“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.
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, spea
king 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 int
o 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.
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