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.
“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.”
Come lunch time the group removed to the break room; wherein ingredients to make a sandwich were laid out on the central table, ready for assembly according to the tastes and preferences of the person intending to eat it. “No peanut butter” Balzac noted, surveying the provided selection of sandwich fillings and not finding his standard choice; “Is this to be my fate for the next six lunches?” he added with an emotion perhaps more pertaining to the phrase “why hast thou forsaken me?” His first option thus absent, Bouchard settled for a vegetarian ensemble, not trusting the origins or makeup of the cold cuts and ham.
Entertainment during this indoor picnic was provided by a second year student, mature-aged with curly dark hair and a round figure. Her name was Maxine, and her personality embodied the spirit of champagne. Her hair bounced with every laugh. “What’s a female astronomer called?” she asked, courting the attention of all present in the room. Some suggestions were made. Though none said “lady of the night,” which was the answer she soon provided with evident gusto.
At anoth
er point in her act, she adopted the air of a tragedy queen. “I married young,” she began, relating her history; “I was a housewife for many years, in the country, baking pie and all that. But then one day my husband asked for a divorce, and so I became depressed for a while. A few years later I decided that I needed to do something with my life, I needed to move on. And so I enrolled at the ANU. I chose astronomy right away because it was something I had always thought about when I was still young and pretty. Of course; now I’m just pretty.”
The lectures in the afternoon were decidedly heavier than those delivered in the morning. The orientation and inspiring speeches apparently over. “All I understood from Dr. Hansen,” Balzac remarked to Perry once said speaker had left the room, “is that the Lagrangian equals kinetic energy minus potential energy.” This confession was delivered with a disturbed expression. “His lecture just explained the derivation of that equation,” Perry said simply. “Oh,” was Balzac’s flat response, feeling very dumb indeed. But then, like a phoenix rising from its ashes, his passions returned aflame. “But why must we use spherical, polar or cylindrical coordinates?” he posed significantly; “With their thetas and phis, when I am perfectly content with x, y, z.”
“They’re basically just different ways to approach a problem,” Perry explained, radiating an Obi-Wan Kenobi calmness, which never failed to smooth out Bouchard’s frowns; “For example,” he continued in that casually wise strain of his, “if we’re looking at a symmetrical system, then polar coordinates are probably more useful. But if there’s no symmetry then Cartesian might be a better choice. Generally speaking, we assign whichever coordinate system makes calculations easier.”
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