A Vomit of Diamonds Read Online Free PDF Page A

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