by Imran Hashim
Ooh, my glass is empty again.
Is that Dudoigt I see looking ever-so-comely in a corner of the room? My, my, how delightful—I have to go over and say hi!
“Hello, Monsieur Dudoigt. What a surprise!” I say. “What are you doing here?”
“Trying to have as much fun as you,” he smiles. “How much have you had to drink, Annabelle?”
“For me to know…” I say, slowly touching my nose with my index finger, “…for you to find out.” I poke him in the chest, but miss my mark and stab his left armpit instead. “You must enjoy yourself, Monsieur Dudoigt. Just like me,” I say. I laugh loudly to prove my point.
Dudoigt started to laugh as well. “Is that your impersonation of a lamb?”
“It’s my impersonation of… Silence! Silence of the lambs…” I wink at him and cackle. I’m so witty! “Anyway, I have to go, it’s a Madonna song! Bye, gorgeous!” I love Madonna! “Woo hoo!”
I slowly open my eyes… Oh God, my head.
What time is it? I’m lying alone in Jochen’s bed. I close my eyes and try to recall what happened. After I talked to Dudoigt, things got a bit blurry. I vaguely remember dancing with Georges, talking to strangers, hissing at Ursula behind her back and taking deep breaths of fresh air on the small balcony before asking Jochen if I could rest in the bedroom as I was feeling woozy. He showed me the way, and we found Valley Girl already inside the darkened room, sitting on the bed with her head in her hands.
I lay on the bed, and Jochen left us there. Later, Valley Girl offered me something to eat. I refused, and the next thing I knew, Valley Girl was gagging horribly, clutching her throat with one hand and my arm with the other. My senses were slightly dulled, but I figured she was choking. Thank God I knew the Heimlich manoeuvre! I turned her around and put my arms around her, pressing and thrusting. Someone opened the door at that moment, but left before I could ask for help. To our relief (especially Valley Girl’s), whatever was stuck in her throat was dislodged and she started to breathe normally again. I had saved Valley Girl’s life! I felt very pleased with myself and lay back onto the bed. I must have fallen asleep then.
It takes me 10 more minutes before I can get out of bed. I come out of the room feeling very embarrassed, but when I see several limp bodies (amongst them Georges and Jochen) strewn across the living room floor and slumped over the furniture in the fashion of Dali’s melting clocks I feel somewhat reassured. At least I’m not the only one who was knocked out last night. I survey the debauchery around me, hesitate for a moment, and then leave the house on tiptoe.
I’m late for Philo lecture and I’m somewhat surprised that the gang didn’t save me a seat like they usually do. After the lecture, I catch their attention from across the amphitheatre but they pretend not to notice and make their way towards the exit.
I run after them in the hallway.
“Hey! Wait up!” I call out, annoyed. “What’s the matter with you guys?”
“What’s the matter with us, or with you?” Gula asks.
“With whoever. Seriously, what’s up?” I say.
“Well, as your friends, or rather, people who thought we were your friends, we think you should know that word is going round that you’re a carpet-muncher,” Didi says.
There he goes again with his Marseilles dialect. You can take a boy out of the provinces, but you can’t take the province out of him.
“What’s that? Like some sort of termite?” I ask.
Didi rolls his eyes at me expressively. “Carpet-muncher. Butch. Dyke. They’re saying you’re lesbian.”
I look at him like he’s stark raving mad. “They’re saying I’m lesbian?” I repeat incredulously. An image of someone who looks like me conjures itself in my mind, but with hairy armpits, and repairing motorbikes in a sports bra. I shudder. They all nod, and Didi has a big smile on his face. But the idea is far-fetched and ridiculous. They have to be joking or lying. I can’t think why anyone would say that about me.
“Who’s saying I’m a lesbian?”
“The people at the party. And everyone in class,” Gula says.
“It’s the party you didn’t tell us about,” Yannick adds unhelpfully.
“Everyone’s talking about how you retired to the bedroom to play Heidi the milkmaid with some American chick,” Didi says.
I have a flashback to Valley Girl and me in the bedroom, and her near-death experience.
