Annabelle Thong

by Imran Hashim

  “Is Dad here as well?”

  A tropical thunderstorm passed over her face and I half-cowered in anticipation of lightning bolts sizzling towards me from her eye sockets. Surprisingly, she kept her cool.

  “No. I told him it was either him or me. He was of course happy to let me be the one to cross oceans to take care of you. But that’s typical of your father, isn’t it, to shirk his duties like that?”

  If I weren’t lying in a hospital bed with a mummified head, I would have slugged this one out with her. But given the circumstances, all I could do was whimper. Mum patted my hand again.

  “Poor darling, your head still hurts, doesn’t it? Anyway, how did this happen? The officials from your school insisted that you were involved in some outrageous rebellion, which I told them was completely ludicrous.” She looked me in the eyes, then paused, suddenly unsure of herself. “Isn’t it, darling? Tell me it’s all utter rubbish.”

  I assured her that I wasn’t a subversive and told her all that I remembered—the Revolutionaries taking us hostage, the police breaking down the library door, Didi packing his bag and shouting at me to leave with him, and then a big black spot of amnesia—which relieved her to no end and made her want to go shopping (“Well, I am in Paris, dear. See you later?”).

  My friends came to the hospital later that afternoon, and after the ritual tribute of chocolates and flowers and general banter about how I was feeling, I got round to asking Didi what had happened.

  Didi pursed his lips and started to tear up. I reached for his arm.

  “Hey, what’s wrong?” I said.

  He started to cry. “Chérie, it was supposed to be me. He meant to strike me but you pushed me away and took the hit.”

  “I did? God, I don’t remember that,” I said, semi-impressed but mostly wondering, What the hell was I thinking? “And who’s ‘he’? One of the Revolutionaries?”

  Didi, inconsolable by now, was literally crying on my shoulder. Yannick stepped in, seeing as how Didi was incapacitated by grief and gratitude. “No, one of the riot police guys.”

  I gave Yannick a bewildered look. He sighed. “When they broke the doors open, Didi rushed to get out and they thought he was one of the Revolutionaries…”

  “Also, he is Arab boy in ghetto uniform,” Gula interjected.

  “We think there might have been a racist element to the whole thing.”

  Didi suddenly sat up, spent, if my soaked shoulder was anything to go by. “It’s all my fault,” he sniffed. “If I’d been wearing Burberry, none of this would have happened.”

  I was appalled. “Did they hurt anybody else?”

  “No. When you fell to the floor, there was so much blood, and everybody just froze for a while,” Didi said, grabbing a Kleenex and blowing his nose. “Then three of the CRS men carried you off, and the rest rounded all of us up, except for the librarians of course, and threw us in jail. It took them two days to sort out who’s who. The Revolutionaries are still inside.”

  I was indignant, outraged. “It took three CRS men to carry me away?”

  “They didn’t have a stretcher, chérie. They’re the CRS, not the SAMU. And they sure couldn’t fit you into a plastic shield.”

  We laughed for the first time that afternoon. “Ouch, that hurts,” I said, touching my head. “And can you please explain to me why Libération has taken it to their heads that I’m a ‘Singaporean radical’?”

  “The journalist did an interview with the Revolutionaries’ spokesman on Saturday afternoon, and she claimed that you were one of them,” Yannick said.

  My jaws dropped. “She did? But…it’s not true! That’s despicable! How dare they!”

  “Have you read the article?”

  “No…”

  “You’ve become the symbol of the movement, Belle. They’re calling you la Princesse rouge.”

  The Red Princess. You’ve got to admit, there’s something really catchy about that. But I still can’t decide how I feel about being the visage du jour of student rebellion. On the one hand, I’m apoplectic that the Revolutionaries have stolen my own personal tragedy (Frankenstein-head, mini-coma, etc.) and spun it into a PR extravaganza. For one thing, I am never going to live that front page photo down. And then of course there’s the fact that everything they’ve told the press about me is a bunch of bald lies. Just because I’m friends with Urban does not make me a Revolutionary. I’m Singaporean, for God’s sake! Doesn’t that mean anything any more?

