A Vomit of Diamonds (2 page)

“Anyway, all this talk of astronomy
has got me thinking,” Balzac resumed, his philosophic tone and
grave expression indicating an academic question was soon to
follow; this much Mayura had learned about her friend in their few
months spent together, and thus she braced herself for impact.
“Given that the universe is expanding,” he laid out the basics,
“does this not mean that there is a space around our universe
wherein it can expand out towards? And if this is the case, would
it not mean that there is another universe around this one, and
another one around that one too, and so on?”

“I’m not sure,” Soka slowly replied,
thinking the matter over; “But who’s to say that the Big Bang
didn’t happen more than once,” she allowed after a thoughtful
pause. “I have heard about that theory,” Balzac noted; “but it
sounds impossible. Then again,” he reflected, “Perhaps it is no
more impossible than a caterpillar pupating into a
butterfly.”

“There is also the theory that there
is no end to the universe,” she resumed in a by-the-by tone,
“meaning that you’d fly around in a loop if you followed a straight
course.” Here Bouchard gave her a questioning look, equivalent to a
Vulcan eyebrow raising. “Yeah,” Soka agreed, scratching her chin
and frowning thoughtfully, “I don’t quite get the full picture
either.”

III

The clock’s alarm rang at exactly five
the next morning. Bouchard arose mechanically and slipped out of
his bed to silence the noise; it was time for his jog along Lake
Burley Griffin, Canberra’s center piece and pleasure park, which on
most days was as flat as a mirror. While descending the stairs to
the ground floor he unpaused an audiobook from the Star Wars
universe; a decisive duel was about to take place, and he was
impatient to know its outcome.

“Do you have a favorite Episode?” Soka
had asked him on one occasion, during a conversation about the
aforementioned space opera. “Personally,” said Balzac with care,
adopting a confidential manner lest he be overheard by a fanatic
nearby who might start throwing rocks at him for his next comments;
“I prefer the prequels. More glamorous, you see.”

As his classes today didn’t start till
later that morning, Bouchard had a few hours to look-over his
application form for astro camp. “Why should I be among the chosen
ones?” he pondered, thinking up a winning response. However a few
minutes into an introductory paragraph Bouchard stopped, realizing
that this guy sounded really boring. “Borg,” he cursed drily,
deleting everything. Then, inspiration struck. He wrote
thusly:

“Designation: Balzac Bouchard.
Species: Human. Active: Eighteen standard earth years. Materials:
Thai and French. Regeneration Unit: Helena Hall. Alcove:
Two-one-two. Operating System: Science. Assignment: Undergraduate
degree. Performance: Average. Response time: Within normal
parameters. Memory: Limited. Network: Upgradable.”

Here Bouchard reviewed his
introduction. “At least it’s not common,” he judged after an edit —
like a grandson who is trying to remain optimistic about a
home-knitted gift. For the body of his essay, however, Bouchard
returned to his usual writing style; heavily influenced by favorite
novels such as War and Peace, The Idiot, Madame Bovary, Father
Goriot, The Charterhouse of Parma, Pride and Prejudice, Jane Eyre,
and other classics equally populated with great figures making fine
speeches and stirring up frivolous troubles. “The aristocracy
amuses me,” was his reason for preferring titles written before the
twentieth century; “They are like birds of paradise with feathers!”
Sufficed it to say here, he was a very strange boy growing
up.

“For me, it was Star Trek Voyager,” he
resumed writing, the most important section whence his worth as a
candidate would be judged; “Indeed, the space drama inspired me
with astronomical aspirations; for what the show lacked in
scientific accuracy it made up by accurately depicting the spirit
of science: discovery and study. Thence began my transformation,
from idle stargazer with a dreamy expression on his face, to
student of astronomy peeking into secrets of the universe that
others have unlocked.” Bouchard kept going on in this monologic
strain for a while longer, until it was time to leave for
class.