OH MY GOD. Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod.
“No! It’s a misunderstanding. I can explain! She was choking on something and I gave her the Heimlich manoeuvre. I saved her life!”
“Is that how they do the Heimlich manoeuvre these days? By breast-squeezing? Hey Yannick, quick, enrol yourself for a class!” Didi sniggers.
“I was NOT squeezing her breasts! I was squeezing her… Did I? No! I didn’t. At least that’s not how I remember it… But that’s beside the point. Didn’t you tell them that I’m straight? I mean, I’m ‘Yummy Asian Tortoise’ for God’s sake!”
Didi speaks, seemingly for the three of them. “We believe you Belle, but since we weren’t at the party, we can’t refute what happened, can we? You’ll have to do that yourself. Anyway, we’re obviously not part of that group, so all this is really none of our business.”
I feel a pang of guilt. They’re obviously upset that I didn’t get them invited to the party.
“Okay, boys, we have to go do photocopy. See you later, Belle,” Gula says, and the three of them leave me standing there, petrified.
Oh God. How the hell did I get myself into this mess? How?? Just a few days ago, things were looking promising, and now it seems as if all that I’ve tried to build over the last two months is collapsing around me. My love life is a joke, my grades are even funnier, my only friends hate me and my new acquaintances think I’m a lesbian!
I’d be crying if I weren’t so preoccupied with the questions swirling in my head. Who started this vicious rumour? Has Patrick Dudoigt heard it, since he was at the party? And why, why on God’s plentiful earth, are lesbians eating carpets?
Chapter 4
THE LAST FEW days have been simply harrowing. The more I asked around about the rumours, the wilder the stories got. I pulled Sarah Bullock aside the other day to ask her if she had heard anything, and apparently, by the account given to her, “brath were flying” in Jochen’s bedroom that fateful night. I bet if there had been another person in the room with Valley Girl and me, we would have been accused of a full-scale Roman orgy (not that I know what a full-scale Roman orgy involves, but I’ll bet it’s pretty gross).
And yesterday, Urban the pierced, be-studded anarchist, who was also at the party, came up to me to pay his respects. “I dig the way your id rules. You’ve got balls, man,” he said, cupping his hands in front of him as if carrying what I presume to be my pair of bull-sized balls. He had meant it as a compliment, but I wasn’t quite in the right frame of mind to appreciate it. It’s bad enough people think I’m lesbian; I don’t think I can cope with suspicions of being a ladyboy as well.
That’s it. I’m going to write an email to the class to set the record straight (literally). The truth must come out!
Dear Friends,
I have been very alarmed in recent days to discover that there are rumours going round about the nature of my sexuality. People are saying that I am lesbian because someone purportedly saw me in a compromising position with another girl.
Please be informed that nothing can be further from the truth. Yes, my arms were wrapped around the said girl’s body. Yes, we were moving together rhythmically and rather vigorously. Yes, we might even have been grunting. However, contrary to appearances, this was not a display of lesbian lovemaking. Oh no, far from it! It was an act of pure humanity, a life-affirming gesture that had as little to do with the pleasures of the flesh as a lifeguard’s kiss of life. The truth is that I was doing the Heimlich manoeuvre to save that girl from choking to death.
Please be assured that I am not telling
you this in search of praise or recompense. Simply, I hope that this will clear the air about my own sexual preferences, which are decidedly heterosexual. In fact, those of you who do not know me very well but are very observant will immediately realise that it is impossible for me to be lesbian since I:
a) Don’t bind my breasts
b) Like wearing print dresses
c) Have well-moisturised skin
Please spread the word (i.e. the truth, not the rumour), and should you have any questions, please do not hesitate to ask me.
Yours sincerely,
Annabelle Thong
I won’t send this out just yet, as I need someone to proofread it, as well as help with hard-to-translate expressions like “bind my breasts” and “print dresses”. I wish I could ask Didi or Yannick, but they’re still angry with me. I must really try to make amends—I feel quite miserable and lonely without them.
