A Vomit of Diamonds (4 page)

“Seeing those truffles has reminded me
of the fungi by the same name,” Balzac reflected with a curt nod in
the direction of the chocolate cabinet. “I hear they smell earthy,”
Soka commented, turning her spectacles thereto. “More like dirty
socks on a rotting corpse,” was his pointed opinion. “Oh,” came the
flat response; the kind one saves for amusingly disturbing
situations.

“What is a Belgian truffle anyway?”
Balzac asked, moving on to the more tasteful version of the
appellation. “It’s chocolate ganache rolled in cocoa powder,” she
explained, acquainted with all things a foodie should know;
“Probably tastes a lot better than the other type of truffle,” she
added for good measure, which was meant as a joke. “We’ll see about
that,” Balzac retorted, quite serious about the matter. So saying,
he grabbed the attention of a passing waiter and imparted the
necessary instructions to make it so; thus adding another item to
their bill. The waiter listened most attentively and then hurried
off to execute the commission.

“Apparently the hot chocolate here is
really good,” Soka noted, her nose following a passing tray with
marked approval. “Oh?” said Balzac, tracing her moving gaze; “Why
did you not say so before? We must try it then,” and he made as if
to call a waiter when Mayura stopped him in the act by suggesting
not unkindly, that they wait and see if their stomachs could still
take it after the first course. Bouchard paused, then slowly
withdrew his rising hand; “That would be acceptable,” said
he.

Two topics later their
conversation was interrupted by a waitress, who placed on the table
between them the anticipated desserts. His chocolate mousse came
piped in a cocktail glass, with a sculptural twirl of dark
couverture floating on top. Her coffee dessert was served as a set:
vanilla ice cream dunked into a glass, alongside a cream-jug of
smoking café au lait. A saucer with pralines was placed at the
table’s center, and these too looked individually
expensive
.
Appetite thoroughly whetted, Bouchard took up his spoon and
put his whipped cream to the test. The mousse melted in his mouth
like a pat of butter on hot pancakes. He was instantly
lifted.

Meanwhile Mayura took out her phone
and snapped a commemorative photo of her dish. Then with cautious
enthusiasm she picked up the creamer and poured its hot contents
all over the cold ice cream. The resulting thermodynamic reaction
was an impressive sight to behold; evident from the widening of
Mayura’s eyes and the pause of Bouchard’s spoon in mid-air. “It’s
like watching a star caught in an ion storm,” Balzac finally spoke
up after an extended period of awe, saying what had been on his
mind during the whole viewing experience; which strangely enough,
sobered Mayura. Cupping the affogato in both her hands, she bent to
take a sip — as a little bird does when dipping its beak into a
dish of water.

One sip and her head shot up
heavenward with a suddenness previously unseen from her, she who
was usually so sedate. “What the Borg?” thought Balzac, stunned;
was she having some kind of allergic reaction to the drink? No, he
shortly realized, seeing her expression. She was on a high. “That
was a strong reaction,” he rebuked her drily, recovering his cool;
“One would think you had just snorted a line of
cocaine.”

Another few scoops into the mousse and
Bouchard pushed his cocktail glass towards Mayura, inviting her to
give it a try. She was much obliged indeed; but out of deep respect
only took a pea-sized serving. Upon returning the favor she was
declined. “It’s pretty diluted,” she tempted him twice to no avail.
This rejection took her back a few months ago, to the beginning of
their friendship when she had made him a similar offer not knowing
then about his dislike for the taste of coffee. His refusal on that
occasion struck her as being very original indeed. “I do not like
flavored water,” he had said.

“Are you appraising its clarity?”
Balzac presently asked, observing his friend who was studying a
chocolate piece with appreciative scrutiny. Mayura smiled guiltily.
“I’m sure it’s flawless,” he affirmed, biting into a praline
pregnant with salty honey. Thus following his example — albeit,
with less Sardanapalus flourish — she took a few small nibbles on
her choice. “So?” her interrogatory friend asked, all expectation.
“I like it!” she responded, beaming stupidly.

