Annabelle Thong

by Imran Hashim

  Not good indeed.

  I blame it all on the fact that it’s been years since I’ve been on the wrong end of an exam, and so, have forgotten all the work-smart reflexes honed by our fine Singaporean education system. Therefore, to prevent future mishaps, I’ve decided to compile a list of Exams Do’s and Don’ts, and if feeling generous, will even share this with friends so they can learn from my mistakes.

  Belle’s Exams Do’s and Don’ts

  Rule No. 1: Do NOT eat week-old chicken and then down it with milk on the morning of your exam. In fact, just don’t eat week-old chicken.

  Rule No. 2: In the event that Rule No. 1 is disregarded, DO go to the toilet before your exam.

  Rule No. 3: Do NOT spend 66 per cent of your time on a question that is only worth 33 per cent of the marks. This is even if, like a good Singaporean, you had spotted the question correctly. EVEN IF you know all about Esping-Andersen’s typology of the different welfare-state regimes (liberal, conservative, clientelist, universalist) and how they each affect family, social stratification and the market. There really is no need to write eight pages worth of anything. It’s not worth it. Self-restraint is a virtue. Not to mention common sense.

  Rule No. 4: Do NOT spend more time PLANNING your essay than actually writing it. Because the marker will see your essay, not your plan, get it?

  Rule No. 5: Try to vary your sentence structure, even if you are writing in your third language. Starting every sentence with “Therefore...” can cause the marker to think that you don’t have a rich vocabulary. (Okay, so you don’t, but he doesn’t need to know that.)

  Rule No. 6: Do NOT speak to classmates who, despite their good intentions, further damage your self-esteem after a tragic paper. You know, the types who tell you, “Don’t worry about it! Even though it’s anonymous, when the prof reads the paper, they’ll know it’s you anyway (because of your awful French). I’m sure they’ll be lenient (and give you marks you don’t deserve).” (Words in brackets are not said, but understood.)

  Rule No. 7: DO resist the temptation to reply, “I hope you never volunteer with SOS help-lines (because you suck at this whole comforting people thing)”.

  Rule No. 8: Do NOT go on self-destruct mode if your exams are not over. At least wait until you finish all your papers, and then you can go mad. By this I mean:

  a) Do NOT go back and stare at the exam paper and think about the 99 different ways you could have answered the questions.

  b) Do NOT hide under your comforter for the rest of the day.

  c) Do NOT throw the alarm clock against the wall and sleep in when there is an afternoon paper you should be studying for.

  Voilà! Words of wisdom for generations to come.

  The short winter days are not helping my mental state at all. Need heat! Need sunlight! Coming from the equator, I’ve never realised just how much the different seasons can affect one’s mood, thoughts and will to live. Thank God we’ve got a one-week break before the start of the second semester. I think I’ll go back under the covers and hibernate like a bear, and I’m not just saying that because I haven’t shaved my legs in weeks.

  It’s Sunday afternoon, and I am pulled out of bed and back into life by the sound of the phone. I can’t help hoping that it’s Patrick following up on his promise to call once the exams are over, and have trouble dissimulating my disappointment when I hear Didi’s high trill instead.

  “Salut…” I sigh.

  “Listen chérie. I’m calling for an urgent conference at Frog’s. See you there in an hour.”

  “Why? What’s the matter?” I say.

  Silence. And then, “There’s something I want to tell all of you. A secret. My dirty little secret.” Sharp intake of breath, as if on cue. “I want to come clean, Belle. I want to be free.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? For God’s sake, stop being such a drama queen!”

  “Frog’s at four. Promise you’ll be there,” Didi says and hangs up.

  I arrive at The Frog & Rosbif at a quarter past four and find Didi, Yannick and Gula already assembled there.

  “So what’s the big emergency?” I ask once the waiter has left.

  “I’m breaking up with my old boyfriend,” Didi announces.

  “You mean with your current boyfriend,” I say.

  “Yes, with my current old boyfriend,” he says.

  Gula frowns and thumps the table crossly. “Simple French!”

