A Vomit of Diamonds

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 establishment 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.