Late in the afternoon
Bouchard decided on a trip to the supermarket; he was running low
on peanut butter. Mayura’s bicycle was thus borrowed for this
purpose.
Bouchard had earlier owned a
bicycle of his own to be sure; however on day nine the vehicle and
its appurtenances had mysteriously vanished from Helena Hall’s
shed. And while he liked to think himself above worldly possessions
— in accordance with the Star Trek attitude he wished to imitate —
this disappearance quite annoyed him.
“
The bandit is lucky I am not Medea,”
he reflected after a vain search
, his
temper cool but his eyes blazing.

The autumnal air smelt a
little musty.
“Like a forest stripped of
its leaves which have fallen onto the ground, and are slowly
liquefying into the earth,” Balzac reckoned,
as he
pedaled across University
Avenue and on towards the city’s center, passing by naked trees
along the way. Scents in general he did not like, with the
exception perhaps of peanut butter. “It’s my opium,” he would say,
taking dreamy whiffs from an opened jar — like a person might do
when smelling roses. He was a very strange boy indeed, then as much
as now.

“I’ll finish my
application tonight,” Balzac made plans, meanwhile passing through
Union Court at a breezy pace not replicable at
midday
; “Then send it to grandpapa for an
edit tomorrow,” he added, decidedly, “Grandpapa has a way of
turning glaciers into sculptures.” Here he entered
another boulevard also dropping
leaves.

Though Canberra’s main street was a
poor substitute for the rue de Rivoli in Paris to be sure, it was
not however, without some select distractions of its own. The chief
among them was a large mall — that sparkled brilliantly at night
like a Galeries Lafayette — surrounded by a panoply of cafés,
restaurants and name boutiques not unworthy of a population richer
than the national average. Supermarkets of various brands competed
in the mall’s ground floor; Bouchard entered one such store,
reconnoitering the fresh produce section first.

“Grapes,” he finally espied the fruit
of his dreams, grabbing three plastic bags and picking out the
choicest clusters from each color in turn; “Really now, I’m sure I
do not know how I’m going to survive winter on apples and pears
only,” he reflected with a deep sigh. To distract himself from such
sad thoughts, Bouchard meandered over to the jams and spreads
aisle.

“Natural peanut butter is the most
pretentious thing the organic movement has ever come out with,” he
opined, eyeing such a jar with perfect aristocratic disdain, as if
it were a vulgarity and crime against high society; “It is no
substitute for the real thing.”

Provisions thus paid for, the borrowed bicycle was remounted
and the route whence he came from retraced. The sidewalks and
streets were at this afternoon hour teeming with bipeds and wheels
hurrying back to their creature comforts at home. It wasn’t until
Bouchard reached the
purlieus of the
ANU
wherein the
commotion subsided considerably, and his
mind was free to fall back into its usual wanderings. “Now,
where was I?” he recollected, unpausing a fantasy involving mutant
powers.

IV

“Dear Grandpapa,

Much obliged for the package received
today. Such delights I encountered upon its opening. Grandmama’s
famous strawberry jam will add extra pizzazz to my peanut butter
sandwiches, you may be sure. No preserve can claim its peer, for
grandmama is generous with the meat and adds a secret ingredient —
lemon, methinks.

Sigh, does not the mention
of peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwich bring back memories of
my summer visits to Perth, when I was but a young sweet boy? To be
sure it takes me back to around three in the afternoon, when
grandmama would enter her domain and fix me up the most exquisite
collaboration since chocolate and hazelnuts married officially,
using her famous spread to great effect. Indeed, I have known no
greater comfort in life than those times when slowly nibbling my
way around the center of a peanut butter and strawberry jam
sandwich, wherein oozed the crème de la crème; meanwhile flipping
through a Calvin and Hobbes omnibus, and chuckling at their
nefarious deeds. Thoroughly indulged with comfort food and happy
entertainment, I fancied myself
as rich as
Midas.
Ah, the halcyon days of a
mollycoddled youth.

