A Vomit of Diamonds (3 page)

A while later, the equations equated
and solved as instructed, Bouchard’s frown deepened; “They don’t
add up the same,” said he, matter-of-fact. “Hmm?” came Soka’s
abstracted reply; she was presently in the middle of solving
another Newtonian question, this one more difficult than the first.
“As in momentum is not conserved,” he added, sounding very grave
indeed; “See here,” and Bouchard showed her his numbers. The other
removed her gaze from her work and turned to his papers; “Hmm,” she
conceded after a peruse through, her frown deepening. “I don’t
suppose we can attribute the missing energy to heat or sound?”
Balzac asked, suggestively. “Unfortunately that’s not allowed,”
Soka replied, scratching her chin in a puzzled manner.

Following this discouraging comment,
Bouchard laid his pen down on the table; decidedly, it was time for
a break. “Do you think it’s possible that we’re just holograms in
some advanced civilization’s simulation?” he asked, making small
talk; or at least his version of it. “Um — not very likely?” was
her short reply; head bent and attention fixed upon the problem
with the units. Bouchard rolled his eyes significantly, remarking:
“Atheists”. The other remained glued to her puzzle but heard his
retort, and sniggered quietly to herself in response. “On the other
hand,” Balzac continued, speaking a little louder, intentionally.
Mayura put her pen down in acquiescence; apparently they were in
recess.

VI

“Dear Grandpapa,

Significant news! Against all odds, I
have been chosen among the top ten participants that will be
attending astronomy camp during the winter break. I am very
flattered by this consideration, you may be sure. But it would not
have been possible, I think, if it were not for your brutal edits
to the essay; which, there can be no doubt, improved my chances
tenfold. Again, much obliged for your contribution.

To update you on the state of my
studies is to tell you a tale of ominous foreboding. Sigh. Exams
loom nigh, assignments multiply, and candles burn unto midnight’s
end. Honestly now; sometimes I feel like I’m standing under a
waterfall raining dead fish. Whoever said university was an
improvement from high school obviously wore his cap on back to
front. Indeed, I have half a mind to berate the next ignoramus
propagating this untruth with a few choice words and aristocratic
indignation.

Moving on. To distract myself from the
student responsibilities lamented above, I have taken up a novel by
Gustave Flaubert. As is typical of Monsieur Flaubert, it is a saucy
tale pregnant with impassioned lovers and sinful liaisons. So very
different from the book I was previously engaged in, let me tell
you. That one was a Jane Austen title, about prudes and the
difficulties they faced on a daily basis. Oh, the horrors of
impropriety! Thus, the book amused me a great deal, you may be
sure. I would go so far as to call it a page-turner, actually.
Indeed, Miss Austen has a way of turning family drama into
thriller. But all this is not to imply a preference; for I can
enjoy scones and have my macarons too.

But I must be off now; the dead fish
won’t pick themselves up you know. Again, much obliged for your
edits to the essay — it was like watching a safari nut saw the
horns off a rhinoceros.

Your Grandson,

Balzac”

VII

One chilly evening nearing June’s end,
Bouchard stepped out of Helena Hall’s west wing. He was wrapped in
a black trench coat — looking every part the Sith Lord dressed to
kill. Scowling at the cold air, he walked over to join Mayura who
waited under a lamp post in front of Central, her phone in one hand
scrolling through a stream of updates from the various media she
subscribed to.

“And what is the talk of the town
today?” asked he by way of a greeting. “The Hubble Telescope took a
new photo,” Soka replied, holding up the screen for him to inspect,
knowing his interests in the dark arts of astronomy. Bouchard
studied the offered picture with concentrated attention; “A nebular
cloud,” he marveled in good humor, “the lava lamps of the universe,
is what I like to call them.” So saying he returned to his full
height, and they set off together at a leisurely pace along Daley
Road, whereon once in a while a car would cruise by at a
respectable speed.