  But on the other hand, I really do like la Princesse rouge. What’s not to like? It makes me feel like Zhang Ziyi. So much nicer than Yummy Asian Tortoise. Hmm… I guess there’s nothing I can do about it anyway. I’m sure the whole thing will soon die a natural death and I can get on with my life.

  The doctor, a tall, elegant man with a coiff to rival Dominique de Villepin has come to see me. His manner is cool and crisp, and he seems to have made quite an impression on Mum. I know this because she keeps mentioning what a wonderful doctor he is, and when she is trying to be more oblique, makes daft comments about the hospital’s “handsome facilities” and “charming personnel”. Now that the doctor is with us, she is listening, smiling quietly and nodding her head attentively, like a blooming Chinese rose caught in a sea breeze.

  The scan results are in, and the doctor informs us that I have not suffered any brain damage. Not until Mum’s arrival, anyhow. So, they are discharging me tomorrow morning, which is great news.

  “Now, thank the doctor, Belle,” Mum says smiling genially.

  I glare at her and mutter through gritted teeth, “I will, if you give me the chance.” Then in more enunciated speech, I thank the doctor.

  “You’re going home tomorrow! Don’t worry darling, I’ll take care of you. Isn’t this great? I’ll finally get to stay at your apartment. I’m sure it’s very comfortable.” Pat on the hand.

  Oh God. How long will she stay, and how long before we’re at each other’s throats?

  Today is Day Two of Mum’s stay with me. I’m still alive. She’s still alive. That’s the good news.

  The bad news is that my tongue is haemorrhaging from the incessant biting it’s been subjected to over the last 48 hours. From the moment she stepped through the door, Mum has had many things to say about the apartment and the way I do things (or don’t do things). But because she is now cultivating me as her ally, she is taking care to mince her words, resulting in comments along the lines of, “That’s a cute way to organise your wardrobe, isn’t it?” or “Be with you in a minute, dear, I’m treasure hunting for a spoon/soap/the dustbin.” But my favourite so far is, “Did I ever tell you that it’s a Thong family tradition to put up a portrait of Our Lord in our homes? But I do like that Picasso poster of naked women too. It’s very…modern.”

  I manage to steal a moment to talk to Dad and Crystal on the phone and reassure them that I’m fine. They both ask after Mum, and I tell them that she’s on top form.

  “Do try to get through to her, Belle,” Dad says. “She still refuses to talk to us. You’re our only hope.” I tell him it isn’t going to be easy, but I will try.

  In other bad news, my head is still oversized compared to my neck and the rest of my body—I feel like a character from the Little Miss series, perhaps Miss Clumsy, or Miss Got-Hit-on-the-Head-with-Giant-Truncheon. I try taking off the dressing just to see if it looks better, but there is now a big bald spot on the top right corner where the stitches are and I look like a spectacular cross between Frankenstein’s bride and a Jack O’Lantern. Urgh.

  I am the Red Princess. I am the Red Princess. I am the Red Princess.

  Speaking of which, I have become an avid reader of the stridently left-wing Libération ever since they made me their commie poster girl, mainly to see if there’s any mention of me and my road to recovery. To my delight, I discover that I have become a martyr of sorts—since the incident a week ago, the entire spectrum of the student Left has been galvanised and energised into a fierce backlash against the governmen
t’s “violent response to the Red Princess and her Revolutionaries’ peaceful occupation of the Sorbonne Library.” According to Libé, the Education Ministry’s reforms are now tainted with blood, and therefore cannot be allowed to pass. A nationwide march will be held in seven major cities on Monday, 12 May, to show the strength of public sentiment against the reforms, and to call for the release of the Revolutionaries in custody and condemn police brutality.

  Words to warm the cockles of a princess’ heart. They love me! My people love me! But the paper still hasn’t updated its readers that I’m back home and eating chicken soup though. Leftist journalists are such lazy buggers.

  It’s Sunday today, and Thierry unexpectedly drops by at the flat this afternoon. Luckily, Mum is out and we get to talk in private. He sits on the sofa while I perch myself on the bed. The names we called each other the last time we met hang heavily in the air, and I can tell he’s feeling wretched because he doesn’t say anything for a while, and just looks down like he’s inspecting the floor for stale pizza crumbs. I’m afraid he might actually find some, so to distract him, I say, “So, how’s your head?”

