Annabelle Thong

by Imran Hashim

  I put my phone back into my jeans pocket. It makes me sad that he can’t find it in his heart to put the fight behind us. And I’m terrified. Terrified that I’ve blown my one chance at romance because of my inability to compromise.

  I need to do something drastic if I’m to salvage this, and I need to do it soon.

  Didi and I meet up for lunch in school, and he’s aflutter with news. The first thing he says is, “Devine! Guess who’s going on a date with Kevin?”

  I’m not in the mood to play along, so I say, “Johnny Hallyday?”

  “Oh chérie, don’t be surly, it doesn’t go with the sun hat. Non, c’est moi, chérie!” he says, whooping hysterically. I ask him how he managed to pull it off and he breathlessly recounts how he was contacted by the police for the investigation into the library incident. He then asked for Kevin’s advice as a staff member of Action Contre le Racisme.

  “And Kevin just took charge from there! He contacted the police to inform them that Action Contre le Racisme was taking a special interest in this case—special interest, chérie!—and that it would be doing an independent investigation of its own. He even accompanied me to the police station. I knew this was my chance, so I asked him out for dinner at a restaurant in the Marais, and he accepted! He said yes! Well, actually he said why not, but let’s not quibble over details, shall we?”

  We pay for our food and sit at a table by the window. My appetite isn’t great, and I listlessly poke at my plate of spaghetti bolognaise.

  “Okay, I am not sensing happiness here. I am not sensing joy and exuberance from this corner,” he says twirling a wrist and an accusing index finger in my direction. “What’s wrong? What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing! I’m really happy for you,” I say.

  “But?”

  “Well, it’s just that once you start going out with this guy, you’re not going to be able to spend as much time with me, that’s all,” I say, thinking of Yannick and Gula, and every single girlfriend I’ve had who has gotten attached. “But that’s normal, that’s life. So… congratulations!” I say, trying to put on a brave face.

  Didi places one hand over mine and another over his heart. “But chérie, you’re going out with someone too. You and Dudoigt, things are coming along, aren’t they?”

  “No they’re not. We had a big fight, and… Actually, I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “What happened? Come on, you can tell me…”

  “I said, I don’t want to talk about it, okay?!”

  I’m as surprised as Didi is by my sharp outburst, and an awkward silence follows, broken only when Urban and two other guys join us at the table.

  “Salut Belle, salut Didi.” Urban looks even more unkempt than usual. He sounds cautious, as well he should be.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t my kidnapper,” I say, ready to transfer my aggression to a more deserving target.

  Urban introduces his friends to us. Paul, a scrawny blonde guy with John Lennon glasses is the head of the Young Socialists and Nicolas, who sports close-cropped hair and a black-and-white Palestinian keffiyeh, is the head of the Sorbonne Communist Party.

  “Belle, I’m so sorry about what happened. What happened to you wasn’t supposed to happen. I’m really sorry.”

  Not the most eloquent of apologies, but he has just come out of prison. He looks remorseful and sincere. My anger subsides and I accept his apology.

  Nicolas deftly changes the topic. “Have you guys read today’s papers? About the latest developments with the CRS?”

  I nod. “Great news, isn’t it? And it’s all thanks to a friend of mine. His uncle’s the Prefect of Police.”

  “Actually, it’s not. It’s very bad news for the march organisers. You know, the one taking place this Monday,” Paul says twitchily. “We were going to capitalise on what the CRS did to drum up public sympathy. But now that they’ve suspended the officer and released the Revolutionaries, we can’t use that any more. And if we can’t get enough people to come to the march, we’re not going to be able to force the government to back down on the reforms. Monday is our last chance to give a show of strength, before Parliament passes the bill.” Paul looks like he’s about to cry into his coffee.

  Nicolas jumps in. “Listen, I don’t know you. But when the newspapers showed what the police did to you, it got me really angry, and it got lots of people angry.” He pauses. “You now have the power to move people, Annabelle, and we need you for the march. If the Red Princess herself is marching, that’s going to help mobilise thousands, maybe tens of thousands of supporters.”

