A VOMIT OF DIAMONDS
By Boripat Lebel
Copyright © 2016 by Boripat Lebel
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
CONTENTS
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII
XXIII
XXIV
XXV
XXVI
I
“It’s like watching a bird of paradise dance,” said Balzac Bouchard in a conspiratorial tone. Soka Mayura smiled in agreement. Their physics lecturer, sporting a bright blue vest and gesticulating furiously at the front of the lecture hall, was indeed putting on a truly exotic show as he expounded the virtues of vectors — a topic which he was evidently wild about. “So full of pizzazz,” the Parisian wit added.
Balzac Bouchard was a stripling of eighteen summers with a lissome figure and middle height. Built with French and Thai genes, he appeared Persian; for his countenance was sharp, his complexion light olive, his hair Stygian, his brows unforgiving, his lashes heavy, his eyes amber, and his nose Greek. In other words, his physiognomy did not need to move much for it to express anger. The color black became him.
Soka Mayura on the other hand had a more amenable appearance; for her frame was short and shaped like an amphora, her head with thick hair cut to resemble a bob, her face round, her skin light, and her gaze gentle. She wore a pair of framed glasses, and her fashion followed a simple rule: t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. Disposition wise, hers was as placid as a lagoon, with the intelligence worthy of one belonging in the Advanced Bachelor program — an undergraduate degree for the scholarly one percent.
Five minutes to the lecture’s end, the eccentric instructor surrendered the podium to a woman in her thirties, dressed for serious hiking. She had a slender tall figure, pale skin, dark hair tied back, thin face, and grey eyes. “Hi, I’m Sarah,” she said with a serious smile. The room was all ears. “I’m here on behalf of the Department of Astronomy and Astrophysics,” she continued, “to make an announcement about the one-week astro camp that will take place at the beginning of the mid-semester break.” “Places for participants are limited” she went on to explain, “so interested persons are encouraged to write a few paragraphs about why they would like to go and how the astro camp will benefit them as part of their application form; applicants with the ten best reasons will be selected for the camp.”
“It’s a great opportunity,” she promised, enforcing this statement with another serious smile. “Mark me down as intrigued,” thought Balzac Bouchard, who was all attention in matters relating to space due largely to the TV series Star Trek Voyager — the precepts of which he adopted in everyday life. “Seven of Nine is my role model,” he was known to say, “and Captain Janeway my moral compass.” It was therefore natural that the young cadet should take an application form with him before exiting T-Three; one of five large auditoriums in the elongated building near Union Court, at the heart of the Australian National University in Canberra.
“Lunch time,” Soka surmised, by way of explaining the bustling square swarming with young people of various persuasions going about their daily habits. “Indeed,” said he, displeased at the messy looking terrain. Initially, they negotiated a route through the throng; however, after many side steps and starts and stops, Bouchard’s patience finally ran out, and from there on he sliced through the mass with attitude.
“That was — impressive,” Soka decided, as they came out of Union Court in much less time than the polite course would have taken them, decidedly. “The animal kingdom is full of examples,” said he, matter-of-fact; “Puff up, appear aggressive, and most people will get out of your way.” Then, the two entered University Avenue, a grand walk flanked on either side by a military row of Lombardy poplars. “I suppose,” was Soka’s uncertain response; for she herself could never pull off what Bouchard had just accomplished. “You are far too nice,” the other pointed out, his tone slotting between compliment and reprimand.
“The astro camp sounds fun,” Soka observed after a pause. “It is an opportunity to be sure,” Balzac concurred in his usual significant way. “Too bad it’s during the holidays though,” she noted, having already made plans to spend the month in Tokyo with family and to meet up with some close friends. “Are you going back to Thailand?” she asked casually. “No,” was the short answer; “My parents are flying to Germany for a meeting, and after that to Venice for a holiday,” he elaborated. “Will you be going with them?” she asked, excited for him; Venice was high on Soka Mayura’s places-to-visit list. “No,” came his simple reply. “No?” she thought, feeling sorry for him.
“What about visiting your grandparents in Perth?” Soka asked, moving on to another possibility. Bouchard shook his head; “They will be at my great-grandfather’s house in France for the entire month of July,” he explained. “In Burgundy?” the other asked in a confirmation-required tone. “Indeed,” came the confirmation. Here Bouchard reflected, recalling balmy afternoons and lemon tarts. “The country is extra picturesque during the summer,” he exclaimed after a nostalgic pause; “And the vineyard near my great-grandfather’s estate is said to be the choicest in the region — not the kind of wines to get drunk on, you understand?”
“It must be very nice country,” Soka pondered with smiling interest. “To be sure,” he affirmed, encouraged by her attention; “Its beauty is supernatural,” said he, improvising quixotic allegories on the spot, “for its climate is mild like the inside of an oyster, its vineyards are Elysian Fields, its rivers sparkle like opals, and its natives chase rainbows.” This verbal grandeur transported the traveler within Soka Mayura; moving her conscious in the same way the mind of a sailor turns to mush when a Siren calls.