  He looks up and laughs. “Okay, and yours?”

  “It’s been in better shape. You know, literally,” I say, pushing away a piece of dressing that keeps getting into my right eye.

  “Didi told me what happened. About how you saved him. Listen, I just wanted to say that that was a courageous thing you did, and that…” He scratches his beard nervously and finally looks me in the (left) eye. “I was wrong about you. I’m sorry for all those things I said.”

  It is a really sweet gesture. So to reciprocate, I say, “Hey, don’t worry about it. I’m sorry too, I…” But it’s impossible to continue because my white turban is starting to unravel itself. I panic.

  “Belle, I don’t think your dressing was done right…”

  “Yes, I’m aware of that, but I wasn’t exactly expecting guests, was I?” I say a bit sharply, as I shift it around my head like a beret.

  “Here, let me help.”

  He moves towards me but I hold my arm out to try and stop him. “No! I’m fine. I’ll fix it myself. The stitches look really awful…”

  But he insists and I finally let him. He says he he has done hundreds of dressings when he was doing his military service, so it isn’t anything he hasn’t seen before. I sit still on the bed as he stands in front of me, my face burning from embarrassment.

  “So what did you do for your military service?” I ask, trying to distract myself.

  “I was in the Commando unit.” From down here, his voice sounds kind of distant. “Don’t raise your eyebrows, I’m not done yet.”

  “Wow. I didn’t know that.” A commando! My my.

  “There we go.” He steps back. “There are lots of things you don’t know about me.”

  I roll my eyes at him. “Ooh…so mysterious.”

  This amuses him for some reason. “Well, maybe I am,” he says, laughing.

  He then asks me about what happened in the library. I’m getting very good at telling this story, and proudly recount how I stood up to Che and his gang and got us food while the other hostages quivered in their pants. He asks if the Revolutionaries were violent or abusive in any way.

  “Much as I hate to admit it, they were pretty decent, actually. Why?”

  “My uncle’s the Prefect of Police. The initial report the CRS has submitted absolves the officer who injured you, but from what I’ve heard so far, I think there really is a case for police brutality. I’ll try to talk to him and see if he can review the case.”

  “Your uncle’s the Prefect of Police?” I ask, wide-eyed. “Tell me, how come none of this ever came up before in our conversations, in English or French?”

  “Well, none of his goons ever clubbed you on the head before.” Thierry says protectively. He stands up. “Sorry, but I’ve got to go. I still have lots to do.”

  I walk him to the door. As he’s about to leave, instead of the usual bise, he hugs me, which the French rarely do. More precisely, he encases me in his warm, muscular body, practically squeezing the breath out of me. It feels nice at first, but all of a sudden I’m reminded that it’s not Thierry that I want in my arms. It’s Patrick. He hasn’t visited or called, and I miss him so much, it hurts.

  I gently push Thierry away. “Thanks for coming, Thierry. I guess you’d better go.”

  Spring break has ended and it feels great to be back in school (oh God, I am such a nerd). Everyone makes it a point to come over and give me a bise and say hi, even Ursula, Georges and a bunch of people from the happening group whose names I don’t know. I really enjoy the attention—it feels like I’ve just been elected prom queen or something (although the crown in question comes in the shape of a sun hat). Yes, hats are in again, at least that’s what I’m telling everybody. Most of the Sorbonne girls are clueless about fashion anyway, so they just say “C’est vrai?” and admire the new hat that I shamelessly wear in class.

  After the lectures, I have a meeting with Bony Face, and for once I’m sort of looking forward to it because I finally have something to report. I have a problématique! After weeks of reading, and inspired by an outrageous news article entitled “Singapore’s Slaves”, I’ve decided that my problématique shall be: “Foreign domestic workers in Singapore—salvation or exploitation?” Bony Face seems satisified with that and gives some proposals on a possible thesis outline.

