Annabelle Thong

by Imran Hashim

  3.00am

  I’ve finished up with the chillies and decided to go to bed so as not to disturb the neighbours further, even though there are still the onions and garlic to blend. I’ll set the alarm for 6am to have an early start.

  9.27am

  DON’T panic. Guests are only arriving at 1.30pm. I can do this.

  9.29am

  I start to make chilli sauce, stir-fried vegetables, cucumber salad and bubur cha-cha for dessert, all at the same time.

  10.30am

  My rice cooker is very small, so I’ll need to make the rice in two different batches.

  11.40am

  The bubur cha-cha is taking its own sweet time to cook. And I’ve only just added the sago balls into the mix for authenticity, but it means another hour and a half of stewing. What was I thinking? After all, it’s not as if these ang mohs would be able to tell the difference.

  1.00pm

  Only one pot of rice has been cooked. The chicken is still in yesterday’s shopping bag. I am desperately ironing the sofabed cover. I scan the studio—the place looks like it has been raided by street thugs from Clichy in search of expensive kitchenware. I am at my wits’ end.

  Freak freak freak! The doorbell just rang. This is not happening...

  1.05pm

  Fortunately, it’s just Yannick and Gula. In times of crisis, there is only one thing to do: delegate. I enlist them in the operation. I feel bad, but my friends have got to do what my friends have got to do.

  1.30pm

  Yannick and Gula are a godsend. Things are still a bit hairy, but a lot more manageable. The studio is looking presentable but the chicken is STILL in the bag. Suddenly I realise that I left the chicken overnight on the counter, instead of depositing it in the fridge. Gula takes it out of the bag and we all realise it smells kind of iffy. I have a mini heart attack—what is chicken rice without chicken? It’s just rice! The reputation of a billion Chinese people is now riding on one smelly, dead bird. I look at them wildly, on the verge of tears.

  Gula realises that I am no longer in possession of my mental faculties and takes over. She gives the chicken a thwack to show who’s in charge and tells me it will be okay. She sniffs the air one more time and orders me to take my shower. “One stinky chick enough,” she says, and proceeds to scrub the chicken with a vigour usually reserved for nuclear decontamination.

  2.00pm

  All the other guests have arrived—Didi, Thierry, Urban, Sarah, Georges (who remembered who I was this time), Irène and Henri, who are keen on discovering chicken rice ever since I told them it could be their next culinary bestseller. I can tell that they are very hungry because nobody is talking politics—their chatter is light and empty, just like their stomachs. I try my best to distract them with guazi, but it seems like dried melon seeds just won’t cut it.

  2.20pm

  I have prepared a show-and-tell and start to explain to my guests the significance of mandarin oranges—how they symbolise wealth and good fortune in Chinese culture—but they are understandably more interested in its proven ability to ward off hunger and my cultural commentary falls on deaf ears as they wolf whole oranges down.

  2.30pm

  The chicken is finally ready! I serve the long awaited chicken rice and people start digging in. I nearly collapse with relief, not to mention hunger.

  3.00 p.m

  All is well, the blood has now returned to everyone’s faces and the ang mohs are having fun eating the rice on their plates with chopsticks. They insist this is more “authentic” and refuse to believe me when I tell them that the correct way to eat chicken rice is with a fork and spoon.

  7.15pm

  The last of the guests have just left and I feel a sudden wave of exhaustion and pride now that it’s all over. After two days of labour and a near nervous breakdown, I practically gave birth to that pot of chicken rice. Okay, so I needed some help in the delivery process, but don’t we all, in the larger scheme of things?

  Yes, all things considered, I am quite the hostess. There was more than enough food for everyone, the drinks were flowing and we were pretty boisterous the whole afternoon.

  Well, maybe not the whole afternoon. There was that awful silence that smothered the apartment after the little faux pas I made. But really, is it my fault that French politics is so unnaturally skewed to the left that it makes anything I say sound like a quote from Mussolini?

  It all began harmlessly enough when Irène asked me where I went to get my dried chillies. I told her that I swore by Tang Frères in the quartier chinois.

