by Imran Hashim
The next day, I arrive at Patrick’s office way too early for our appointment and hover around the photocopying machine in the corridor debating the pros and cons of barging in 25 minutes before the scheduled time. Just as I’m listing con number two in my head (it contravenes beautiful women’s secret number six), the door opens. I duck instinctively, fearing it’s Patrick. Fortunately, it’s just Ursula. Unfortunately though, she stops for a spot of photocopying and jumps like a Hindu firewalker when she sees me crouched behind the machine.
“Annabelle! You gave me a scare!” she gasps, clutching her ample breasts, presumably to prevent them from bouncing away in fright. “What are you doing down there?”
I think for a split second and then start manically opening and closing various flaps and trays on the side of the photocopier. “Oh, just checking to see if this thing is working,” I say brightly, as I look for imaginary jammed paper and poke my fingers into mysterious electrical sockets.
The Ice Queen must be having an off day—she’s looking unusually ruffled, with her hair down and her manner edgy. “Are you okay?” I ask, slightly concerned.
“Yes…” she says, still breathing heavily. “It’s just that I saw The Ring last night and when I saw your head poking out…”
Well, that serves me right for trying to be nice. “Yes, we Asian ghouls do tend to look alike,” I say, trying to sound sarcastic, but I push my hair away from my face anyway, just in case.
Ursula gives a brittle laugh. “Oh no, I didn’t mean it that way…” She trails off, and then just stands there staring at me.
I stare defiantly back, thinking she’s being rude, until she finally breaks the silence and says, “So does it work?”
“Does what work?”
“The photocopier.”
“Oh. No, it doesn’t.”
“Nothing ever works in this place. Well, à toute à l’heure!” she huffs and hurries off.
The little encounter makes me want to go check on my hair and make-up, just to be sure I’m not looking like Sadako’s Chinese cousin or something, but the beautiful woman in me tells me this is no time for self-doubt. I’m on the cusp of my rendezvous with destiny.
I stride up to Patrick’s office door and give three raps in quick succession, nervous but happy at the prospect of dating the ultimate dreamboat. A longish pause—argh! Am I still too early?—and then Patrick’s voice beckons me in.
My heart does a triple somersault when I see him—seated behind his desk, he looks as gallically handsome as ever, in a baby-blue sweater with the sleeves pushed up to expose his forearms.
“Belle, come in. Please have a seat.”
I pull out the chair across from him, take my coat off and pat myself down before sitting.
“So…how have you been?” he asks.
“It depends. Would you like the polite answer or the honest one?” I say, keeping the tone light.
Patrick laughs and leans back into his chair. “I think I can handle the honest one.”
“Well, things have been really crappy lately. As you know, I didn’t manage to get a passing grade point average this semester.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that. But on the bright side, you still have the second semester to pull up your average. Which is why it’s important for you to get a good grade on your thesis. How’s that coming along?”
I pause a moment to think. I’m running into some major problems with my thesis and don’t quite know where to start.
“You’re not going to ask me to choose between a polite and an honest answer, are you?” he teases.
“No, it’s just that it’s been really tough for me to start writing it. I don’t even have an outline yet because it’s hard for me to make a hypothesis one way or another, since there isn’t all that much scholarly work published about Singapore’s relations with ASEAN,” I say.
“You still have time, but you’ll need to develop your outline soon. I’ll send you a bibliography on ASEAN, in case you’ve missed anything. And if you need to bounce off some ideas, just make another appointment with me.”
He really is my knight in shining armour. Sigh.
“On a totally unrelated note”—he lowers his voice and reaches across the table to give my hand a gentle squeeze—“when am I going to see you again, and I mean on a more personal basis?”
This time, I don’t need to think. “How about dinner this Friday?”
Patrick breaks into a wide grin. “Sounds excellent. I’ll see you then.”