  “And why would I do that? I happen to agree with the government on this! You leftists have got it all wrong wrong wrong!”

  The next thing I know, we’re embroiled in a heated debate. It’s one against four, but I give as good as I get. There are no holds barred—they attack, I defend, they rebut, I distract. For half an hour we argue till our faces turn blue, till finally Nicolas says, “Listen, this is not just about us agreeing or disagreeing about which is the right policy to pursue. It’s bigger than that. It’s about ideals and what we stand for. I don’t know about you, but for me, above all else, it’s about solidarity with my friends, and with everyone who wants access to an education.”

  “If you change your mind, and we really hope you will, please call this girl,” Paul says as he slips me a piece of paper. “Cécile will arrange everything. But she needs to know by tomorrow evening.”

  As we all get up to leave, Nicolas says to me, “You study political science, right?”

  I nod warily, afraid I might be walking into a sophistic trap.

  “Then let me ask you this question—is it better to be wrong with Sartre, or right with Aron?”

  “I don’t know,” I reply. I’m tired; my brain hasn’t had this much exercise since its encounter with the riot baton.

  “Well, think about it.”

  Which is what I’ve been doing all evening. I lie on the sofabed and mull over that question, as Mum sleeps softly in my bed. I have to admit, it’s one hell of an interesting question.

  I spend the whole of the next morning reading up everything I can find about Raymond Aron and Jean-Paul Sartre. I dabbled with some Sartre last semester for the philosophy module, and read some of Aron’s work on international relations, but it wasn’t enough for me to decide which camp I belong to. My morning’s research tells me that Aron and Sartre were classmates in the Ecole Normale Supérieur, and formed a friendship that lasted till World War II. Then the Iron Curtain fell, and they found themselves on opposing sides—Aron on the political right and Sartre on the left. In their judgements and positions, Aron proved to be prophetic—he warned about the impotence of pacifism in the 1930s, the Soviet threat, the unsustainability of the Algerian colony—while Sartre was sometimes wrong, really wrong, like in his blind defence of the Soviet Union.

  I’ve always respected Aron for his clear thinking—sound, measured, pragmatic—but truth be told, he’s a bit of a bore. Aron spoke the ugly truth, but Sartre—Sartre dreamed of an ideal world and fired up people’s imaginations. While Aron lectured in France’s hallowed institutions and wrote columns for Le Figaro, Sartre founded Libération, got the girl, hung out in cafés, wrote plays and novels, appeared on TV and became the intellectual equivalent of a rock star. If the universe of French philosophy were organised into a firm, they would make Aron the Chief Financial Officer, and Sartre the Creative Director (Bourdieu would probably end up as CEO and Foucault would be banished to the Berkeley office where he would, literally, be loved to death). Despite his ugly mug, Sartre was sexy, and he was sexy because he moved people.

  Am I sexy? Maybe, maybe not.

  Do I want to be sexy? Yes, damn it! Isn’t that why I left Singapore?

  Isn’t that why I’m here?

  I’ve just had an epiphany, and I now see that my choices are stark—I could be Miss Annabelle Thong, the high school teacher who stayed home and was right, or I could be the Red Princess who
fought for a cause that was as beautiful as it was futile (channel money from the armed forces into education indeed!). I’m painfully aware of who I am, but the question is, who should I be?

  So back to the original question. My heart says Sartre, but my head… My head says I should think this through some more. What if my school back in Singapore finds out? Would it jeopardise my teaching career? And would Internal Security create a file on me? Surely they wouldn’t care?

  I make some calls and it looks like the entire class, if not the entire student body, will be going for the Monday march. Urgh. I want to go, but can’t pluck the courage to pick up the phone and call Cécile. Honestly, I’m a bit scared. The last thing I want is to throw my career away because of one silly mistake.

  I’ve found it! The sign that gives me the faith to leap off the fence and into the fire. I was skimming through yet another article when this sentence just jumped out at me. When asked whom he thought had left a greater mark on contemporary history, Sartre or himself, Aron said, “I was paralysed by the fear of being wrong.”

