Annabelle Thong

by Imran Hashim

  • God will be very angry (extra 20 points).

  So it looks like God wins. I’m acutely aware that all this is very anti-modern, anti-French and anti-Cosmo, but I guess that’s who I really am—Sex and the City on the outside, Sister Act on the inside—and I think Patrick will understand. I just need to explain clearly how I see us moving forward from here, and I’m sure he’ll understand.

  For sure.

  When Patrick appears at the door, I’m a ball of nerves. We manage to pass the half hour before dinner with empty chit-chat, as I get him settled into dinner with some nuts and a glass of pastis as an appéritif.

  “So, what have you cooked up for me today?” he asks, as he finishes his last sip of the cloudy yellow concoction.

  “Oh nothing much, just a little Asian stir-fried something-something,” I say modestly.

  “Well, I’m definitely in the mood for some Asian something-something,” he says with a naughty wink.

  Oh God, this is going to be harder than I thought.

  After dinner, he starts kissing and petting me a bit on the sofa, and amazingly, instead of letting things escalate out of control, I find the willpower to stop him and say no, let’s not. He asks me why, and I start to tell him that I’m not like other girls, that I come from a conservative family, that Sister Beatrice was my favourite teacher in school because she was so pure and so kind, even if she did punish girls who shortened their skirts by making them empty the sanitary bins for a week. He starts to laugh and says I’m just nervous, and starts to put his hand up my dress. This time I push him away and I say, “Stop… Let’s talk for a minute, because…I like you a lot. I really like you.”

  Wow. I’ve said it. I’ve never said that to a guy before! I feel proud that I’ve put myself out there; this feels like a breakthrough for me.

  I’m looking at Patrick’s face, waiting for a response, but I seem to be reading anger.

  “Then sleep with me,” he says.

  “But do you like me too?”

  “Yes, and I’d like you even better if we have sex,” he says with unbeatable logic. He lunges at me and starts kissing me hard (these French men are really persistent!) but I manage to shove him off.

  “What’s the hurry? Why can’t we just talk about where this relationship is going for a minute?”

  He stands up, really pissed this time, grabs his jacket and says, “Look, if you’re going to be so difficult, let’s just forget it, okay? Because you know what you are? You’re a fucking cock-tease.”

  I get up to follow him. “That’s not fair! I…I didn’t even use ginger for dinner!” He’s at the door now. “Wait… Patrick!”

  But he doesn’t even turn around as the door slams shut.

  Patrick’s last words continue to ring in my ears over the next few days, causing me to wipe away angry tears at the thought of them. Then slowly, the anger morphs into guilt and shame. Maybe it’s my fault. Maybe my efforts to become a temptress have perhaps worked too well? So well that it’s all Patrick can think about when we’re together. I’m beginning to suspect that there might be a fatal flaw in my plan—could it be that being a temptress and Catholic values don’t go together? And if I were less sexually bewitching, could Patrick learn to appreciate my inner beauty?

  It’s funny how life turns out. Until recently, I always thought inner beauty was all I had.

  It’s been almost a week since our fight, and I call Patrick on the phone, hoping to have just have a word with him, hoping that his anger has cooled, that we can talk about us in a mature manner. I want to come out to him and say, Yes, I’m a practising Catholic, with more than my fair share of neuroses but surely we could still see each other? Surely we could find a compromise? But he’s not picking up my calls.

  I leave Patrick yet another long phone message, telling him how miserable I’m feeling. I tell him I’m sorry about the fight, and that I wish we could start over.

  I can’t stop thinking about his parting shot… If I sleep with him, will he really like me better?

  I’ve stopped running, but continue my brisk pace of walking until I reach the first café I see in the Saint-Germain area. There’s an empty table outside, and I sink into a chair, panting.

  That was a close call. God, my hands are still shaking. Deep breaths, deep breaths. Okay, so that’s the last time I’m joining a student riot.

  Not that I knew it was going to be a riot. I swear!

