Annabelle Thong

by Imran Hashim

  1.15pm

  Don’t ask me how it happened, but I am now carrying a bag with two pairs of boots in it: the brown ones from Chloé, and a low-cut black pair from Colisee de Sacha. I love the way those syllables slush luxuriously in my mouth. No wonder they’re so expensive.

  Okay, better make my way to the fashion department for some warm clothes.

  1.45pm

  I’ve got another bag now. This time with a pair of red ballerina flats.

  Actually, when I said I was on auto-pilot, I lied. It’s more like being possessed by the Shoe Demon. It always takes over when I get to within 50 metres of a shoe store. Any shoe store. It could be selling flip-flops made of string and sheep placenta and I’d still walk out with a bag.

  I add up the two receipts I have so far. Oh God, that’s €425 on shoes. I don’t even want to know what that is in Singapore dollars.

  Okay, I need to take charge. I need warm clothes, warm clothes, warm clothes…

  2.25pm

  Scarves count as warm clothing, don’t they? I’ve just got myself two—a really fine pink and red cashmere number from agnès b., which is a bit of a splurge, but the second one came from the 40 per cent discount bin, so that should be the same as buying two normal priced scarves, shouldn’t it?

  Look at the time! Better make my way to Printemps now if I want to squeeze in a trip to Collette as well.

  5.40pm

  I don’t want to talk about it. I do not want to talk about my purchases at Printemps. I just want to focus on what’s really important right now, and that is getting some sensible warm clothes to cover something other than my neck.

  I know, I’ll just go to Colette now. It’s a small “concept store” with only three floors, so it shouldn’t be too hard to zoom in on what I need. In fact, that’s the problem with big department stores like Galeries and Printemps, isn’t it? They’re so huge you can never find what you’re looking for!

  6.40pm, Colette

  Oh God. I’ve been rooting around for the last 40 minutes and I still haven’t found an item of clothing below €100 that’s not the size of a handkerchief. But I have to get something warm! I must! And all the shops are closing soon.

  I pick up the cheapest sweater I can find, a grey designer V-neck and head for the cashier.

  “That will be €260. Will you be paying by cash or card?”

  I stare at the girl behind the counter as she smiles expectantly. In a moment of blinding epiphany, I realise that that’s a whole lot of money to pay for a plain grey sweater, especially for someone who lives in the 18th arrondissement. What was I thinking?

  “I’m sorry, I just realised that I’ve already got something similar at home,” I say as I start to gather my shopping bags hurriedly.

  “Well, what a lucky girl you are,” she says cheerfully.

  I’m sure she knows, but is too kind to let on. God, Colette is so classy.

  Yesterday I received a big package in the mail, which was quite exciting in itself, but I got even more excited to find out that it was from the phone company (supposedly the best in the land) and contained the gadgets that would magically connect me to the Internet.

  In a fit of hubris, I read the instruction booklet from cover to cover like a good girl, thinking that if I did everything I was supposed to in the order instructed, I would be rewarded with the promised results. Imagine my excitement when the Internet box lit up at the press of the power button! But just as I thought I was home free, one by one the green lights started to flash amber, and then red, blinking faster and faster as if shooting laser beams to my heart and then… nothing. I nearly died.

  I slept on it, and this morning, I’m in a much more philosophical mood. As I sip my coffee, I make it a point to not glare at the offending white box, and tell myself there’s no point ranting and raving. I take a deep breath. These things are written in the stars. I’ll just have to go down to the phone company “boutique” and get this fixed. Simple.

  This isn’t my first encounter with my so-called “service provider”, so when I reach the shop, I know better than to queue up to be served by actual flesh and blood people; the four service staff are there only to sell phone and Internet subscriptions. For after-sales service, customers must queue for the phone to speak to a customer service officer. Yes, not phones but phone. After a half hour of waiting, I finally reach the phone, but only because a few people before me have given up and left (yes, getting customer service here is a war of attrition).