  Understandable, but heartbreaking.

  I refuse to be paralysed. I don’t want to be CFO.

  My fingers tremble as I dial Cecile’s number. When she picks up, she sounds excited to hear me. I’m pretty excited myself, but am genetically incapable of throwing caution to the wind, so I make it clear to her that I am not going to:

  a) Lead the march

  b) Be identified in any way as being part of the organising committee

  c) Shout incendiary slogans

  “Ne t’inquiète pas,” she says assuringly. “You’re just there to remind people what they’re fighting for and look pretty for the cameras. You can do that, can’t you?”

  “Look pretty for the cameras? Well, I guess I can do that.” If Helen could launch a thousand ships, the least I could do is defeat a parliamentary bill or two.

  “That’s settled then,” Cécile coos down the line. “I have to go, need to send out a communiqué that the Red Princess is on board! I’ll see you tomorrow, Place Denfert, at 11?”

  I tell her okay and hang up the phone.

  Oh my God. What have I done?

  Monday, 11.05am

  When I arrive at Place Denfert Rochereau at 11 sharp the next morning, wearing the one red dress I could find in my wardrobe, I see that there are already about a hundred people gathered just outside the Paris Catacombs for the march. They’re mainly activists putting the final touches to banners that read “Sarkozy, ça suffit!” (That’s enough, Sarkozy!), “Touche pas à ma fac!!” (Hands off my university!!) and an unfinished one that currently reads “Etudiants en col” (Students in collars??). There are also a few placards with that infamous photo of me right after I was clubbed. I shudder and turn away to look for familiar faces but don’t see any.

  I pace around the area for a bit, staring at anyone who might be Cécile, but nobody approaches me, or even seems to be on the lookout for me. I call Cécile on her mobile. She’s not picking up. I then call my friends, who tell me they’re only coming at noon. Hmm…seems like I’m part of the advance party.

  11.30am

  I’ve just left my third terse message on Cécile’s voicemail. She’s 30 minutes late! Is this any way to treat the Red Princess? Is it really?? If she doesn’t appear in the next 10 minutes, I swear I’ll throw a hissy fit.

  11.35am

  Cécile finally appears, a beautiful brunette dressed in jeans and a brown T-shirt. She gives me the bise and apologises.

  “Excuse-moi, Belle. Je suis vraiment désolée. I was having so much trouble finding your outfit for the march!” she says, rummaging through a huge grey trash bag. This is not looking promising. “But I finally managed to get this off a friend. Can you try it on?” she asks as she pulls out a plastic and metal body brace.

  She might as well have asked me to wear a horse harness. I stare at the thing speechlessly for a while, and then finally say, “Why!?”

  “Oh, because you’re a victim of police brutality and we want to remind everyone of that fact. It’ll be very photogenic,” she says, sounding very much like that salesperson who tries to sell you knives that can cut through metal railings, but I’m onto her.

  “He hurt my head, not my spine! I thought we’re all about ideals, and fighting for justice, and integrity. I can’t fake this. I’m sorry, I just can’t.”

  She looks disappointed, and pauses to think for a while. Finally, she says, “You’re right. How about if we just bandage up your whole head instead? I think that’ll be quite dramatic as well.”

  I protest at this latest idea, we haggle, and finally agree on a simple dressing that says “fresh from hospital” and a red scarf around my neck.

  12.30pm

  In a couple of minutes, we’ll be setting off towards the Sorbonne. The organisers have put me at the vanguard of the procession. In the last hour, the crowd has really swelled. How many of us are assembled here? A thousand? Two thousand? Five thousand?

  I turn to Didi who is togged up in a red jumpsuit (the first thing he said to me when he saw me was, “I’ve got your back, chérie. If anything happens to you during the march, I’ll take over as Red Princess!”).

  “Can you carry me a little? I want to see the crowd,” I say.

  He looks at me like I’m insane. “Who do you think I am, chérie,

  Prince Charming? Ask Yannick to do it. He’s tall.”