The class is about to break for lunch but I can’t stomach the idea of eating another lunch all by myself, pariah-like, in an obscure corner of the cafeteria. This Cold War has got to end. So when M. Duprieux finally dismisses us with yet another French assignment, I throw my head back, suck in a deep breath and march up to Didi, Yannick and Gula to demand the normalisation of relations.
“Salut tout le monde! Going for lunch?” I ask.
Didi and Yannick give each other hesitant looks, but Gula speaks decisively.
“Maybe.” Clearly, she isn’t going to let me off easily.
“Look, I know you guys are upset that I didn’t tell you about the party. I should have. I’m sorry.”
There’s a moment’s silence as they consider my apology, and then Didi says, “Why didn’t you, though? It was as if you didn’t want us there.”
“No, it’s not that at all! Georges invited me at the very last minute, and I was having the most turbulent weekend, so I guess it slipped my mind,” I sigh.
“Right, you had a blind date!” Yannick says, remembering. “How did it go?”
“It was awful. I think it’s scared me off Internet dating for life. Come on, I’ll tell you all about it over lunch.” Sweet-natured Yannick responds positively but I sense that Gula and Didi need a bit more cajoling. “Look, I’ll make it up to you. I’ll…I’ll…” I pause, wracking my brains. “I know! I’ll organise a party at my place and you guys can be my co-organisers!”
It’s a stroke of pure genius—their faces light up immediately. All is now forgiven—Yannick wants to be the DJ, Gula wants to invite her Uzbek clan and Didi, diva that he is, proclaims himself the party commander-in-chief.
“We’ll need a theme, of course,” Didi says.
“Of course. Our party deserves nothing less.”
“Shall we discuss it over lunch?” he asks.
“I thought you’d never ask,” I say grinning, linking my arm with his as we walk towards the cafeteria.
Gula rushes through lunch to run an errand and Yannick offers to accompany her, leaving Didi and me to finish our dessert at a leisurely pace. I ask Didi about the email I’ve drafted to clear my name, but he thinks it’s a bad idea to send it out. He berates me for the email’s homophobic undertone and, besides, it’s just more fuel for the fire he says.
I immediately object to this casting of aspersions on my tolerance and open-mindedness. I am not homophobic. I’ve been thinking a lot about it over the last few days, and I’ve come to the conclusion that there’s nothing wrong with being gay or lesbian. I know the Church is against it, but I think if you’re not hurting yourself or anyone else, it’s not morally wrong. Maybe it’s morally dubious. But not wrong.
“You know what really upsets me? It’s that people are spreading rumours about me that are completely untrue. Total lies!”
“I don’t think that’s it, Belle. Admit it, you think it’s shameful to be gay. If people were spreading rumours about how you’re a Chinese princess by descent, would you be mounting such a ferocious campaign to deny it? I don’t think so.”
He’s right of course—I’ve always wanted to be a princess. Damn him.
“But unlike the princess rumour, the lesbian rumour is affecting me in a very negative way,” I rationalise. “How am I supposed to find a boyfriend if potential candidates think I’m not available?”
“Oh?” Didi raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t know you were targeting someone from school.”
What?! What in the world made him think that?
“I’m not!” And who could I seriously have my sights on anyway? Patrick Dudoigt? Now that’s just crazy talk. Dudoigt is way out of my league, not to mention my supervisor. “I’m just saying—what if someone from school likes me, but doesn’t even try because he thinks I’m lesbian?”
“Let me tell you something, chérie. Lesbians are to straight men what straight men are to gay men—the ultimate fantasy conquest. Only difference is, we want the girl out of the picture, while the straight men—they just want to join in the fun.”
“I don’t care what straight men fantasise about! The last time I got involved in one of their sick fantasies I nearly ended up on a leash sniffing bulldog ass. I just want them to know the truth. Is that too much to ask?”
Dudoigt looks at me. I look at him. This is starting to feel uncomfortable.
