The diner was humid with sizzling meat. “This is the bomb,” Maxine declared, hands clasping a sizeable hamburger dripping juice. The others murmured some noises in response; their mouths masticating huge mouthfuls. “Don’t you eat meat?” Minho accosted Balzac, whose fish sandwich stood out from the majority’s minced cow parts. “I never really developed a taste for it,” was his simple reply.
As the journey’s end grew nigh, a sort of campfire camaraderie settled within the van; the earlier energy usurped by reflections and friendly remarks.
“So after listening to all the lectures and visiting the telescopes,” Sarah spoke up from the driver’s seat, addressing the group at large; “any ideas on which areas of research you guys might be interested in pursuing?” There was a brief pause while everyone considered their answers; for the good-natured seriousness of her tone deserved a serious reply.
“I’m thinking of stellar evolution,” ventured a second year from the other Coonabara group. “Definitely something to do with exoplanets,” chimed in a young man with curly brown hair, also from that cohort. “Cosmology,” Minho stated, matter-of-fact; the first voice from Bouchard’s team. “Astrobiology seems pretty cool,” said Maxine, not one to be left out or outdone; “What about you Annika?” and she turned to her sitting companion. “Maybe astrochemistry?” Annika supposed; though still not sure how she felt about midnight observations. “Astroparticle physics,” asserted a bespectacled young lady, her head held high and sitting erect. When it came to Perry’s turn, no one was surprised by his choice: Theoretical astrophysics.
“And you, Balzac?” Sarah asked after two more answers had been added to the pool; apparently she had been keeping count. Nine pairs of eyes turned to Bouchard. “What the Borg am I going to tell them,” he thought with great unease; “all the good ones have been taken.” So thinking, he made one up on the spot. “Astrophilosophy,” he offered. “Is that a real field?” the bespectacled young lady inquired primly. “Why not?” retorted Minho, coming to Bouchard’s aid; whether intentional or not did not matter to the latter, he was grateful all the same.
XXVI
The van entered ANU’s grounds around eight that evening, which was approximately as the agenda predicted. Sarah was kind enough to drive through Daley Road, returning each student to his or her respective abode. “Thank you Sarah,” Balzac said politely, descending in front of Helena Hall. “No problems,” she replied, turning to face him from the driver’s seat, a serious smile on her lips. “See you later,” said Perry. “Yeah, live long and prosper,” Maxine joined in, to the amusement of the rest in the van. Bouchard rolled his eyes and waved them a dismissive goodbye.
As the van drove away on an empty Daley Road, Balzac reflected: “Astronomers are a curious species of scientists. Nocturnal creatures, solitary habits, hiking fashion, and their favorite food is apple crumble.”
On the steps leading into the building he hesitated for another moment, cold though it was, and glanced up at the heavens to see—
“Meh,” was his appraisal of the city’s night sky; “Just a sneeze of stars.”
When his usual bedtime hour approached, Bouchard did not feel the least bit sleepy; perhaps having something to do with the two late nights in a row he had just been put through. And so in spite of it going against routine, he did not slip into bed when the clock struck ten; instead installed himself at the table and turned on his laptop. “I might as well do it while it’s still fresh in my mind,” Balzac reckoned, logging into his Gmail account, from where he began to draft the promised email for his grandfather in Perth; a task he approached with the enthusiasm of a vicomtesse writing an epistle to her Parisian friend, the lady marquise, during a sojourn in Saint Petersburg.
“Dear Grandpapa,
I have returned from astro camp, and as was pledged in my previous communication, its history shall now be related to in this letter. But before beginning the narration so long awaited for, I am inclined to provide a warning. It is this:
The letter is pregnant with similes and lofty words. High English with a dash of paprika. It cannot be helped. For its author is as addicted to verbosity as the lavish Assyrian King, Sardanapalus, was dependent on his stimulants.
That said—
It all began a few months back, when our pizzazzy and effervescent physics professor Nikolai Romanova ended his vector topology lecture on a cliffhanger...”
About the Author
“Boripat’s continuing passion is to explore strange industries, to acquire new knowledge and ask many questions, to boldly learn something he did not know before.”
Thus, Boripat studied theoretical physics, wrote about fashion, and took an internship at an online marketing company. Currently, he edits papers intended for peer-reviewed journals, conducts research in social science, and manages a creative nonfiction blog.
Boripat’s interests are varied, but his greatest joy comes from attempting the difficult.
To contact him, email: [email protected]
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