her white, elongated face. Her nose had a prominent hook, and her eyes shone like dark stones at the bottom of a fast, clear stream. Then she laid an upright index finger against her sunken lips and with her other hand gestured toward the door. Sandrine listened. In seconds, multiple footsteps pounded past the old woman’s little house. Leading the pack was
tick, tick, tick
. The footsteps clattered up the narrow street and disappeared into the ordinary clamor.
    Hunched over almost parallel to the ground, the old woman mimed hysterical laughter. Sandrine mouthed,
Thank you, thank you
, thinking that her intention would be clear if the words were not. Still mock laughing, her unknown savior shuffled closer, knitting and folding her long, spotted hands. She had the ugliest hands Sandrine had ever seen, knobbly arthritic fingers with filthy, ragged nails. She hoped the woman was not going to stroke her hair or pat her face: she would have to let her do it, however nauseated she might feel. Instead, the old woman moved right past her, muttering what sounded like, “
Munna, munna, num
.”
    Outside