  I pick up the receiver and call 5013 but am told to call 5014. I call 5014. After 10 minutes of elevator muzak, I finally get through and am told that indeed, there is a problem with the phone line, which will be fixed within 48 hours. I say okay, fine, and will my Internet be functioning too? The woman tells me that for Internet related enquiries, I have to call 5900 even though it’s all the same company. I dial 5900, only to hear the same music. A long queue has formed behind me. I finally get on the line and a guy tells me that the order for the Internet subscription has not been made. Why not? I ask him. He says he can’t answer me because he’s just the technical guy. I would have to talk to customer service at 5014.

  “But I just called 5014 and they asked me to call you!” I say, twirling the phone cord in my hands and just about ready to strangle someone with it. An Arab guy behind me asks if I can let him have a go because he’s in a hurry. He ONLY needs to call 5014. I say okay.

  Twenty minutes later and the Arab guy is now on the line with 5013. I glower at him and all the sales staff to no avail, because they are busy avoiding eye contact. It is now 11.30am so I will have to miss Patrick Dudoigt’s class and am feeling really grouchy right now. I finally get the phone back, call 5014 and explain everything. Again.

  The lady at the end of the line says, “Yes indeed, the Internet subscription request was not made. I will make it now. I see that you currently have a student plan, but would you like to upgrade to our blah blah plan and pay €10 extra for blah blah blah…”

  “Sorry I didn’t catch that. Could you repeat what you said?” I say.

  This seems to upset her for she says, “What am I speaking, Japanese?”

  At first I am stunned, but something inside me snaps and I scream into the phone in front of all the potential clients and sales staff: “I have bloody been on the bloody phone for the last TWO HOURS, I’ve been bounced from one department to another, I’ve had to listen to your crap music and repeat my story 10 times and so the least you could do is show me some patience! MERDE!!!”

  Silence in the shop and on the other end of the line. Finally, a terse voice says, “So what would you like me to do for you, Madame?”

  “Just give me an Internet account, IS THAT SO HARD?!”

  “Okay, you should have your account set up by tomorrow. Thank you for your trust in us. Au revoir!”

  I guess here in France, sometimes you just need to rant and rave.

  Speaking of ranting, Mum called me earlier this week to vent about Dad.

  “What is it this time, Mum?” I asked half-heartedly. A lifetime of experience has taught Crystal and me not to take our parents’ fights seriously; eventually they will resolve their differences (i.e. Dad will give in) and let normality resume, partly to protect their sacred union but mainly to avoid losing face. Divorce may incur God’s wrath, but really, what would the Uncles and Aunties say?

  “Your Dad is being pig-headed as usual. I’ve been telling him it’s time for us to upgrade, move to a property in Bukit Timah, but he just won’t stand to reason. Did I tell you that Auntie June has moved? And Auntie Stella has just bought a house along Oxley Road. She came over yesterday and had the cheek to tell me that she’ll miss me since she’ll be living ‘so far away’. It’s only a 20-minute drive from here, the hypocrite!”

  “But Mum, she’s your best friend.”

  “Why can’t I be best friends with a hypocrite?” she said, totally missing the point. “Don’t be naïve, dear, or people will take advantage of you.�
�

  I didn’t want yet another discussion of my personal flaws, and expertly guided the conversation back on track.

  “Can we afford a property in Bukit Timah?” I asked, a touch sensationally.

  “Annabelle, if our neighbours can afford it, so can we,” she explained with her usual piercing logic. “What’s the point of being married to a partner in a law firm if he can’t provide the best for me and my children?”

  “I don’t need to live in Bukit Timah.”

  “Nobody asked you, dear. Anyway, I’m not talking to him until he comes to his senses, and that is my final word.”

  “Can I talk to Dad?” I asked.

  Mum’s tone of voice suddenly changed. “Of course…I’d really appreciate it if you could talk some reason into him. You know you’re the only one he listens to.”

  “Can I talk to him please?”

  “Hang on… Crystal! Crystal? Could you get your father on the phone? Your sister wants to talk to him!”

