Annabelle Thong

by Imran Hashim

  “Listen, if you have a problem with it…”

  “No! No, it’s not that. It’s just that…you’re the first gay person I know.”

  Now, it’s his turn to look at me agog. “You really didn’t get out much in Singapore, did you?”

  I guess I didn’t. I must seem like a provincial to Didi, but for me, he’s the exotic one, like those tribes in the lost corners of the deserts and oceans, with their bizarre rituals and customs that carry their own internal logic, but which are otherwise unfathomable to the outside world.

  “Does your family know?”

  “I told my parents when I was 19. They’re pious, so they practically put me under house arrest, confiscated my phone, chaperoned me everywhere… They even resorted to ‘magic,’” he says, scratching the inverted commas in the air. “They brought me to this illiterate marabout who said the problem was a girl whose love for me was unrequited. And as revenge, she cast a spell on me. The marabout gave us a magic antidote, this powder that my parents and I needed to take three times a day with warm milk. I didn’t take it, of course, which was just as well, because it turned out to be ground Viagra. On the plus side, my parents were pretty distracted for a while.”

  “Oh my God, that’s crazy! And how did you end up in Paris?”

  “I didn’t have sex for three months and I just couldn’t take it any more. So I ran away from home and came to Paris like so many gay guys before me.”

  “So do you have a boyfriend now?” I grab his hand excitedly. “Tell me you found the love of your life here.”

  “Yeah,” he murmurs, untangling himself from me to take a dainty sip of espresso. “Oh look! Look at that girl in the red sweater, over there,” he says, pointing urgently. My eyes follow the indicated direction.

  “Uh-huh. What about her? Is she famous?” I whisper in awe. “No.”

  “Do you know her?”

  “No.”

  “Should I know her?”

  “No,” he sighs, starting to look around again.

  “Then why am I looking at her?” I say crossly.

  “Because this is the Café Beaubourg, chérie. That’s what we do here. We people-watch,” he says leaning confidently back into his seat.

  “Yes, but I believe we were in the middle of a conversation. So… tell me about your boyfriend.”

  Didi’s body snaps back to attention like a rubber band. “Merde! Look at the time! I didn’t realise how late it was. I really have to go chérie,” he says jumping up and throwing his Hermes scarf around his neck with a flourish.

  “Where do you have to go? Wait, I’ll go with you.” I start to gather my bags, but he literally pushes me back into my seat.

  “No, you stay. Enjoy the Café Beaubourg, chérie. People-watch.” He gives me la bise (the French muah-muah thing) and flounces off before I can say another word. And he hasn’t even paid for his coffee. Gay people can be so strange.

  Didi’s right. I really should get out more. I’m in Paris, for God’s sake! If I wanted to spend every weekend shopping and watching movies, I might as well have stayed in Singapore. I’ve started to think again about how it would be nice to have more friends, so when I find myself queuing behind Georges “Party Animal” Chapon in the cafeteria the next day, I take it as an opportunity sent from Up Above.

  I take a moment to get into character (i.e. Exotic Asian Beauty) and then tap him on the shoulder.

  “Salut! I often see you at lectures, but I’ve never had the chance to say hi, so… hi!” Georges gives his trademark naughty-and-nice grin and says, “That’s very nice of you,” and the conversation sort of takes off from there. I’m surprised at how friendly he is, and before I know it, I’ve been invited to Jochen’s birthday party this coming Saturday.

  “Sure, I’d love to go! Great!” I say delightedly, then pause for a bit. “By the way, who’s Jochen?”

  “A friend of mine, German guy. The party’s at eight. I’ll send you a text with the details. Listen, I gotta go. Catch you later.” He gives me la bise and after paying for his sandwich, runs off like the social butterfly that he is. I pay for mine and then make my way to the courtyard in the opposite direction, feeling as light as air.

  Date on Friday. Party on Saturday. Fur coat for winter.

  My Parisian dream is about to unfold.

