A Vomit of Diamonds Read Free

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 monologic
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.
    “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