  “Hey, we can go tomorrow!” Yannick said, as he carefully balanced five grains of rice on his chopsticks and transported them towards his mouth like a forklift. “There’s going to be a New Year’s Day parade in the afternoon. I hear there’ll be firecrackers, lion-dancing and loads of Asian g…” He caught Gula’s falcon eyes. “Gangsters. Asian gangsters. Scary,” he said, though I wasn’t quite sure if he was referring to the mafia or Gula. “Oh, and there’ll be a sans-papier demonstration afterwards.”

  Sans-papier (which literally means “without papers”) is the fancy name that the French have bestowed upon their illegal immigrants, in much the same way that the homeless here are “without fixed address” (sans domicile fixe) and the French revolutionaries of 1789 were “without pants” (sans-culottes). I thought at first that this was to render those on the fringes of society less threatening, but obviously, the idea of armed, angry, revolutionaries rampaging the streets without their pants flies in the face of this.

  Anyway, Urban got fired up with the idea of going for the demonstration, and if anything, this should have set off the “crazy-French-politics” alarm bell in my head. But I hadn’t slept the whole night, my defences were down, my chicken rice was a success and I was on a high. So when he asked me whether I’d go with him, I said, “Of course, of course I’ll go with you! I mean, in Singapore, we’ve got the same problem. I don’t mind the legal immigrants, mind you. But the illegal immigrants? God knows what they’re up to! I totally agree with the French government that they should be sent back home. You know, in Singapore, we put them in jail first and then send them back.” I brought both hands to my chest to show there was a heart within. “I know it’s a bit harsh, but these people should have thought twice before breaking the law, shouldn’t they?”

  The chorus of approval never came and in its place was a stiff silence. I looked around and everyone had this look of horror frozen on their faces, like the frame in a film right after a nail-bomb explodes.

  “What?” I asked, suddenly feeling much less self-assured.

  “Belle, the demonstration is in support of the sans papiers,” Yannick said, making it sound as if it was obvious, a universal truth right up there with “thou shalt not steal” and “thou shalt not mix purple and orange.”

  I glanced round the room. It looked like whatever goodwill I had generated from the lunch had been wiped out by a single politically incorrect sentiment. I knew I needed to restore confidence fast, so I said, “More chicken, anyone?”

  Ugh. I really should have known better. I enjoy talking politics and debating social issues, but I’ve discovered that unless I want to be sent to a colony for social lepers, I better keep some of my made-in-Singapore opinions to myself. Freedom of expression may be sacred here, yet I can’t help but feel that if you transgress the limits of what the French deem ideologically acceptable, the only person you’ll be expressing your opinions to will be yourself. Or the likes of Jean-Marie Le Pen or some old lady in Alsace who lives in a forest and breeds Rottweilers. The alternative to self-censorship is social exclusion, which may be less draconian than imprisonment, but the net effect is pretty much the same.

  And this ideological dissonance with my peers isn’t just restricted to the question of immigration; it extends to things like strikes (hate them), free trade (good for the economy) and globalisation (Starbucks rules!). Talking to people here, I’m sometimes made to feel like an extremist ri
ght-wing banshee. But surely that can’t be true. I mean, my best friend here is gay and Arab. Surely that must count for something?

  I’m standing in front of my mirror and spraying a cloud of hair spray above my head, noticing as I scrutinise my reflection that my hair has started to grow somewhat out of shape in the last couple of weeks. I’ll need to find a good hair salon to fix that soon. But for now, l just apply some styling wax to tame the wilful strands—no time to waste as I don’t want to be late for my movie date with Patrick.

  Yes, I’ve decided to accept his invitation. I’ve been resisting calling him the last couple of days, but as I lay in bed this morning, I could see the whole day stretched out in front of me and the choice was clear—I could spend it all by my lonesome self with nothing exciting to do, or I could seize the day and go for a movie with Patrick. I listened to my heart, and it said, “Go for the damned movie, you nincompoop! It’s just a date. Besides, it’s bad luck to reject a guy’s Valentine’s request—everyone knows that!”