  I cross the threshold of my building, feeling warm and snug in my new black coat, and walk towards the Château Rouge Metro station. As I walk past Café Roger, I notice that the big painted name board over their door has come down, and workmen in overalls are taking measurements and hammering on walls. I guess they’ve closed down. I wonder what kind of business will take its place. Probably another café, though if I had any say at all in the matter I’d make it an Asian supermarket like Tang Frères, so I wouldn’t have to go all the way to Belleville for instant noodles.

  I tap my way into the Metro with my purple NaviGo card. I’m feeling nervous and excited about my date with Pierre, as if I’m sitting for my ‘A’ Levels all over again. The difference is there’s no ten-year series to help spot the questions and no model answers to memorise. I really want to make a good impression though, so God, please make this date truly memorable. Amen!

  We’re supposed to meet at 6.30pm at Place Carré, the busy intersection in Forum Les Halles where different Metro and train lines spill their load of commuters into the already heavy torrent of shoppers and cinema-goers. I arrive early, and keep a sniper’s eye out for him, which is exhausting because I keep imagining every brown-haired man in his thirties to be my date.

  But when Pierre walks up to me, I don’t recognise him. He does resemble his photo but the long scarlet cape he’s wearing really throws me off. And the cherry beret he’s sporting on his head. And the skin-tight black leather pants. And he’s accompanied by a bulldog with a wet mouth. He looks more like he’s going trick or treating than on a first date.

  “Bonsoir, Annabelle,” he says. His voice is deep and reverberates with an internal echo. He gives a smile that stretches his thin lips without parting them, tilting his head slightly. “Comment ça va?”

  I resist the impulse to gather my coat around my hips and run, or to simply deny being Annabelle (you got the wrong Asian lady, Monsieur). But that would be unfair, not to mention rude. Maybe there’s an explanation for the get-up and the chaperoning pet.

  “I’m fine, thanks! Nice to meet you! Did you just come from an event?”

  “No, I came from home. You don’t expect me to turn up for our dinner in office attire, do you?”

  I wish he had, actually, but all I say is, “Oh, you shouldn’t have gone through the trouble. Really.”

  “That’s all right. I also wanted to introduce you to my girl, Béatrice,” he says, motioning to the bulldog. “Béatrice, say bonsoir to Annabelle.” I’m not sure if Béatrice is supposed to bark me a greeting, but in any case, she just looks at me with doleful eyes and drools.

  Both of us stand there another good 15 seconds looking at Béatrice like she’s the Mona Freaking Lisa until Pierre finally says, “She’s very shy.”

  I nod understandingly. “And I’m very hungry. Where are we going for dinner?” I figure the faster we get out of public view, the better.

  “I know a good restaurant nearby. But before that, I need to get some shopping done. Follow me,” he says, like some butler in a gothic, haunted chateau and starts walking. We take an escalator back up to street level, and go into a home appliances shop, where Pierre grabs a box of champagne flutes. After paying, he asks me to hold the bag, which I take, thinking that he needs a hand free to do his laces or adjust his costume. But he doesn’t do anything of the sort, and just says, “Follow me,” so I end up carrying it for him, bewildered but not enough to protest. And since he walks very fast on those long legs, his red cape swishing around him, I find myself half-walking, half-jogging just to try and keep up, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

  We soon reach the restaurant, a cavernous space with mood lighting, an
d are directed towards a quiet corner. Before we sit down, I say, “Here’s your bag,” and try to pass it back to him, but he continues to seat himself and says, “You can put it down beside Béatrice,” who has settled herself at her master’s feet. Why couldn’t he put it down himself? His manner is very strange, but I hold my tongue.

  Now that the whole business of shopping and walking and settling down is over and done with, Pierre focuses his attention on me again. But after that cardio session he put me through, I am no longer in the mood for love; it is clear to me that there is no romantic future in it for us. So I switch to “friend-mode” and hope he gets the signals.

  “So what would you like to order, Annabelle?”

  “Definitely not lobster. I don’t know why, but I really don’t feel like lobster tonight,” I say.

  “That’s good because they don’t serve lobster here,” he says, studying the menu.