Today’s meeting in his office is part of the periodic updates I have to give Dudoigt concerning progress made on my dissertation. I have none to report, except for a change in the working title—from “Singapore and ASEAN: Partners in Progress” to “Singapore and ASEAN: Partners for Progress”. I’ve milked this for all it was worth, but still ran out of things to say within the first 10 minutes of our discussion, pleasantries included. So now there’s an awful gaping silence that Dudoigt refuses to fill with fluff of his own. Instead, he’s quite happy to just stare and smile at me in the most disarming manner. As a result of this, my grey matter turns dark, and for a good minute, I try to pull something, anything, out of the black hole that has become my mind, but all I can come up with is, “Do you think I’m a lesbian?”
The words are just in my head, of course, but then I hear Dudoigt reply, “I don’t know, Annabelle. Aren’t you the best person to judge that?”
I blink. Hard. Oh God, what have I done?
“Erm…yes, yes, I am.”
“Yes you are...what? Lesbian?”
“NO! No, I’m not lesbian! What I meant was, yes, I’m the best person to judge. Whether I’m lesbian. Or not. And I’m not. Lesbian, that is. The reason I ask is because of, you know, the rumour.”
“What rumour?”
“The rumour that I’m lesbian!” I say crossly. How many times am I supposed to repeat the L-word? “You must have heard it.”
“No, I haven’t, actually.”
“But you were there that night, at Jochen and Caroline’s party.”
“I left quite early.”
“So you don’t know what I’m talking about?”
“No. Would you care to explain?”
I stare at him aghast. Horrified.
“So tell me more about this lesbian rumour. It sounds terribly exciting,” Dudoigt says, his eyes twinkling, betraying the laughter he’s visibly trying to suppress.
“I was doing the Heimlich manoeuvre, for the love of God!”
He gives me a questioning look but I decline to comment further on the matter, and mumble something about having to go (kill myself). As I stand up and gather my bag, he says, “I wouldn’t have believed it, by the way.”
“Believed what?”
“That you’re lesbian.”
He’s not laughing any more, and his blue, blue eyes are now looking straight into my brown, brown ones. He holds the gaze and I look away, flustered.
“Thank you,” I say, then hasten to add, “Not that there’s anything wrong with being a lesbian, of course! Well, I’d better get going…”
“As I recall from the party, you demonstrated yourself to be highly appreciative of good looks in the masculine gender. I guess, what
I’m trying to say in a roundabout way is, thank you for the compliment.”
“What compliment?”
“You don’t remember?” he replies with a teasing smile. “Well, it’s a bit embarrassing for me to repeat it, but you called me gorgeous.”
His words hit me with like a double-decker bus. Oh… My… God. My drunken farewell to Dudoigt at the party flashes into my mind. He knows. He knows I have a crush on him.
The adrenaline must have kicked in right then, because without missing another beat, I say, “Oh that! I remember now. I’m sorry Monsieur Dudoigt, but there’s been a misunderstanding. I wasn’t talking to you. I was talking to Georges. He was standing next to you. Remember?”
“Well yes, he was, but I distinctly recall that…” He trails off. Then he starts to tap the tip of his pen against his desktop. “So, you don’t find me attractive?”
“Goodness, no! Not at all!” I say, my voice an octave higher than usual. “With all due respect, Monsieur, you’re not really my type.”
He looks at me for a while, and finally stands up and shakes my hand, an unreadable expression on his face. “Well, I’m glad we cleared that up. See you in class, Annabelle.”
I close his office door behind me, stagger to the stairwell, and sink onto the steps in relief. That was a really close call.
God, what am I doing? Why am I getting myself into trouble like this? This is not like me.
Okay, I need to keep moving and clear my head. I think I’ll take a slow walk home.
Back in the protective comfort of chez moi, I drop my bag and sink into bed. That’s the last time I’m walking home from school in the middle of winter. It’s just too cold! That said, the walk did distract me from my thoughts, except when I was going through the St Germain market, where this woman was very enthusiastically and shamelessly asking everybody who walked by to “taste my melons”, which naturally triggered memories of the lesbo-fiasco. (Despite the questionable marketing tactics, I bought a melon anyway, and I must say it was delish.)