  Yannick gallantly turns me around, hugs my hips and raises me off the ground.

  I can’t believe my eyes. Avenue Denfert-Rochereau is a sea of faces packed from pavement to pavement. Most of the marchers are probably university students, but it looks like we’ve also attracted people from a wide cross-section of society, ranging from high school kids to senior citizens, their banners and placards proclaiming them to be from myriad unions, political parties and civil society groups from the left. Some banners simply call for “Solidarité!” They’ve come in small groups, if not big ones, and look calm and relaxed as they chat with friends and colleagues while waiting for the march to start. The CRS stand watch by the side of the avenue.

  Yannick puts me back down on the ground and, just then, a foghorn sounds through the air. Drums begin to string out a rhythmic beat. We are ready to march.

  I am with my friends—Didi, Gula, Yannick and Urban—and my friends are with me. We link hands and grin at each other like fools. Nicolas, still with the black and white keffiyeh around his neck, steps up to us and says, “Okay guys, let’s go! Tous ensemble, tous ensemble. Ouais! Ouais!” My friends and I join in the chant as we take our first steps towards the Sorbonne, and it grows in strength as the rest of the convoy add their voices to the call. Soon it’s just an echoing roar, euphoric and uplifting, just like at a football stadium, with fans cheering us on from the apartment windows and balconies overhead. “Tous ensemble, tous ensemble! Ouais! Ouais!”

  We’re 20 minutes into our protest march, and the first thing I’ve learnt is that marches are very noisy affairs. There’s of course the chanting, which everyone seems to partake in with gusto. But every once in a while, it dies down, and then the foghorns noisily protest, as if to say, “Come on guys, allez!” upon which the chants continue with renewed vigour. There’s also lots of singing, though I must admit I don’t know any of the songs except for the French national anthem, La Marseillaise. And then there’s a kind of marching band accompanying us, beating their drums, crashing their cymbals and blowing their whistles, giving rhythm, if not exactly music, to our steps. And since the marchers are in a really long column, each section is basically doing their own thing vocally, so what results is a cacophony of chants, songs and slogans. You have to shout to be heard, which is exactly what I’m doing now.

  “Why are we walking so slowly?!” I ask Didi. And that’s the second thing I learn. It’s not so much a march in the menacing, military sense of the term as it is a forced shuffle through the streets of Paris. I’ve never seen Parisians move so slowly, I swear. Usu
ally, everyone is acting all busy going about their daily business—rushing to join queues, running on travelators, honking at slow-moving traffic—but today, it seems people are determined to go in slo-mo.

  “Because we have until 3pm to get to Place Saint Michel!”

  “But we can easily do it in half an hour. Why stretch it out?”

  “Who would notice a half-hour march? It’s all about making a statement, chérie! Now stop being such a Singaporean, and just enjoy yourself!”

  Didi does have a point. A lot of people do look like they are enjoying themselves. As we walk down the sun-drenched avenue, we seem to be picking up people along the way. Parents with toddlers on their shoulders. Students with face paint and home-made placards. Volunteers distributing the last of their bottled water. They’re waving colourful flags. They’re spontaneously singing songs (there’s no Gurmit Singh equivalent to conduct and orchestrate choral proceedings). They’re expressing themselves to the government of the day.

  “Hey, I’m feeling kind of hungry!” I shout to Yannick.

  “Okay. Why don’t you go grab a sandwich from that café over there?” he says, pointing.

  “Can I?” I ask.

  Yannick laughs. “Of course you can! It’s a free country.”

  The last thing I learn about marches is that it gives Parisians an excuse, and it seems the licence, to climb onto public structures and drape themselves around national monuments. Back at the starting point, I saw a group of guys riding the majestic black lion at the centre of Place Denfert-Rochereau. And now, as we pass the Jardin de Luxembourg I see people perched in the trees lining the streets and dancing on the roofs of bus stops. It feels like the government has gone on holiday, leaving the people home alone.

  A new chant has started from the back of the column, and it’s a new one that someone must have just come up with.