  “And you? What are you having?” I ask cheerfully. I don’t know why, but I’ve always associated being cheerful with platonic friendships. Angst and rip-your-heart-out despair, on the other hand, are the stuff of sexually charged relationships.

  “I think I’ll have the oysters to start with,” he says and he gives me another one of his thin-lipped, tightrope smiles.

  By now, he is positively giving me the creeps, and all through dinner I keep trying to steer the conversation towards safe, impersonal topics like work, politics and the stock market (are we heading towards a recession?), but he doesn’t seem to get it. If anything, he seems encouraged, if his small beady eyes are anything to go by. Then, as I am jabbering on about the Darfur crisis, he suddenly leans forward and grabs my arm, causing me to jump and choke on my ice-cream.

  “I can sense that you’re a little tense. Relax. Is this your first time meeting a man like me?”

  A man like him? By that, does he mean a weirdo in a cape? “Yes, it is, actually. You’re very unique,” I say.

  He raises his eyebrows in pleasure. “Ah, the first time is always special, yes?”

  My eyes double their size in alarm. “Look, Pierre…” I begin but he interrupts me.

  “This is for you. Think of it as an initiation gift.” He takes out an exquisitely wrapped package and lays it on the table.

  “Oh Pierre, you shouldn’t have,” I say, hesitating.

  “I insist. Open it now.”

  My hands tremble slightly, either from excitement or the shock he gave me earlier, I can’t tell. From the feel of it, the present could be a belt, which wouldn’t be such a bad gift, really. But it turns out to be a metal studded dog collar, big enough for a feisty Rottweiler.

  “Oh…” I say, somewhat crestfallen. “But I don’t have a dog.”

  “I know,” he says, and this time with an emphatic look in his eyes, “it’s for you.”

  Music goes off in my head—the sort that you hear in movies, just before the knife slices through the shower curtain or the green scaly hand punches through the floor to grab your leg.

  “What would I do with it?”

  “You will wear it. For me. That is the rule of the game.”

  Now I’m really confused. “What game? What are you talking about?”

  For the first time, a look of doubt crosses his eyes. “You don’t want to play? You don’t want to be my human dog?”

  “What the hell is a human dog?” I look around in panic. “Is this a prank? Am I on TV?!”

  “Ssshhh, you are not on TV.” He pauses. “I believe there has been a grave misunderstanding. I’m a Dog Master and I get sexually aroused when a girl pretends to be my dog. And I thought you wanted to play too.”

  “You want me to pretend to be Béatrice?” I look down at the ugly brown mutt, its head on the ground, looking like it’s dreaming of a thousand bone-shaped Valium biscuits. This is so wrong on so many levels. “That’s just insane. I’m sorry, but you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  “Why did you reply when I contacted you then? You knew I was a Dog Master.”

  “Excuse me, but I thought you were being figurative, not kinky! I mean, do I look like a tortoise to you?”

  Silence.

  But I think he gets my point.

  Pierre has a stony look on his face. “I must say I am disappointed. You are not who I thought you were. I should be more careful about the people I meet on the Internet.”

  I can’t believe my ears. “You should be more careful?!”

  He snatches the collar back from my hands. “You won’t be needing this then?”

  I shake my head. Besides, it’s not even my size.

  It’s a beautiful Saturday morning, and I can hear the sounds of street life from my window. I’m trying to distract myself, but last night’s catastrophic date keeps replaying itself in my mind. I can’t get over how bad my luck is. Or maybe it wasn’t luck. Maybe it was my profile. That’s it; I’m taking no chances. I’m taking that profile offline now.

  I need to focus on the positive stuff. I’ve got a birthday party to attend this evening! I wonder what the protocol for attending birthday parties of people you don’t know is like here. Should I get Jochen a card? But what do I write inside? Should I buy a real present? But I wouldn’t know what to buy and will surely end up getting him something he absolutely hates, as I inevitably do for everybody’s birthday (except for my Mum who is always happy to get her hands on birthday cash).