  A short while later, Dad was on the phone sounding a bit more sullen than usual.

  “Hi Dad, how are you holding up? I heard about the fight.”

  “I’ve had better days,” he said.

  “So you won’t consider selling the house?”

  “I’ve given your Mum everything she ever wanted from the day I said ‘I do’. But I love this house; we’ve been here since you were born and I’m not moving out.”

  “She’s giving you the cold shoulder?”

  “Her shoulder’s the least of it.” He gave a sad chuckle. “I’m sick and tired of her strong-arm tactics. She can do whatever she wants. I’m not changing my mind this time.”

  “Well, good luck,” I said.

  And knowing my mother, I really meant it.

  I lie on my sofa bed re-reading my lecture notes, but I can’t seem to absorb anything. School is turning out to be a real nightmare. Yesterday, I spent the whole evening bitching with Yannick and Gula about how I am absolutely terrorised by the classes. I could pee in my pants just thinking about them (the classes, not Yannick and Gula).

  Okay, maybe Gula.

  Anyway, the topics I’m tackling this year are very foreign to me; this semester I’m doing things like sociology of democracy, political philosophy and political theory. If I can’t handle abstract subjects in English, how am I ever going to manage in French? And it doesn’t help that most of the professors are incomprehensible. For example, today Rosenberg, the philosophy lecturer, pontificated on the Other and the Individual and the State, when the only thing that was ringing in my head was “What?” (yes, with a capital W). Come to think of it, make that “WHAT???”

  Yes, I think WHAT more precisely described my own philosophical state in class, as in WHAT was he talking about? WHAT was going on? WHAT was I doing there and WHAT would I be having for lunch?

  One thing I do know: WHAT all this means is that I’m going to have to work my butt off to make it through this course, which brings me to another important question: WHEN am I going to find time to look for a boyfriend?

  I glance at the big, old school alarm clock on the side table. It’s 6pm, so I had better get going. Thierry and I have arranged to meet up for our third conversation exchange session this evening. Honestly, I’m surprised we even bothered after our last session when he declared himself a Communist, causing me to snort a full-bodied Bordeaux up my nose.

  “Are you okay? Did I say something funny?” he’d said with a hint of a frown as I grabbed a napkin to tend to my faux nosebleed.

  “Nothing!” I spluttered. “Nothing funny at all. Wine…went down the wrong way.” I took a small sip to buy myself time and attempted to change the subject. “Mmm…it’s even tastier now my nostrils are soaked.”

  Anyway, tonight we’re having dinner in a nice-ish brasserie not too far from Place de la République and, as is often the case here in France, the conversation soon turns to the topic of politics.

  “You must be happy to live in Paris now. I hear Singapore is a very authoritarian country,” he says casually.

  “It’s not a very authoritarian country. Maybe it’s a bit authoritarian. But not very.” I hate how the French exaggerate things. They’re such drama queens.

  “But there is no freedom of the press, and the government is run by a single party. It’s almost like a dictatorship.”

  Now he’s dancing on the fringes of common courtesy. I hate people who criticise your country; it’s like telling you to your face that your Mum’s cooking sucks. It’s just not done. So I go on the offensive.

  “Well, that’s because we like it that way. We do vote, you know. And we’re smart enough to vote in a good, clean, efficient government that has pulled us out of poverty and given everyone broadband Internet access, which is more than I can say for this country. And what do you care anyway? I hate to point this out, but you’re the card-carrying communist,” I hissed. “Hello, North Korea?”

  Thierry looks grave. “The communist dictatorships have perverted the ideals of our revolution. They’re deformed workers’ states, not real communism. Here in France, we’re still trying to achieve a social revolution, but through democracy.”

  I don’t understand half of that, but I know that it’s power-packed with concepts and, being a political science student, I take it in my stride.

  “Democracy she-mocracy,” comes my astute reply. “These are just empty multisyllabic words. You’re in no position to speak for the working class. What do you know of their lot, you and your fancy engineering degree?”

  “But I am a member of the working class.”