  When the students voted to blockade the Sorbonne with effect from yesterday evening, I had imagined something more out of Woodstock, you know, with activists holding candlelit vigils and singing “I’d like to teach the world to sing, in perfect harmony…” or Edith Piaf or whatever it is the French sing on such occasions. I wanted to see it first hand, since student demonstrations (make that any demonstrations, period) don’t exist in Singapore. And having missed out on all that car-burning last month, I thought it would be a crime not to bear witness to this latest burst of youthful energy.

  And so just now, after grabbing a quick crêpe at Odéon, I went to take a look at what was happening over at the Sorbonne. Coming from Boulevard Saint-Germain, I turned right into Saint-Michel, which the police had closed off to traffic. Within a few hundred metres, I found myself right in the epicentre of the protests. There must have been more than a thousand people, most of them gathered around the Place de la Sorbonne, milling about, watching, waiting. A couple of small groups were joyfully playing percussions, which threw a festive veneer over the underlying tension. I tried to look for people I knew, but couldn’t find anyone, although I did recognise many faces amongst the protest organisers, who were standing in a large cluster in the middle of the boulevard.

  Looking around, I wasn’t sure if half of the people there were even students. The photographers from the media—difficult to miss with their big fancy cameras hanging from their necks—hovered like vultures, waiting for some action. The anti-globalisation contingent also stood out, with their raggedy clothes and matted hair piled a mile high à la Marge Simpson (are washing machines and shampoo evil from the anti-globalisation perspective?). And then there were the youths from the banlieue, who seemed to have turned out in some numbers; they strutted up and down the boulevard in groups, talking into their handphones like some sort of vigilante patrol. I overheard one of them shouting into his phone as they passed, “Nothing’s happening! I’ve been here 30 minutes; nothing’s happening!” He sounded frustrated. As for the rest of the people, I figured they were demonstration-tourists, just like me.

  I hung around in the street for a bit more, watching the crowd, unsure of what else I was supposed to do, especially since there was no mass singing. So I was just gawking goofily when I heard the megaphone come on.

  “Hold the line! Keep your places! Together we will defend our right to an education! Tous ensemble, tous ensemble! Ouais! Ouais!”

  A human chain four people deep had materialised out of nowhere in front of me, right across the Boulevard Saint-Michel, and it was slowly moving towards the police barricade at the junction with Boulevard Saint-Germain.

  “Tous ensemble, tous ensemble! Ouais! Ouais!” I heard the rallying call coming from other directions as well, causing the entire Latin Quarter to reverberate with resistance, and then it struck me that there was probably another phalanx of protesters moving up Rue des Ecoles in order to converge with those of us in the boulevard. Oh my God, this is big, I thought to myself. But I was electrified, swept up in the moment and, against my better judgement, I trailed behind the phalanx, keeping to the side of the road. The chanting got louder and louder as we approached Rue des Ecoles, and then, bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

  In a split second, the people I was cautiously tailing had turned round and were making a mad charge at me, their chants transformed into cries of “Fachos!” I was so terrified I almost wet myself. Fortunately, there was a doorway nearby, and as I ducked into it, I could see flares further down the road. A big white cloud, which reminded me of mosquito fogging b
ack home, was moving up Saint-Michel—the police had fired tear gas. My knees were shaking, and I trembled as the crowds raced past the doorway. It was frightening because I didn’t know what was chasing them (the worst case scenario being CRS officers, who wouldn’t be able to distinguish protesters from innocent bystanders like me).

  Fingers of teargas wafted up the street and I had my first ever taste of it; my eyes and throat burned as if my head had been dunked into a tub of extra hot Tabasco. I peeked out to make sure there was no riot police and, seeing that the coast was clear, tearfully made a dash through a side road for the bourgeois haven that is Saint-Germain.

  So here I am now.

  God, that was definitely more excitement than I had bargained for. But I’m guessing that might be what most of the people gathered had been waiting for—the adrenaline rush, the racing legs and hearts, the hint of a threat of mortal danger... It’s like having the Pamplona bull run delivered to your doorstep for free.