There is an old adage that says the
sweetest stories often have the bitterest endings. It is a proven
fact of life, evident from the feelings the two worthies presently
felt moments after their sensual happiness began its descent into
the abyss which is the human digestive tract. Mayura let out a
sadly happy sigh as their waitress cleared the table.

IX

As the two worthies stood waiting for
the crosswalk lights to turn green, their attentions were forced
across the road, whence a group of young people in a boisterous
mood made loud noises to pass the waiting time. “Going out to
celebrate the end of exams I guess,” Soka observed with a curious
look; for, despite having months to assimilate to undergraduate
culture, the sight of students in provocative clothing marching
down to gin palaces never ceased to amaze the open yet conservative
nerd within her. “That’s nice,” Balzac replied with perfect
aristocratic indifference.

The evening’s temperature continued to
drop as they sauntered back to Helena Hall; walking with a little
hunch of the shoulders and hands tucked deep within pockets. It was
such the kind of inclemency to stimulate warm thoughts in steaming
quantity. “The affogato was so good,” Soka reflected in a dreamy
tone, savoring every detail of the memory whilst it still lasted,
fresh in her mind. “You did react to it rather strongly,” Balzac
agreed, recalling her sudden possession after the one sip; “I’m
still deciding if you need to be exorcised,” he added drily. She
gave him a flat look.

A few minutes later Soka asked
conversationally, “Have you read any short stories from ancient
China?” “I have not yet indulged in that pleasure,” Balzac replied
with gravity; “Are they anything like the novels I read?” he asked,
referring to books written before the twentieth century, his
preferred genre. “I don’t think so?” Soka replied, scratching her
chin. “In that case do educate me,” he insisted with perfect
aristocratic interest.

“
Well, there was this one story
about a young man who lived in a village,” she began to narrate,
recalling the particulars and situation; “supposedly the handsomest
man in China at the time. His name was Wei Jie, I think. Apparently
his family was famous for beautiful people. One of his female
ancestors was so beautiful that when the Emperor passed by the
village and saw her, he married her and she became an Empress.
Anyway, Wei Jie was also very beautiful and wherever he went people
would gather around to look at him. He became quite famous because
of this. One day he left the village to visit a nearby city, and
when the people in the city knew that he was coming, they all went
out onto the streets to see him arrive. By the time he entered the
city the streets were completely blocked, and the crowds surrounded
him such that he couldn’t go anywhere. As Wei Jie had a weak health
however, he couldn’t stand the heat or the suffocating air, and so
became quite ill. They had to carry him to bed. A few days later he
died.”

Here Bouchard raised an incredulous eyebrow;
“So the moral of the story is,” he said, hesitantly, “looks can
kill?”

A little further into their journey home, a
big question entered into Bouchard’s thoughts. “How do you suppose
the universe expands?” he asked. “Hmm,” Soka mumbled, unconsciously
reaching to scratch her chin; “Maybe initially,” she began,
adopting a speculative tone, “the expansion was due to the kinetic
energy left over from the Big Bang?” Bouchard was all attention.
“But once it was converted into gravitational potential energy,”
she continued, again, speculating, “the expansion slowed down. And
then at some point dark energy kick-started the expansion process
again, maybe?” Bouchard reflected on this explanation; physics came
to him much slower than it did for her — the poor lad.

“Hopefully astro camp will answer some
of your questions,” she pleasantly added for good measure. “Oh I’m
sure I won’t understand any of it,” Balzac countered with perfect
aristocratic indifference. Mayura sighed inwardly. Bouchard’s
proclivity for self-deprecation was not an attitude she liked to
see in him; there was something awfully Dostoyevskian about that
frown he assumed during such moments of doubt. “You’re too hard on
yourself,” she gently chastised him. The latter gave a Parisian
shrug, remarking, matter-of-factly: “And you are too
kind.”

X

“Dear Grandpapa,

The mornings here in Canberra are cold
— Siberia cold. Each dawn I curse the inclement weather while
tracing the curves of Lake Burley Griffin, one goal obsessively set
in my mind; that of hurrying back to my heated room, therein to
bask like an exotic reptile lazing under its heat lamp in a private
terrarium.