  “Puh-leease, an engineer is hardly what I call working class,” I say, and rising to the occasion, hastily add, “In the post-industrial economic superstructure.” Ha! Take that!

  “Who says I’m an engineer? I’m a plumber.”

  “Do you even know what the word ‘plumber’ means?” I ask. “He’s the person who unclogs your pipes and toilets.”

  “That’s me.”

  “You’re joking,” I say, my jaws dropping.

  “I’m not joking,” he says with a laugh.

  I don’t quite understand why he’s looking so happy. If I had to be a plumber, I’d be very, very sad. Clearing other people’s shit is bad enough when it’s figurative, but to have to literally do it for a living… A shiver runs through me.

  “Are you cold?” Thierry asks, concerned.

  “No, I’m fine. I…erm…I think I need more wine.”

  I spend the rest of dinner trying to crack this nut(case), this elite graduate turned disaffected proletarian, this broad-chested engineer with Trotsky on his mind. I’m fascinated. It’s amazing how he has an opinion on everything, from religious fanatics (they’re overdosing on the opiate of the masses) to Radiohead’s last album (cuttingly beautiful). How different from the men in Singapore, who can only drone on about work, gadgets or, if they’re particularly macho, football.

  And the thing is, it’s not just Thierry—most of the French people I’ve met so far have shown themselves to be over-cultured (the alternative being that I am under-cultured, which is of course unthinkable). The French may not be the most rational people on earth, but they really are masters of the fine art of conversation.

  Chapter 3

  THANK GOD FOR the one-week Toussaint holidays. God knows I need a break from my overwhelming classes in order to work on my underwhelming love life. I think it is quite clear that unless I want to be known as Annabelle “Demi Moore” Thong, I will need to meet men from outside the confines of the Sorbonne, i.e. men of marriageable age. I think I’ll spend the afternoon trawling through dating websites and personal ads. Everybody’s doing it anyway. Even Meg Ryan did it. Meg Ryan! So who am I to resist the forces of technology?

  Ooh. Wonder what my Tom Hanks will look like. Not like Tom Hanks, I hope. Not that I’m shallow or anything. Okay, let’s see what’s out there…

  12.30pm

  I switch on my laptop and connect to the (now func
tioning) Internet. The first website features six photos of couples on their home page, four of which depict the scene of a marriage proposal. I’m guessing this is the website all the desperate girls sign up for, in which case I’ll pass—I can do without the competition. Another well-known website has a home page filled with rows of photos of random men and women. Scrutinising their faces, it makes me feel like I’ve been called upon to identify suspects in a police line-up. Officer, the second lady from the left, I’m a hundred per cent sure she’s guilty of a bad perm job.

  I move on to a few more websites until I stumble upon one whose homepage is designed entirely with cartoon drawings. How cute! And there’s not a single photo of happy people with cheesy expressions to be found. This is the site for me. Okay, how do I sign up?

  3.30pm

  I can’t take this. The pressure’s too much. How do I craft THE personal ad that will make me highly attractive to lonely men? I’m obviously out of my depth, so I grab my phone and call Gula. I explain the situation at hand, and seek help in the critical and urgent task of choosing three words that best describe me.

  “Why only three words?” Gula asks.

  “That’s the format of the stupid website. People browsing can only see a photo and three words for each personal profile. If it catches their attention, they’ll click on the profile to find out more. If it doesn’t, well, that’s it. It’s the end of the road. Game over. So I really need you to help me choose the three magic words,” I plead. “Any ideas?”

  “How about Asian, young and cheerful?” she ventures.

  “I think my picture would already show all that, especially since I don’t intend to put up a photo of me looking sad or old. How about something less obvious? What do you think of caring, honest and sincere? Do you think guys will go for that?”

  “Errr…maybe caring, honest and funny,” she counters.

  “What, you don’t think I’m sincere?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  Sometimes I really wish Gula would beat around the bush a bit more. “Okay, maybe you’re right, but who cares about accuracy? What will guys prefer?”