But moving on from little me. Burgundy
in Summer! Great grandpapa shall be most pleased for the
opportunity to entertain his son and daughter-in-law with lively
conversations interlarded with Hellenic references — as is to be
expected from an emeritus professor of Greek literature. And a few
days meandering through Paris too, I think you mentioned in your
monthly. How glamorous. You and grandmama will be revisiting the
Monets and Cézannes no less? Though not an art connoisseur myself,
I will say that I derive a great thrill when studying the portraits
of Madame la Marquise de Pompadour and her Bourbon set — so full of
pizzazz!

Sigh. I am presently imagining Paree,
the city of pleasures and elegancies, before the twentieth century
as depicted in the classical novels I enjoy reading so much; and
for which I am now in the mood to improvise a beginning.

‘A young lady sits in a rococo
armchair beside a tall window looking down onto a forest of
flowers. She has an exquisite figure, and skin as white as jade.
Today she is draped in a pale blue dress worthy of belonging to a
daughter of the Faubourg Saint-Germain. Her dark hair is pulled up
after the current fashion, revealing beneath a melancholic beauty
sure to stop Monsieur le Marquis in his tracks; for her eyes are
moons, her lashes fans, her forehead marble, her lips Mona Lisa,
her neck Nefertiti, and her ears butterfly wings.’

Pardi! I am daydreaming now. Such is
the way with minds that wander and leap from topic to
topic.

Speaking of things that leap, my
latest passion is learning more about salticids, or more commonly
known as jumping spiders. They are fascinating creatures, you may
be sure. Though small they can carry prey many times their weight
while dangling from a silk tread. You can distinguish them from
other arachnids by their frontal eyes, which are very big —
personally, I think they look very cute. Jumping spiders are also
colorful little things; with a courting ritual that would put birds
of paradise to shame.

But really now, I am vomiting words.
You deserve better reading than this.

Speaking of reading, would you be so
kind as to look over an essay I wrote as part of an astronomy camp
application form? Please see attached. It is a little meandering in
places and overly bulky in others, it is true; and thus, I think,
would benefit from your editing chainsaw. Much obliged in
advanced.

Meanwhile, hope all is well in the
hills of Perth. Are the wildflowers satisfactory this
year?

The weather in Canberra is a true
autumn: pleasant to the touch but mothy to the nostrils. The fruit
selection has fallen off at the supermarkets, I have noticed. Gone
are the days of nectarines piled high in abundance; which reminds
me of the walks Nana and I used to take down the road, with our
pretty hats on and chattering animatedly among ourselves — like two
sisters in a Jane Austen novel — to Mr. Offer’s orchard whereat we
would buy a box of the plumpest, juiciest nectarines, apricots and
peaches arboriculture could engender.

Moving on. I am presently reading a
story by Leo Tolstoy, and have noticed that for this particular
narrative he has adopted an uncommon grammatical prefix, which is
the insertion of a comma before an em dash. I observe that by
prefixing such an addition to a parenthesis, it magnifies the
significance of that interjection by tenfold. To wit, if I should
write:

‘Count Bezukhov dropped himself
heavily onto the sofa, — the news struck him like a blow to the
chest.’

The comma adds drama by inserting
between the statement and the explanation a significant pause, — I
think.

Anyway, much obliged for the jam and
sweetmeats. Such consideration. On the other hand I look forward to
reading your next monthly newsletter, — written any scathing
letters to the editor lately?

Your Grandson,

Balzac”

V

“I am not much the wiser,” Balzac
admitted with a grave frown. He and Soka were in one of Helena
Hall’s study rooms, sitting opposite each other at a table to
themselves. She had just finished giving him a lengthy explanation
on a physics question, it was not an easy assignment. Mayura
scratched her chin, in search of another way of putting it. “I’m so
dumb,” Balzac thought to himself, annoyed at his disability. There
was some truth to what he said, to be sure; for Physics had indeed
been his worst subject back in high school. So why was he
dedicating three years of his life towards majoring in it? Suffice
to say here, Balzac Bouchard lived by the dictum: “If salmons can
leap over waterfalls, why not I?” Besides, the boy had a violent
curiosity, which drove him to doing things he did not understand
fully or at all; the expectation being however, that he would
understand them eventually if exposed to them long
enough.