  Now I’m starting to wonder—out of all the people who were there, how many really cared about the fee hike?

  The next morning, I devour the papers for coverage of yesterday’s events. Unsurprisingly, the demonstration has made the front pages of all the major dailies. Some of them even claim that this might signal the beginning of another Mai 68, that seminal spring of 1968 when university students occupied the Sorbonne and fought running battles with police in the streets of the Latin Quarter, in their attempt to free French society from the constricts of the conservative Gaullist order.

  I scrutinise all the photos and am a bit disappointed that I don’t feature in any of them. Humph. It would’ve made a nice souvenir.

  Anyway, according to the papers, although their tone remains defiant, the unions are calling off the blockade of the Sorbonne for now, as they regroup and strategise their next move. The Education Minister has chosen to interpret this as a victory, and is quoted as saying that he will press on with the proposed reforms. I guess this means classes resume tomorrow. Just as well; I really need to get cracking on the thesis.

  “Mais je n’en peux plus, là,” Didi says as he dramatically slumps his body over the library table. I ignore him and continue reading. “Chérie, let’s go for dinner,” he says, tugging my arm annoyingly.

  “It’s only six! And we just got here an hour ago,” I whisper. “Get back to work.”

  “Says the girl with the Vogue magazine in her hands.”

  “I’m taking a short break from…”

  A commotion erupts near the entrance to the library, as the two librarians on duty start to shout at a group of students wearing black headbands who are trooping in. There are about 50 or 60 of them, and once the entire group is inside, they close the heavy wooden doors and lock them from the inside.

  “Attention everyone!” shouts a stout guy in a red Che Guevara T-shirt (these people have no imagination). “Stay where you are and don’t panic. The Student Proletariat Revolutionary Committee and Friends are occupying this library to protest against the government’s pursuit of fee hikes. Nobody will be allowed in or out until student demands are met. We request for your full cooperation, thank you!”

  Like a few other people, Didi and I move towards the group, quickly realising that they’re armed with nothing but sheer numbers and body odour. We spot Urban in the group, and pull him aside to ask what’s going on.

  “Isn’t the blockade over?” Didi asks.

  “The other groups may have capitulated, but the Revolutionaries, we aren’t giving up the fight,” Urban says solemnly.

  I scan the library to take in the whole lot of them. There’s no way we can provide physical resistance, not with Didi and the menopausal librarians on our side.

  “Well, it’s your business if you want to lock yourself up in the library, but could you at least let us go first?” I ask. Urban thinks about it for a minute, and then goes over to Che Guevara. They confer, and Urban comes back shaking his head.

  Didi, still dressed in his ghetto get-up—he forgot his change of chic clothes today—takes off his baseball cap and starts to fan himself with it. “How long are we going to be here?” he asks.

  Urban shrugs his shoulders. For a German guy, he does a very good French shrug. You know, the one that really annoys me.

  “So what? Are we going to sleep here? What are we supposed to eat? How are we supposed to shower? Oh wait, I forgot. You idiots don’t shower!”

  Urban looks rather miserable then, but it’s clear that he isn’t calling the shots, and Che doesn’t look like he’s amenable to negotiations. The other hostages are having similar conversations with our captors, also to no avail.

  Didi takes me by the hand and starts dragging me back to our table. “Come on chérie, let’s look on the bright side. We’re doing our part for the cause, and we get to really catch up on our readings.”

  “But I don’t believe in the cause,” I hiss under my breath, but allow myself to be led away nonetheless.

  6.40pm

  I try calling Gula and Yannick for help but neither one is picking up. Surely it’s too early in the evening to be having sex?

  6.43pm

  I’ve sent Gula a text message to ask her to get help.

  8.05pm

  Dinner’s here! I didn’t see how they sneaked it in though. It looks like we’re having kebabs… Ooh, and I spot some bottles of wine going round. How civilised. I didn’t realise these commies could get their act together. I’d better go get some before it’s gone.