“I have been thinking about seeds
lately,” Balzac started, after a comfortable silence had settled
in. “Seeds?” repeated Soka in a curious tone. “Seeds,” confirmed he
with a grave nod; “Have you never wondered why the seed of a mango
is one and large, while the seed of a watermelon is many and
small?” Soka Mayura scratched her chin in a musing manner,
remarking: “That sounds like a riddle. And no, I can’t say I’ve
given it much thought.”

“Well,” said he significantly; “I have
been puzzling it out. And I think the explanation goes something
like this,” he proposed, all seriousness, “A mango tree is picky
about its environment, it prefers the same conditions wherein its
parent is rooted to. Thus the seed is made heavy in order to ensure
a short dispersal range. Consider a monkey plucking a mango off a
tree, carrying it over to a favorite branch a few swings away.
Comfortably installed on its throne, it denudes the seed, and then
drops that which it cannot eat onto the ground. Take note that the
chances of the seed taking root in this spot is increased by the
fact that the location at large, has proven fruitful for its kind
in the past.”

“On the other hand,” he continued
without pause, in the same hypothetical strain; “watermelon plants
are perhaps more resilient. This flexibility allows for a longer
range of dispersal, and hence the seeds need to be small so that
the animal is able to eat all the contents within the fruit
indiscriminately. Now, imagine a raccoon, sneaking up onto a
voluptuous watermelon in someone’s private garden. Like a glutton
it eats to its stomach’s content, and then returns to its dwelling
to sleep off the digestion process. During the next day while
exploring the forest, it makes a deposit in some bush. The soil
there is acceptable and so the seeds stake a claim. All is fine and
well in this scenario, but imagine the alternative case, wherein
the same raccoon deposits the seeds onto the middle of a bitumen
road. Alas, this is no good. However, not all is lost, for one seed
remains not yet evacuated. And so later on fertile soil, the same
raccoon does the honorable thing and makes a drop. The dénouement
to all of this is, because there is an uncertainty involved, many
seeds per fruit therefore becomes an advantageous trait, since it
increases the plant’s probability of passing on its genes to the
next generation.”

His dissertation concluded, Bouchard
turned to Mayura for a peer review. “Um — that sounds reasonable?”
she offered, hoping that this was the right answer. It was not. For
Bouchard reckoned he learnt best when partially wrong. “You are too
kind,” he declared in a dry tone, removing his penetrating gaze
from her and looking straight-ahead.

Upon crossing Daley Road and entering
University Avenue, Bouchard was struck with a delusion of grandeur.
“Just imagine,” he began, placing his imaginary canvas on its
imaginary stand for his friend to observe imaginarily; “The year is
eighteen-twenty and the aristocracy is once again in vogue. We are
two fashionable boulevardiers arriving on the Champs-Élysées in a
glazed landau, proceeding at a slow pace and making a big scene.
The lower classes gape at our passing as if witnessing Apollo
riding by in his flaming chariot. Even our equals droop a little in
their cushions; as we are richer than they and far better to look
at.” Soka Mayura remained silent and did not at any point
contradict him by offering facts from reality; instead, like Sancho
Panza the Faithful, she listened to her lofty companion with doubt,
but followed him anyway.

“Look,” Balzac spoke up after a pause;
“A visitor from the lake,” he indicated a solitary duck waddling
under the towering poplars that aligned the walk. “Apparently they
become very aggressive in spring,” Soka noted, repeating what she
had heard about their warrior-like instincts come hatching season.
“You can only imagine,” Balzac replied, giving the innocent bird a
death stare. It so happened as a young boy, Bouchard had gotten
himself chased by a menacing drake because of his proximity to its
fluffy little offspring; ever since then he distrusted the
species.

Union Court, although a pumping heart
during the day, was at this hour an empty cavern. “I am so very
pleased that exams are over,” Balzac spoke up, breaking the
silence, which to him sounded boring. “How was chemistry and
biology?” Soka asked, having only two courses in common with him:
maths and physics. “Chemistry was acceptable,” Balzac allowed; “But
biology on the other hand — well, I’m sure I still don’t know what
a chromosome is, or what the difference between mitochondria and
midi-chlorians are, despite one being fictional. However that may
be,” he added, conceding to one point, “I did find the Behavioral
Ecology part of the course to be full of pizzazz.”