  “I am breaking up with my boyfriend. My boyfriend is old. He is as old as…” He pauses, searching for the right simile. “As a sugar daddy.”

  Didi says he is dumping the older gentleman (Jean-Philippe) because he is secretly in love with Kevin, a staff member at Action Contre le Racisme. Kevin doesn’t know that he’s the object of Didi’s affections/desires/fantasies involving Nutella, but Didi wants a clean break from his past in order to pursue what he refers to as his “future”. Besides, he and Jean-Philippe are no longer sexually compatible, especially since the day JP sprained his back blowing out the candles on his 61st birthday cake.

  Yannick nervously jumps in to urge Didi not to distress himself further by dredging up the painful and graphic details of his breakup, and Didi thankfully accedes.

  “And now,” he says in his special-announcement-voice, “I must tell you my dirty little secret.”

  If not for Coldplay blaring in the background, you would have heard our eyes pop like champagne corks.

  “You mean 61-year-old sugar daddy not dirty enough?” Gula asks.

  “63—his 61st birthday was two years ago,” Didi corrects her. “And no. The secret is…” He looks down at his drink as we stare at him in suspense. “I lied to you. I don’t come from a rich family like you guys. My father doesn’t supply silk to Hermès. He sells vegetables in Marseilles.”

  Didi swings his head sharply to the left, facing the wall, and I almost expect him to say, “I vant to be alone” but to his credit, he is nothing if not original. “I was ashamed. All my life, I wished he sold something more glamorous.”

  “Like what? Fruits?!” Gula says. Nobody does tough love like Gula.

  “I guess what I’m really saying is, I can’t afford to live the high-life any more now that it’s over with JP.” He pauses. “I’ll be poor.” And without warning, a flash of real sentiment peeks through the curtains of Didi’s drama. “Will you still be my friends?”

  Naturally, all of us rally round, assuring Didi that we love him for who he is, not what he has, and there’s even an awkward attempt at a group hug over the table that eventually has to be abandoned.

  Once we settle down again, Didi wipes away a non-existent tear. “Oh my God, I’m so glad I got that off my chest!” he says, and looks around expectantly. “So, who’s paying for my Pussyfoot?”

  “Listen guys, I have a confession of my own…” I suddenly blurt out.

  “Ooh…another confession. This is turning out to be fun! Is it something really dark and serious that’s eating you up inside?” Didi asks enthusiastically.

  I purse my lips and nod my head silently.

  “Let me guess,” Didi says. “You were late for an essay submission, so you called in sick, and now you can’t sleep at night because you’ve never done anything so naughty?”

  “No!” I say, smacking him in the shoulder.

  “It is something serious, yes?” Gula says. “I know. You used to be a man.”

  “What the hell?!”

  “These things happen. Especially in Thailand. I watch documentary.”

  “But she’s from Singapore,” Yannick interjects. “That said, did you know that Singapore was the first country in Asia to start performing sex reassignment surgery? The first one took place in…”

  “Really, Yannick? Is this really the best time for one of your ‘fun factoids’?” I ask disbelievingly. “What I was going to say, until I was so rudely interrupted, was that Monsieur Dudoigt asked me out on a date!”

  “What?!” Yannick and Gula say in unison.r />
  “I told you, chérie, I told you! Dramaaa! Mon Dieu, this is so exciting. So when is it?”

  “I don’t know. He asked me on the phone a couple of weeks ago, and I wasn’t sure and he said to think about it and that he would call after the exams. He hasn’t called yet. But if he does, I…I don’t know what to do.”

  “What do you mean you don’t know what to do? He’s the most eligible bachelor on the faculty, chérie, and he asked you out. Do you know how many girls would die to be in your shoes? Hello? Wake up and smell the rubber!”

  “I think it’s weird,” Yannick says, shaking his head and adjusting his spectacles simultaneously.

  “I know, right?” I say, looking at Yannick. “I mean it’s not terribly ethical, is it? But on the other hand, what if…what if he has feelings for me?”