  10.30pm

  Gula has finally replied to my text message. Hers says, “Library occupation on 8pm news. Sorbonne closed till further notice, no classes! You can do it, Belle!”

  I’m wondering what “it” is that I can do. Something must have gotten lost in translation.

  8.30am

  I wake up the next morning to find myself still in the library-cum-prison. So I’m not in a bad dream. This is real. My body’s aching, my clothes smell, I’ve got saliva in my hair… URGH! I hate France! I hate the Sorbonne! Why couldn’t I just have gone to Oxford or Cambridge like normal people?! Even LSE would have been better than this.

  I’m not a morning person on the best of days, so help me God. I’ll try harassing them till they release me.

  I stride up to Che and his gang as menacingly as I can, but my incarnation as Morning Medusa fails to petrify them into submission, even though they do stare at me very hard.

  “The Singapore Embassy is aware that I’ve been taken hostage. And they’re going to be on your asses!” I lie to Che in my most authoritative voice. “So you better let me go right now, or else…” Or else our diplomats will get very angry? “Or else…” But I really can’t think of a credible threat, so I just ask them what we’re having for breakfast.

  Fresh pain au chocolat and coffee, as it turns out.

  9.10am

  Didi is now awake and we are both feeling better after the coffee. These guys aren’t too bad, I guess. At least they treat their hostages right.

  10.22am

  Police sirens have gone off in the streets. We can hear them from the library, insistent and unwavering. Several of the Revolutionaries are speaking urgently into their mobile phones, though I can’t make out what they’re saying. About a dozen others have stationed themselves by the library doors, looking tense and nervous.

  I rush over to the window overlooking the courtyard and see that the riot police have secured the premises. Hurray!! We’re going to be rescued!

  Suddenly, Che shouts out loud, “Ils arrivent! Les flics arrivent!” and just seconds later, there’s a loud banging on the library door. From this side of the door, we can hear a deep chorus of “Un, deux, trois!!” followed by the massive thud of a battering ram hitting the library doors. “Un, deux, trois!!”

  The Revolutionaries have stepped aside by now and stare fixedly at the ancient shuddering doors.

  Didi has packed up his stuff, his backpack slung across one shoulder, and starts to pack my things up fo
r me as well. “Come on, chérie, let’s get out of here!”

  “Un, deux, trois!!” And this time, we hear a loud crack as the doors burst open with force. Didi grabs my hand and we run towards the entrance, straight towards the riot police.

  Ow. My head hurts.

  Didi, Gula, Yannick came to visit. Thierry and Bony Face too. In the morning? Afternoon?

  Seven stitches. They said seven stitches.

  A picture of me looking like roadkill on the front page of Libération. The headline says: “Fees crisis continues: Singaporean radical in coma”.

  Singaporean what?

  Ow ow…that hurts. Need to close eyes…for a while.

  1 Fayen Wong, “Singapore keeps sex exhibition tame”, Yahoo! UK, last modified 19 November 2005. http://www.iol.co.za/news/back-page/singapore-keeps-sex-exhibition-tame-259211

  Chapter 9

  WHEN I OPENED my eyes yesterday morning and saw Mum’s face peering down at me, my first thought was that I had died and gone to heaven. This was followed by a more rational thought as wakefulness seeped in: Mum and I stuck in a small white room—purgatory. It was definitely purgatory.

  “Mum?” I asked tentatively, in case my swollen head was playing tricks on me.

  “Oh darling! My poor darling. I was worried sick.” She looked visibly relieved to see me alive, which was gratifying.

  “How are you feeling?” She reached out to give my hand a pat. Oh, a mother’s love.

  When Mum received a call from the Sorbonne early Sunday morning telling her that I had been injured in student clashes with the police, she curtly informed the officer that he had the wrong number and hung up.

  “But he called again,” she said. “So I told him that there must be a mix-up because my daughter is a very serious student and would never get involved in such things. I said, ‘Maybe that injured girl is Korean.’ You know how these ang mohs are always mixing us up. But he finally proved to me that it was really you, and I took the first flight I could to Paris.”