“Are you taking biology again next
semester?” came the follow-up question. “Unlikely,” replied he,
explaining: “Too much to remember. I don’t think my brain could
take that load of knowledge again. For, as I have mentioned before,
my memory works like a hard disk. In that it can only contain so
many folders until some have to be deleted in order to make space
for new data.” Soka nodded knowingly, and recalled her days back in
high school where she had also studied biology, thinking at the
time that medicine was her calling; what else was a girl with
perfect grades supposed to do? “What are you reflecting on?” Balzac
spoke up, noticing that she was pondering silently. “Hm?” said she,
awakening, “Oh, just about how I almost went into
medicine.”

“Well,” said he, in a significant
manner, “at least you made the right decision in the end.” Mayura
turned to him with a raised eyebrow. “What?” he remarked, affecting
innocent confusion; “Do you not think theoretical physics the
fairest discipline of them all?” Here her questioning look turned
into a manga flat stare. Again, she had to remind herself that he
was incurable. “On top of that,” he continued, “you’re enrolled
into the prestigious Advanced Bachelor program, and at the ANU no
less. Practically the Harvard of Australia,” he added
matter-of-factly. “And the University of Melbourne?” she retorted,
referring to the only other university in Australia worthy of being
labelled a true rival in the ranking charts. “Yale,” he replied,
“obviously”.

VIII

Among the eateries that lined Canberra’s main street was the
dark brown establishment yclept Coco, wherein the two worthies
presently entered. The air within was warm and humid with
chocolate, so different from the cold and dryness outside endured
during the trek thereto. Mayura took in an audible deep breath and
held it in, appreciatively.

The salon had about it a “café noir”
ambiance, which in Paris implies glazed wooden fixtures and sultry
lighting. A long glass cabinet stretched along the entire left
wall, behind which stood gloved clerks picking out confections and
setting them into dark brown boxes according to the fancies of the
“clients” — for these were no ordinary customers. But of course,
the two friends had not trekked all the way here through winter’s
wrath just to get takeaway. Indeed, they had come for the full
dine-in experience, at which they could expect desserts that came
with silver spoons.

Mayura’s moment of gaping and awing at
the display was cut short by an inconvenient remark thrown in by
Bouchard, who stood beside her with a very different attitude to
hers. “I wonder how the seed of a cocoa tree is distributed,” said
he, frowning, and making a mental note to google it the next time
he was connected to the internet. In response, Mayura’s wide-eyed
expression turned into a flat stare. A moment later the two were
standing before the maître d’s podium waiting for the next free
table to become available; which, unfortunately, took longer than
Bouchard’s patience allowed. After some more waiting, a young
couple at a table abutting the façade’s glass wall made as if to
depart. “It’s about time,” Balzac rasped drily, in a tone one can
imagine used by a femme fatale whose seductions have been slow to
pay up.

An obliging waitress soon came over to
receive them at the podium, and from there they were directed to
the table previously occupied by the “two bags of hormones” — a
phrase Bouchard liked to apply to sweethearts drunk on love. Thus
installed, menu cards were provided for their perusal.

“I’m ready,” Balzac spoke up after a
quick read-through, putting his card down on the table decidedly.
“So fast?” Soka observed, amazed and confused; for, while the
offerings were limited to a select list, all the accompanying
descriptions would have given even a seasoned sensualist a longer
pause than the time it took for Bouchard to make his decision. “I
checked out the PDF menu available on their website,” he replied
with a Parisian shrug, then turned to look out the façade’s glass
wall, which commanded a gossipy view of main street and the
adjacent sparkling mall, while Mayura resumed debating her options,
flipping the menu back and forth.

A few minutes later their hostess
returned to hear their orders. Bouchard named the chocolate mousse
without a pause, and Soka decided on the affogato; some pralines,
exotically flavored, were also ordered on the side, to
share.