“Now I feel like ratatouille,” abruptly stated Balzac, envisioning his grandmother’s garden in Perth, wherein the fruits and herbs de Provence appurtenant to that dish were grown and appreciated. By interjecting this image of food Bouchard broke the spell he had cast over his friend, Soka Mayura, whose one passion ranking above travelling was that of cooking. “What are you having for lunch?” she asked, as she thought about the leftovers she was going to microwave and looking forward to eating them too.
“A peanut butter sandwich,” came Balzac’s instant reply. Peanut butter was Bouchard’s favorite food. During his first handling a jar of the crunchy variety, he had spooned its contents as if crunchy peanut butter were Greek yoghurt with pieces of fruit — indeed, he still did this on occasion. “And maybe some black grapes,” he added for good measure, “speaking of which,” he added with a contemplative accent, “Is it not strange that I should fancy grapes so much and yet find raisins most distasteful?” To be sure, the way he said “raisins” — spitting the word out like bad wine — left no ambiguity as to his preference. “That’s true for me with steak. I prefer rare. Not very fond of well-done steak,” Soka reflected on her own consuming contradictions. “I don’t eat cow,” was Balzac’s closing remark.
II
At the end of University Avenue the two worthies crossed Daley Road — a drive outlining the back periphery of the ANU campus, whereon a few student accommodations were situated — and then proceeded along its sidewalk to a white stuccoed estab
lishment by the name of Helena Hall. This student accommodation was made up of three interconnected buildings: the central part housed administration, study facilities, and communal kitchen; while on either side of “central” were two towers four levels high, each sardining a litany of studios within. Tall eucalyptus trees shaded the property, their glaucous foliage embalming the air with a Delphian perfume. Lawn and flower beds carpeted the remaining ground, with wild orchids and kangaroo paws being the predominant favorite.
Bouchard’s study-bedroom was on the second floor of the west wing. The fixtures installed therein were to the point: a stainless-steel sink, a mini walk-in wardrobe, a wooden bookcase, a white radiator, a long worktable, a single bed, and a nightstand. In the rear wall above the latter was a tall window affording evergreen views of the abutting patch of forest.
As Bouchard did not collect the unnecessary, his possessions therefore did not add much to the room’s original landscape. Suffice it to say here, its walls remained free from posters, bookcase empty of titles, and work table minimalistic. All other equipages, pens and notepads, chargers and such were stored out of sight where they could not offend his fastidious eye. To quote verbatim the observation made by Soka Mayura upon entering his Spartan sanctuary for the first time: “It looks like—” she said slowly, her eyes opening wide, “a very clean prison cell.”
Helena Hall’s central kitchen was a series of cooking bays, broken into two sides via a column of tables lining its center. Presently, Bouchard and Mayura sat tête-à-tête at one such table, their midday fare ready to be converted to calories. “Do you think many people will apply to this astro camp?” Balzac asked casually, meanwhile peeling the crusts off his sandwich and eating it first. “I would imagine so,” Soka supposed, spooning her stir-fry on a bed of rice; “You should apply!” she added encouragingly. “Oh, I don’t know,” Balzac replied, sounding dismissive; “I don’t think I have the intelligence to qualify,” he opined. “Don’t think like that,” returned she with a sad look; “Besides,” she added, ever the optimist, “You’re really good at writing. So I’m sure you can write something that will convince them to pick you.”
“There is some truth in what you say,” Balzac allowed in a thoughtful manner; “It would have to be a worthy essay though, mind you. Pizzazzerized with the choicest words and verbal adornments from Voltaire’s vocabulary, spiced with the calculating coquetry of Madame de Pompadour,” he added, carried away by delusions of grandeur — as Narcissus became infatuated with his own reflection. “Um, o-kay,” said Soka, reminded for the third time today how strange her friend was; for, although their attachment amounted to a few months now, there remained a lot about him that still needed to be gotten used to.
Bouchard and Mayura became acquainted during their second lecture for physics. The former had ensconced himself into the seat beside her, at the end of a middle row. At one point during this lesson, the professor encouraged the room to discuss a mechanical problem with the person next to them. Like most geniuses Soka Mayura failed at socializing, in particular, at starting conversations. Meanwhile, the only person beside her without a ready partner, Balzac Bouchard, disliked small talk to a violent degree; as she was soon about to find out. “Hi! I’m Soka. What do you think?” she spoke up abruptly and into his face, using up all her courage in one awesome burst of friendship-making. The other stared at her with a blank expression. Blink, blink. Another blink. “Words fail me,” he finally said.
“Do you know where Coonabara Observatory is?” Soka presently asked, her plate almost cleaned. “Somewhere far, far away I’m sure,” said Balzac, biting into a black grape with a resounding crunch. Mayura gave him a flat stare. “Fine,” he sighed, rolling his eyes significantly; “It’s on Mount Coonabara, which is a mountain within Warrumbumgle National Park in New South Wales,” he said, popping another grape into his mouth as if it were popcorn. Then, breaking off a cluster he extended it to Mayura for acceptance. “Um, thank you,” she hesitatingly replied, torn between propriety and desire.
“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 monologi
c 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.
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