  “That depends on which part of his anatomy is doing the feeling. Did you know that research has shown that French men think about sex, on average, every 14 minutes? This team from the Université de Provence did a study with 600…” Yannick can’t finish his sentence because Gula has his pale forearm in an iron-fisted squeeze.

  “How you feel, Belle? You have feeling for him?” she asks.

  “I do. I mean, how could I not? He’s handsome, smart, kind; he’s even French! His people make Louis Vuitton for crying out loud—do you know what kind of cachet that carries for Asian folks?” I pause to catch my breath. “But at the same time, I know it’s wrong to date your teacher. I mean, I was a teacher myself. I would never date my students.”

  “Weren’t they still in high school?” Didi says.

  “My point is,” I say, glaring at him, “I was trying really hard to get over my feelings, but now I know he’s interested too, it’s becoming impossible to suppress them.”

  “So what are you going to do?” Didi asks.

  “Don’t do anything,” Gula replies on my behalf. “Don’t think about it any more. He doesn’t call yet, so forget about it for now. But when he call, then you listen to your heart and you decide.”

  Listen to your heart. Isn’t that a song from Pretty Woman? Well, if it’s good enough for Julia Roberts, it’s good enough for me.

  Chinese New Year is this coming Friday! It will be the first time ever that I’ll be missing Reunion Dinner, and I’m a bit sad to be so far away from the family. On the bright side, I’ll finally be spared the wrath of elders who feel no compunction about showing their indignation at having to give ang paos to a 28-year-old-maid.

  Maybe I should invite my friends over for a traditional Chinese New Year lunch. That way, I won’t have to spend the day alone, and can even teach friends about Chinese culture! I bet they’ll be keen to learn more about Chinese traditions—after all, it seems that all things Asian are considered very exotic. And besides, it would be good to train them in the ways of the next global superpower (meaning China, not Singapore). Note to self: I’ll need to properly research Chinese New Year customs on the Internet or risk looking like a fool next to know-it-all Yannick.

  Oh, and Thursday is Valentine’s Day. Not that I care, actually. Even as a precocious, cherubic teenager, I’ve always understood that Valentine’s Day is just one huge commercial ploy to con feeble-minded plebeians into spending ridiculous amounts of money on flowers, candy, cards and improbable heart-shaped objects. Thank God I’ve always been surrounded by sensible and pragmatic friends, who, like me, refuse to give in to the mania of mass consumerism that’s afflicting our culture.

  On Thursday morning, I pop downstairs to check the letter box and nearly have a seizure when I see what looks like a Valentine’s Day card. Oh my God! What a surprise! Who could it be from? Without waiting to go back up to the apartment, I tear the envelope open with trembling hands and take out the card.

  It is a tasteful, red heart-shaped card (how romantic!) and it says:

  Dear Belle,

  I hope your exams went well. Now that they’re over, will you go out for a movie with me?

  Missing your gorgeous smile, and hoping to see it again really soon.

  Happy Valentine’s Day.

  Bises,

  Patrick

  P.S.: No pressure, but it’s bad luck to turn a guy down on Valentine’s Day;)

  The words send my heart rate into overdrive. Patrick is “missing my gorgeous smile”! I cannot believe my eyes and read the card four more times. The fourth time, just to be sure, I close the card and slowly open it again to read it. And the words are still there! I’m not hallucinating! I still can’t believe it—this is the best Valentine’s Day ever!

  Back in the apartment, the phone rings and my feminine instinct tells me that it’s Patrick. I take a deep breath and pick up the phone.

  “Belle, I have some terrible news to tell you.”

  Sigh. It’s Mum.

  “Hi Mum, what’s it this time? Have Crystal and Ravi announced their engagement?” I say, rolling my eyes heavenwards.

  “No, but it’s something just as terrible.” I think I hear my mum sniffing and then, without warning, she starts to sob. “Your Dad is having an affair.”

  11.30am

  I’ve just gotten off the phone with Mum. I’m still a bit shaken, not just because of the news, but also because I don’t know how to handle her when she’s crying and vulnerable. I’ve never seen this side to her before. I’ve always thought that Mum was made of such stern stuff that only a global financial meltdown and crashing stock prices could move her to tears, but I guess I was wrong.