  So here I am, smacking my lips to smoothen out my dark red lipstick, giving myself a final once-over before I head out. I put the lipstick cover back on and a mental picture of Patrick, dressed in a crisp white shirt and jeans, comes to me. He’s smiling, and I can’t help but smile back.

  We meet at Forum Les Halles at four, and he asks me what I want to watch, which is really nerve-racking because everybody knows that you are what you watch. I’m so self-conscious that I refrain from the usual chick-flicks and we end up watching a documentary about penguins instead. I’m not sure exactly what that says about me, but Patrick seems quite happy with the choice. The movie itself is a tad boring except for a scene where a baby penguin is being attacked by a much older one. The score rises up to a murderous crescendo and I cover my eyes—I hate senseless violence in movies! Patrick puts an arm around me and pulls me in, which feels really comforting, but when the moment passes, I pull away.

  After the movie, we go for a quick drink at the Père Tranquille.

  “So how did you like the movie?” he asks.

  “I liked it! It was, erm…educational. And the penguins were really cute, well, most of the time anyway.”

  “Yes, they scared you a bit, at one point, non?”

  “I wasn’t scared… Okay, I was, a little. Oh God, that’s so embarrassing. I’m so sorry…”

  “No, don’t be. I think it’s cute that you get frightened by clumsy, flightless birds half your size,” he laughs.

  We sit there for over an hour, chatting easily and getting to know each other better, but Patrick is careful to avoid the topic of work/school, and I dutifully follow his lead. When we have finished our beers, we put on our coats and step out into the freezing winter night. As we are parting ways, I lean in to offer my cheek for a bise but he gives me a quick peck on the lips instead, leaving me scandalised and delighted all at the same time.

  “See you soon, gorgeous,” he says, a wicked smile playing on his lips.

  “See you,” I say, and turn towards Forum Les Halles with unsteady steps.

  I get onto the downward escalator, and hold on tight. Oh my God. I bite my lower lip and run my tongue over where his lips touched mine just moments ago. Can I taste his lips still, or is it my imagination?

  And where do I go from here? On the one hand, it’s now obvious that we are irresistibly and magnetically drawn to each other. I mean, he is gorgeous, and I am an exotic Asian beauty. On the other hand, common sense does tell me that there are ethical issues to deal with. So why can’t Patrick see that as well?

  This morning, I receive an email from Crystal:

  Hi Belle,

  Sorry for not writing earlier, it’s been a trying weekend—Chinese New Year and Indian boyfriend don’t seem to mix very well. Nobody was supposed to know about Ravi, but Grandma started to complain about her back during reunion dinner. One thing led to another, and before I knew it, I had become the pariah of the family. Typical—Dad’s having the affair, Uncle Harry’s farting all over dinner, but I’m the pariah.

  The dinner started as it always has—Grandma scolding the maid for laying out the wrong crockery, the parents settling the kids down, the mad scramble to avoid sitting next to Uncle Harry and his loose poison gas—you know the drill. Everything was fine until Grandma started to complain about her back. She asked if we knew of a good place to get a massage. Mum, who had been relatively quiet the whole evening started to shout accusingly, “Massage? Massage? You also want a massage?” as if Grandma had asked for a lap dance. This startled everyone at the table. Maybe some of them had been harbouring secret thoughts of massages themselves.

  She said, “Why don’t you ask your son? He’s an expert at getting massages! Huh, Peter? Why don’t you ask your girlfriend Meifen, huh? I’m sure she’ll make Mother feel really good!”

  Mum had told me she suspected Dad of having an affair, but she hadn’t wanted to go into the details. Reunion dinner was not the best time, so I tried to say something to calm her down, but she then turned on me. She said, “Embarrassing? Who’s embarrassing who? Who is the one with the Indian boyfriend? You think people don’t know? You think people won’t find out?” and started to cry into her shark fin soup. And you know how she loves shark fin soup.

  Well, no thanks to Mum, now everyone knew for sure. There was silence around the table except for Mum’s sobbing and one gassy outburst from Uncle Harry. Then finally, Grandma slammed her chopsticks on her table and said, “Crystal, is it true? You really have an Indian boyfriend?” She had that expression on her face. You know, the one where her face is frozen except for the twitching eyebrow.