  I’m also starting to get a bit apprehensive because it’s my first Parisian party and I really don’t know what to expect. What if it turns out to be a huge make out session before anyone can even pop the champagne? I have this image in my head of couples forming like cancer cells, snogging and spreading all over the house, forcing those uninfected by naked lust out into the balcony to freeze their buns off till morning. What will I do then?

  Oh God, I hope I’ll fit in.

  When I arrive at eight o’clock sharp bearing a bottle of champagne (I felt the need to overcompensate for sort of gatecrashing), there are only three people there: Jochen, his French housemate Caroline and a guy from Wyoming.

  I introduce myself as Georges’ friend, and am greeted with a collective “Ahhh…” of approval.

  “Settle yourself down. Sorry, we’re still getting ready for the party. We weren’t expecting guests so early,” Caroline says as she takes the champagne to put in the refrigerator.

  “But I thought Georges said to come at eight. Did I get the time wrong?” I ask, feeling a bit bad.

  “Yes, we did say eight. But we thought people understood we were referring to Paris time,” she says with a smile.

  Ouch.

  Despite our little faux pas, our hosts are kind enough to supply Mr Wyoming and me with drinks, which Jochen constantly refills with the assiduity of a geisha. As more people arrive (it turns out that Paris time is two hours behind the rest of France), the chatter bubbles like a freshly popped Dom Perignon, with different conversations animating various corners of the living room and kitchen. I’m absolutely loving this party where everybody’s talking about everything, unlike parties back home where friends would cluster in antisocial groups, refusing to mingle and invariably ending up watching a DVD. And the best part about this party is that you could exit from a boring conversation and move on to a new one at any moment. It’s almost like channel surfing, but with your feet.

  At one point, I find myself talking to a Valley Girl, whose name I can’t remember. Upon learning that she’s from the States, I switch from French to English, which really impresses her.

  “Wow, you speak English real good,” she says, which is more than I can say for her English. “That’s like, sooo amazing!”

  I explain to her that English is Singapore’s primary language of instruction and administration, and that I speak it at home as well.

  “And the Chinese government is okay with that?” she asks.

  “Why wouldn’t they be okay with that?” I ask, creases forming around my eyebrows.

  “I mean, ’cause you guys
are part of China right?”

  “No, nononono… we’re not part of China. We’re an independent city-state in Southeast Asia. Sandwiched between Malaysia and Indonesia, to be precise. We’ve got our own flag, our own money, our own stamps, the works,” I say.

  Valley Girl’s eyes widen as she tucks her blonde bangs behind her ears. “Awesome! And you speak French too?”

  “Well, most Singaporeans don’t, but I picked it up at university back home,” I say modestly, even though I’m pretty impressed myself. “But I’m a bit stressed because I’ve got some essays coming up, and it’s just so difficult when French isn’t your mother tongue, you know?”

  “Oh, don’t worry ‘bout that. It’s just that you need to know how to write essays here, because the French have a certain style of writing? And you just need to get the hang of it. You know, like, they’re always writing their essays in three parts? I’m not used to that either, you know. It used to be like, I just write my opinions? But here, it’s like, so dry...”

  “What did you do back in the States?” I ask.

  “Biology and sociology.”

  “Interesting combination…”

  “I know. I’m like, really happy that I could do that? But here in France you can’t do different things. When I tell the French what I did back home, they’re like, ‘WHAT’S the connection?’ And I’m all, ‘There’s NONE’. And they like, just don’t get it? Here, people just do one thing and they’re like, supposed to know all about it? But I don’t like that. I like knowing different things, you know?”

  By midnight, the small apartment is packed to the gills and that’s when things really get rocking. The crowd is so damned glamorous and cosmopolitan; there are Germans, Americans, Colombians, Irish, Brits, Spanish, Italians, Canadians and God knows which other nationalities (I’m the sole proud representative from Singapore). And the Cubans! Oh my God, they’re a sight to behold when they dance the salsa. Their hips look like they have inbuilt vibrators; it’s freaky yet fascinating, to be classified under the section “genetically gifted”. And it’s not a homogenous Sorbonne crowd either, because Caroline has invited her own group of very hip friends, which includes teachers, journalists, the unemployed and jugglers. So fascinating.