  She told me that she was going through the mail this morning when a pink envelope caught her eye. It was addressed to Dad, and because it was “cheap”, she could make out that it contained a Valentine’s Day card. As Mum was not the sender of this card (or any other card for that matter), she ripped open the envelope to discover a certain Meifen wishing her husband a Happy Valentine’s Day, adding that she was looking forward to their next meeting and that she had a “new massage oil” that her husband “must try”.

  I told her that we mustn’t jump to conclusions, that there was perhaps a good explanation. When pressed for what this good explanation could be, I said, “Maybe she’s just a very entrepreneurial masseuse.”

  “Don’t be so naïve! He’s keeping a China mistress! And after all I’ve done for him, the ungrateful, ungrateful man!” Mum then embarked on a litany of all the sacrifices she had made in her life for him, a long and indeed impressive list that made me suspect that she had been diligently compiling it in a notebook over decades of marriage for occasions like this one. I listened to her dutifully, as a filial daughter would, and finally asked her what she was going to do.

  She paused for a really long time, and eventually said, “I don’t know. I really don’t know.”

  12.30pm

  I can’t believe that Dad is having an affair. It can’t be true. He is my one pillar of sanity in this family. He wouldn’t do this to us.

  3.00pm

  I’ve just remembered that the Singaporean government is waging a campaign to improve the quality of service in the service sector. And once the government has decided to do something, there is no stopping them. Everybody knows that. And everybody knows that their latest pet project is for service personnel to exceed customer expectations and provide delightful service. So that’s what this masseuse is doing. She is trying to delight my father with her service.

  3.01pm.

  Hmm. I don’t think I like the sound of that.

  4.17pm

  Why is Dad going for massages by a woman called Meifen???

  4.18pm

  I wonder if Patrick likes massages? Mum says I’m pretty good at them… Oh my God, what is wrong with me??

  4.22pm

  I’ve just re-read Patrick’s card. Best Valentine’s Day ever!

  Today is Chinese New Year’s Eve. It’s now 7pm in Singapore, so the family is probably already at Grandma’s for the reunion dinner. God, I hope everything is going to be okay over there—Mum sounded really strange when we hung up ye
sterday, and I don’t know if she’s going to confront Dad about his alleged affair. I haven’t heard from Crystal about the situation either. Does she know? Did Mum tell her, or is she still pulling a black face because of Ravi? (Oops, I really must watch out for these politically incorrect idiomatic expressions.) What if Mum has confronted Dad? Why is nobody keeping me in the loop?

  Oh God. This is not helping. I will need to distract myself or I will go mad with anxiety. All this time spent worrying will be more productively spent preparing for tomorrow’s Chinese New Year chicken rice extravaganza for my friends. It is the first Chinese New Year celebration that they will experience, so I must ensure that they have a good time or else I will be giving one fifth of humanity a bad rap.

  Hmm. I haven’t thought of it that way before and am suddenly feeling very pressurised. What have I set myself up for?

  I’ll also need to rush off to the laundromat to wash the sofa bed cover, put up postcards to fill the empty space left by my dead orchid, scrub the toilet, wash the windows, and rearrange furniture so that guests can all eat sitting down, albeit on the floor due to lack of chairs; New Year lunch will be like a huge indoor picnic. Come to think of it, I’m not allowed to sweep the floor on New Year Day because it’ll bring me bad luck. So I’ll have to choose between hygiene for guests versus good luck for me—why does life always present you with such stark, difficult choices?

  11.00pm

  I’m still cleaning the apartment and mopping the floor (before the clock strikes midnight).

  2.00am

  The blender is making an awful lot of noise. I’m starting to worry that any time now policemen will come knocking on my door to make sure I’m not running an illegal catering business. My frustration is compounded by the fact that it’s so difficult to make chilli paste from dried chillies (they need to be blended for a very long time!). The neighbourhood is dead quiet, and the silence emphasises the racket I’m making—where are the African merry-makers when you need them?