  Just before I leave his office, he says, “Une autre chose, Mademoiselle Thong. If you need a deadline extension for your thesis submission, it can be arranged, given your unfortunate injury and also the fact that French is not your mother tongue. Let’s say early August?”

  I’m touched by the gesture and thank Bony Face. Big hearts can hide in the most unexpected places.

  Today, 8 May, is a public holiday to commemorate the Allied Victory in 1945. Here in France, the month of May is peppered with public holidays, which explains why very little work gets done. Another reason is that the French also use May as a practice run for the summer holidays in July and August, when nothing gets done.

  Fortunately, good summery weather has swung round again after two chilly spring weeks, and Mum and I decide to go out for a picnic on the immaculate lawns of the Jardin du Luxembourg. Having Mum around hasn’t been as singularly awful as I thought it would be. Sure, there are moments when I wish I could lock her up in a cupboard and throw the keys in the Seine, but at other times, I am glad. With her around, I can be a baby again, and she will indulge and, well, mother me. And we all know there’s nothing so soothing in the world as being mothered when you’re sick.

  The Jardin du Luxembourg is looking resplendent today—the sun is shining, the birds are singing, the fountains are gurgling, and everybody around us just looks so happy. You know summer must be around the corner because Parisian parks like this one are starting to be populated by old people in swimwear, and I’m not talking surfer shorts. I like to think I’m an open-minded girl, but that’s something that’ll take time getting used to because:

  a) I don’t expect to see people in tiny Speedos and bikinis when there’s nothing but dry land for miles.

  b) I’m not used to seeing aunties and uncles in havoc swimwear.

  But here in France, after a long winter, people feel like the world owes them a tan (gotta get some sunshine to those hidden corners!), even if it’s at the expense of public decency. So when I make a snarky comment about a couple of topless sunbathing octogenarians, I’m shocked to find my mother telling me off for being judgmental and disdainful.

  “What do you expect them to do?” she says, a little too defensively. “Hide themselves from the world just because they’re no longer attractive? Let younger women—whose private parts are spilling all over the shop, mind you—dictate to them what they can and cannot wear? We all age, dear, and just you remember—what goes around, comes around.”

  “Okay, okay…you’re right. That wasn’t very PC of me,” I say, a bit
shamefaced. “Old ladies should be allowed to do as they please. In fact, I think they’re doing just that. Look, those two are holding hands. I think they’re lesbians, and I say that in a neutral way.”

  Mum turns to look, and then turns back to look at me, shaking her head pityingly. “Now you’re just being spiteful, dear. They’re obviously sisters.”

  We hang out in the park till well after five, happy to laze about soporifically, or eat as we eye the ducks dawdling around us, me wondering aloud if they would make good curry, and Mum, disturbingly, knowing which ones would.

  The next morning, Mum accompanies me to the hospital for an appointment with her favourite French doctor.

  “How is it looking, Doctor?” Mum asks him in English.

  “It eez good. I sink ze wound will eel very nice,” he says with a very French accent.

  “Very nice” is of course just a figure of speech, because thread is still holding my head together, embedded in a patch of man-stubble where silky hair used to flow. But at least now I won’t need to keep dressing and undressing my head day and night as if a marquise in the court of Louis XIV. Hurray!

  Just as we leave the hospital, Thierry calls me on my mobile to tell me that my assailant has been suspended from his duties pending further investigations, which hopefully means that it’s safe for Didi to roam libraries in his trackies once more. I must say that I’m touched that Thierry has gone through all the trouble to ensure that the culprit is punished. Not that he’s doing it for me, of course; he’s probably doing it out of a taste for justice or something virtuous like that, but still. He also tells me that the Revolutionaries have been released, but I must admit to having mixed feelings about this one. I hope a week in police custody has taught them a lesson they won’t forget.

  After hanging up with Thierry, I check my phone for any missed calls.

  None.

  I still haven’t had contact with Patrick. He hasn’t returned my calls, he hasn’t replied to my texts. My strategy this past week was to “run into” him in school, which involved an inordinate amount of time lingering outside lecture halls and lurking in corridors and stairwells. This proved surprisingly unproductive, and by Thursday I took it up a notch and started knocking on his office door in between classes, to no avail.