Even during the day the temperature
rises to a disappointing vertex. Fabrics upon fabrics are layered
on. It is a heavy load. One which, when walking to lectures, and
with the wind slapping the face like a bucket of iced water poured
down the head, prompts some cruel desires for a big fur coat made
from a polar bear.

Nevertheless, yesterday my friend and
I braved the dreadful conditions for a trip into town, our
destination being Coco, the haute couture of chocolates. And Borg!
were the desserts worthy of surviving into the next generation. I
ordered a chocolate mousse. Indecently delicious. My companion had
the affogato; which evoked an emotional response so powerful she
could have been the face of an energy drink. Besides our private
choices we also had a plate of pralines to share. You should have
seen us both, chatting and indulging the little sweetmeats like two
Roman Dominas exchanging gossip over a dish of olives.

But enough about times now gone by,
let us turn to the future; whence tomorrow astro camp begins. The
program takes up a full week; broken into four days of lectures on
campus and the last three days at an observatory.

Actually, I’m still rather amazed at
being included in the chosen ten. Perhaps the judges thought it
prudent to throw in a person of average means, intellectually, into
the bunch, so as to show for publicity’s sake, that they were by
all appearances an accepting race.

Alas that is all I have to report for
now. But anticipate your next letter I do. For what troubles have
you and Nana gotten yourselves into this month? I am keen to know.
Likewise, you may count upon receiving a history of my own
adventures at astro camp. What strange things will happen during
that time I cannot predict, though I’m fairly certain that it will
be very alien indeed.

Your Grandson,

Balzac”

XI

On Monday morning at the pre-planned time, Bouchard left
Helena Hall and headed in the direction of the Physics domain,
wherein a modern building painted asteroid-grey was base to the
ANU’s Research School of Astronomy and Astrophysics. “The ANU’s
Starfleet Academy,” he inwardly remarked, approaching the front
entrance with a growing delusion of grandeur.

Standing in a circle in the building’s
foyer was a group of people, among them, Sarah, the aforementioned
announcer; and with her a few participants who had arrived early.
Bouchard walked over to join them. “Astro camp?” Sarah asked with a
serious smile. “Yes,” Balzac replied, almost saying indeed. There
were a few faces in the present group that he did not recognize.
Fortunately however, there was one individual in the small crowd
whom he could attach himself to. This person was Perry Zimmerman. A
good-natured fellow who reminded Bouchard of a teenaged Obi-Wan
Kenobi; having boyish good looks, towards the short side, with
brown hair and calm blue eyes. Naturally he was also very wise; an
Advanced Science student worthy of interning at Caltech during the
summer.

Zimmerman greeted Bouchard with a
friendly nod, which was curtly returned. The conversation in the
circle resumed where it had left off; something physics related.
Bouchard did not contribute; for in this crowd of smart strangers,
his attitude shed its Anna Karenina skin, revealing beneath a raw
Jane Eyre.

The party, when all those concerned
had arrived, was made up of five first years and five second years,
with an equal number of men and women represented. More than half
were in Advanced Science, and those that weren’t had no doubt
tried. For this reason alone, Bouchard could not help but feel that
his presence somehow depressed the group’s average IQ. As further
proof of his unique position, most if not all candidates spoke as
if they were serious about a career in astronomy, unlike he who had
applied simply to realize a hobby. “I stick out like a spider on a
bed of daisies,” thought he, frowning uncomfortably.

In a domed lecture theater, perhaps
modelled after a planetarium, the group assembled; picking up the
week’s agenda on their way in. Bouchard sat next to Zimmerman, and
both perused the program while waiting for it to officially begin.
“It would appear we’re going to see some stars this morning,”
Balzac remarked, inspecting the names on the first page. The
commencement address was to be given by the college dean, and a
Nobel laureate was booked as first guest lecturer. “Probably to
inspire us,” Perry offered with a knowing grin. So saying, the
morning lectures did indeed proceed with that exact goal. The Nobel
laureate did not disappoint, delivering his research in a manner to
be expected from scientific nobility. “Such a capable orator,”
Balzac made a mental note; “I wonder how he escaped political
recruitment.”