In my head, I’m already planning my outfit for Friday night, but the dark cloud that has been hanging over me these last two weeks still won’t go away. I start to say something, hesitate, and then blurt out, “Why have you been ignoring me in class lately?”
Patrick’s hand stops in mid-caress. “What do you mean?” he asks, looking puzzled.
“In class. I don’t know, you’ve been acting as if…as if you don’t see me.”
“Belle, I can’t be giving you personal attention during lectures…” He pulls his hand away and leans back into his chair. “You don’t expect special treatment just because we’re going out, do you?”
“No, of course not! That’s not what I meant. It’s just that…” I trail off, stumped by his answer and not quite knowing where to go with it. “I’m sorry… It was a stupid question. Oh my God, I’m so embarrassed.”
A short but intensely awkward pause follows. I finally break the silence.
“So I’ll see you Friday?”
“Yes, Friday evening.” He stands up, as if to cue my exit.
I stand up too, gather my things and quickly stride out of his office, my ears burning with shame.
After dinner at a Thai restaurant last night (I had a mango sticky rice craving that could not be denied) Patrick offered to walk me home and I gratefully accepted, more than happy to companionably burn off some calories. The winter frost didn’t bother me this time, mainly because it gave Patrick an excuse to put his arm around my shoulder as we walked north up Rue de Rochechouart and on to Boulevard Barbes, past all the small cafés, bakeries, pharmacies, hair salons, and door after door of mom and pop stores specialising in everything from home appliances to polyester suits. Here, in the blue collar districts of Paris, local businesses are still holding out, still digging in their heels against the Starbucks and Subways of the world—the much dreaded march of mondialisation—though for how much longer, nobody knows.
When we reached the large blue wooden door of my building, as if in a movie, Patrick asked if he could come up for a nightcap. I’d seen enough movies to know what happened when gentlemen were allowed upstairs for a nightcap (i.e. things would get messy), and I wasn’t ready for any such thing so I said no.
“But I don’t want this night to end yet,” Patrick said, giving me a doleful look as he pulled me in for a hug.
Fair enough, I thought. I didn’t want the night to end yet either. “Well, why don’t we go to Le Saumon Qui Fume?”
Patrick looked a little disappointed but agreed nonetheless, so we stepped back onto the street and made our way to the brightly lit restaurant next door. The place was still half full even though it was past 11, and when we stepped in, Irène greeted me with la bise while Henri shouted out “Bonsoir ma puce!” above the chatter of diners from his post behind the wooden bar.
“Une table pour deux?” Irène asked me with a saucy wink.
“Oui, s’il te plaît,” I said, tucking my hair behind my left ear. I always tuck my hair behind my left ear when I’m embarrassed.
“So I’m guessing you’re a regular here?” Patrick asked after Irène had taken our orders.
“Yeah, I come here quite often. They make the best coffee.”
“Really?” he said, looking skeptical.
“Really. I’m even thinking of writing my entire thesis here. I’ll put Le Saumon Qui Fume on the map, you know, like what Sartre did for Café de Flore.”
“For the right reasons, I hope,” he laughed.
&
nbsp; “Have some faith!” I said with mock indignation. “Although at the rate things are going… Speaking of my thesis, I’ve been thinking…”
“Hey, is it all right if we don’t talk about work tonight?” Patrick said as he stroked my arm. “I just want to enjoy this moment with you.”
“Well, I wasn’t going to discuss the thesis per se,” I said. “If you’d just let me finish, what I want to say is that I’m not feeling very comfortable about going out with my supervisor. I know you’re more than capable of keeping it professional, and I am as well, but…” I let out a breath. “The conflict of interest is still there, isn’t it? I have this nagging feeling of guilt, and it’s been on my mind this entire evening.”
“Belle, Belle, listen to me…”
“I wish there was something I could do but…”
Patrick took me by the shoulders. “Belle. Stop. Listen. Get out of your head for a while. Like you said, we both know how to draw the line between our personal and professional lives, so what’s the problem?”