  When they asked me about Ravi, they sounded hostile or sad or both, like I was some sort of psychopath they wanted to figure out. Tim asked me what I liked about “this Indian guy”, as if I had a penchant for five-year-olds.

  So I said, “He happens to be the youngest junior partner at Drew and Napier.”

  And he said, “Okay... But he’s Indian.”

  So to give some sort of perspective to the whole thing, I said, “Okay. But you’re a clown. What’s your point, Tim?” That effectively shut him up.

  Mum then ran upstairs into Aunty Susan’s room, I followed suit, and downstairs it was pandemonium. Everybody was talking, sighing and clucking their tongues loudly at the same time, but I managed to hear Dad swearing his innocence on both our heads.

  Dad still stands by the story that that woman is really a masseuse, and that they are “just friends”, but I think I smell a rat.

  What do you think?

  Crystal

  Mouth still gaping, I instantly hit “Reply” and write:

  Dearest Crystal,

  Just read your email this second and… OH MY GOD. So drama! You poor thing!!

  But really, what in the world possessed Mum to do a thing like that?? During reunion dinner? Oh my God, I can’t get over it. I’ve never thought of Mum as an emotional person, have you? A bit twisted maybe, but emotional?

  About Dad and the other woman—I still haven’t had the chance to talk to Dad since this whole affair (if we may call it that) exploded, what with the damned time difference and all. But from what I’ve heard so far, I’m inclined to believe him. I mean, this is Dad we’re talking about here. He is one of the sweetest, kindest men we know—anyone who has put up with Mum this long is practically a saint. I know they’ve been fighting a lot more recently, but I just can’t see him betraying us like that, can you? Anyway, I’ll try to catch him on the phone soon—will tell you how that goes.

  As for Ravi, am so sorry to hear that the family is giving you grief. Wish I could be there to give support. You know, it’s one thing for the older generation to be racist, but for people like Tim… I just don’t get it.

  Some quick news on my side… The new semester has just started, so I’m still taking things a little slow. At the moment, I’m just concentrating on restoring some semblance of order in my life: I’m doing up a new timetable, packing up notes from
last semester, doing the laundry, trying not to accumulate dirty dishes etc. This semester I’ll be doing French (compulsory), Politics of Southeast Asia (because it’s easy), History of International Relations (I really like the lecturer), and Introduction to Social Science Methodology (don’t know what the hell it’s about, but it gives me a three-day week!). Oh, and of course I have my thesis to complete, which is worth three modules (urgh).

  I am also truly and thoroughly sick of my first winter. The weather is quite cold at the moment. This is not unbearable in itself, but what pisses me off is that it keeps snowing but the snow never ever stays, and melts the moment it touches the ground. I blame it all on Bush for refusing to sign the Kyoto protocol. I hope the fact that the world will never again see Paris under a blanket of snow weighs heavily on his mind at night.

  Okay, gotta run now. Need to grab a quick bite before my Methodology Tutorial. Good luck to you and Ravi—love must triumph!

  Hugs,

  Belle

  I’ve gotten out of bed early to get a head start on all the grooming work that needs to be done so as not to leave the house looking like a gorilla. We have a lecture with Patrick today at 4pm, and I think his class will be the highlight of this semester. I mean, I love International Relations, and with Patrick teaching it… Sigh. Our date was just two days ago, but it already feels like an eternity and I have this unquenchable craving to see him and hear his voice again.

  10.15am

  “Introduction to Social Science Methodology” turns out to be a class where you’re supposed to learn how to use this new-fangled software (SPSS) that helps you manipulate data any way you want. I don’t even know how to use Excel properly (Yannick told me today you can use Excel to create charts with colours and fancy graphs, can this be true?), so good luck to me. Mme Delmare is explaining the use of chi in statistical analysis but she might as well be speaking Greek because I don’t understand a word of it. It doesn’t help that I can’t get Patrick off my mind.