“But I feel like I’m doing something wrong, that we’re doing something…”
“You’re overthinking it.” His voice was smooth, low and soothing, and his hands started stroking my arms again. “Stop overthinking it. Just let things be for now, okay?”
“Okay,” I said, somewhat comforted, and for the rest of the evening I didn’t overthink it and enjoyed the moment, especially when he kissed me goodnight before disappearing down Rue Doudeauville with quick, light steps. I clambered upstairs, drunk from his kiss, dropped into bed and slept the sleep of the just.
Until this morning.
The organ is playing now, and to the right and left of me on the wooden pews are two old French ladies, their white hair permed tight, their hands clutching their handbags, their eyes closed in prayer. Or they could be napping, I don’t know. It’s hard to tell what anybody’s up to in the dim, cavernous space of the Basilica of the Sacred Heart. There’s a big bunch of tourists as well, kitted out with their backpacks and bulky cameras, but they are silent and keep a respectful distance from the faithful dispersed in front of the altar.
I look up at the mosaic above the apse, and I’m just as awestruck as I was the first time I laid eyes on it. You don’t so much see the mosaic as you are enveloped in its gilded splendour, glowing in the dark, larger than life—Christ in Majesty, His arms wide open, His heart shining with light and love.
I kneel into the pew, lace my hands and bow my head.
Oh Lord, please lift this burden from me. I really, truly want to be with Patrick, but the guilt is too much to bear and I haven’t even done anything yet! Please show me the way, God, and I swear I’ll…I’ll…I’ll lay off booze for three months! Amen.
Satisfied that God has heard my plea, I stand up, adjust my scarf and wind my way past the wide-eyed tourists and out of the basilica. Crossing the threshold, it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the sudden burst of sunlight and the expansive view of Paris before me. I take a deep breath of cold fresh air and start to walk down the stairs towards the tourist hordes gathered on the basilica’s steps.
So. It turns out my untramelled pursuit of Patrick is worth three months of booze. Who would have guessed? It never fails to amaze me how God always manages to put things in perspective.
I may lack success—experience even, if one were so churlishly inclined—in romantic relationships, but when Dad calls me that afternoon, I find myself essentially giving him marriage counseling. I speak to him with great confidence, probably stemming from the fact that:
a) I have already watched that Oprah episode on wives who become witches.
b) It turns out I was right about the Valentine’s Day fiasco.
When Dad explained the pickle he was in, the massage centre’s management sent him a letter of apology, which he eagerly showed to Mum.
“And what did Mum say?” I ask.
“She said that she didn’t want me to see that China…she didn’t want me to see Meifen any more and that I must stop going for massages.” His voice is calm and quiet.
“But did she apologise for jumping to wild conclusions?”
“No,” he says, and then, as an afterthought, “I don’t think it even crossed her mind.”
I’m shocked; even by my mother’s standards, this is outrageous. “And what did you say?”
“I said okay. What else could I say?”
I imagine the scene in my head—Dad diffidently presenting the letter with both hands as Mum’s thin lips and lion’s mane tremble with dissatisfaction. Somebody needs to rescue him.
“Dad! She was really mean to you. She’s the one at fault, so I don’t see how she can go round making demands like that.”
“Well, you know what she’s like…”
“Yes, but we need to stand up to her. She’s always so busy pointing out other people’s flaws, maybe it’s time someone pointed hers out. And maybe you should be making some demands of your own. I think that’s only fair, don’t you?”
There’s a pause, which stretches out into a long silence.
“Dad? Hello?”
“I’m here, Belle. I’m just thinking. You’re right. You’re absolutely right,” he says as if a paradigm shift has just clicked into place.
Of course I’m right, but I decide to be modest and change the subject. I ask Dad about Crystal and he tells me that she is still seeing Ravi, thus putting a strain on her relationship with Mum as well.
It’s early days yet, but I think the balance of power in Serangoon Gardens is finally shifting.
God has spoken to me!
I was in the shower when God told me—well, not in a Joan of Arc kind of way, which would have scared the crap out of me, but through a flash of inspiration—that I am free to date Patrick if I drop his class and get myself a new supervisor! No more conflict of interest! No more guilt! (At least on this particular issue anyway. As for hoarding library books I’ll never read, well, let’s take baby steps, shall we?)
Oh my God, I’m so excited. I just hope it’s not too late to switch modules. And finding a new research supervisor shouldn’t be too much of a problem since I’m practically starting my thesis from ground zero anyway. I need to rush to school now to see if I can pull this off. Fingers crossed!
When I reach the Sorbonne, I make my way down the musty halls to M. Blois’ office. Thankfully he’s in and I request permission to drop Patrick’s class and get a new research supervisor. He asks me why, but I can only provide stubbornly evasive answers, blathering incoherently about “differences in scientific approach” when I have no clue what Patrick’s scientific approach is, nor how it’s different from mine, since I don’t have one. I also claim to have developed a sudden passion for French politics in an attempt to weasel myself into another class.
“Needless to say, Mademoiselle Thong, I remain perplexed by your motivations in requesting for these changes. Whatever they are, it nonetheless appears to me that you feel very strongly that you should no longer be under the tutelage of Monsieur Dudoigt,” M. Blois mumbles in his usual soporific demeanor. Then he pauses to give me a long hard look over the top of his bifocals.
I steel my face and give nothing away.
“Very well. You will join Monsieur Boniface’s class on ‘Politics Under the 5th French Republic’—lots of spare capacity there. And he will also be your new supervisor. I trust you will have no problems with him?”
Success! But poor old Bony Face. He probably thought he had seen the last of me last semester. I hope he doesn’t get a heart attack when he hears the news.
The next morning, I seem to be gliding on air-skates. Everything from my morning toilette to ironing clothes for school is breezy and effortless, and I catch myself lip-synching to Bananarama while doing the dishes from breakfast. I never wash dishes in the morning (if truth be told, sometimes not even in the evening), but this feels right, somehow. I feel like a new person, a better me, a me who is… wait for it…guilty! Of love in the firs
t degree.
I haven’t told Patrick what I’ve done yet. The grand plan is to surprise him after class this morning, which will be our last as teacher and student. I wonder what he’ll say. I bet he’ll be thrilled. Maybe he’ll give me a big kiss for being so brilliant!
On the way to school, I can’t stop smiling at the thought of seeing Patrick again. I actually feel like laughing out loud, but I really must suppress my wild, untamed joy and stop grinning to myself like a crazy woman—am being very annoying to fellow passengers for flaunting my happiness in the Metro. It is very unbecoming for a Parisienne.
I somehow manage to sit quietly through Patrick’s class, and when it’s finally over, I intercept Patrick on the aisle of the lecture theatre as he’s making his way out.
“Annabelle, yes, how can I help you?” His tone is a tad officious, but I know it’s only because he wants to maintain his professional distance in class, which he does very well.
“No, you can’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“No, you can’t help me,” I say with a playful smile.
“Then why am I being prevented from going to my next class?” Poor Patrick looks a bit agitated. I look around to make sure that the lecture hall has emptied, then break to him the wonderful news. If Patrick is suddenly awash with unbridled joy, or even relief, he doesn’t show it.
“I know. Monsieur Blois told me yesterday. He asked if there were any problems between us, and I told him none that I was aware of. You know, you could have given me prior warning, before making grand announcements to my boss.”
Oops.
“Patrick, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for you to be caught off guard like that. It’s just that I had this sudden brainwave, and it would solve all our problems, and I…”
He’s still just standing there, stiff as a surfboard. I guess I’m not getting that big kiss after all.
“Are you mad at me?”
“It’s fine. Look, I have to go, I’m late for my next class.”
My eyes follow his back as he bounds up the steps two at a time.