by Imran Hashim
Oh God, what has she done now?
I’m in a special waiting room, sitting on a metal chair that’s probably made of recycled tin cans because evidently the children of suspected felons don’t deserve proper furniture. Or air-conditioning. I’ve got a feeling it’s going to be another long, painful day; I’ve just arrived but already I feel nauseous.
After Mum’s call yesterday, I made a mad dash for the Police Prefecture where I attracted unnecessary attention to myself by setting off the metal detectors. A policewoman told me to step aside, frisked me, found some coins and keys, and then asked for my identity papers.
Identity papers? Uh oh. I zipped back to Château Rouge, and then back again to the Prefecture. By then it was 4.45pm.
I went through the metal detector, carefully this time, showed my passport and resident’s card, and was directed to a waiting room adjacent to a big office with lots of uniformed officers working behind desks and looking very busy. After a while, an officer in a short-sleeved white shirt and navy blue trousers came up to me and I told him I was there to see my mother, Mrs Mary Anne Thong.
“Ah oui. The aggressive Chinese lady,” he said grimly. “She’s got a lot of nerve, that one.”
“Actually, we’re Singaporean,” I said.
“You may be Singaporean, but we can’t be too sure about your mother, can we? Unlike her accomplices, we didn’t find any papers on her. She claims she left her passport at the hotel.” As he said this, his face lit up with the promise of a bright idea. “Listen,” he said, “we’re a bit stretched for manpower right now and I haven’t had the time to go round and collect it. There’s a mountain of paperwork that needs to be done for counterfeit cases like this one. You think you could go and get it for me?”
My heart was pounding, my head was spinning, my eyes began to cross. Accomplices? Counterfeit? What the hell was going on?!
“Can I please see her just for a while? Or at least tell me what happened,” I begged.
“I can’t. Not without her papers.”
Defeated, I agreed to run his stupid errand (outrageous!)—he passed me the hotel key which they’d found on her and off I went to Hotel de Vigny, which turned out to be a cosy but plushly decorated place on a street just off the Champs-Elysées. Mum’s room was quite spacious, comfortably accommodating a queen-sized bed, two armchairs and an antique dressing table.
She must be really racking up the bills on Dad’s credit card…or living the high-life on ill-gotten gains. I rummaged through bags and drawers for her passport. Oh God, what if I do find a stash of counterfeit bills? Is she capable of doing something like this? How well do we know our parents, really?
By the time I got back, it was a quarter to seven. The prefecture was closed. The policewoman who frisked me was standing guard by the door and I approached her to tell her that I had an important delivery for Officer Ardouin.
“All right. I’ll make sure he gets it,” she said, taking the passport from me.
“Yes, but I also need to get in. I need to see my mother.”
“The Prefecture is closed, Mademoiselle. I’m afraid that will have to wait till tomorrow,” she said firmly.
I insisted some more but it was no use. And so I went home with my tail between my legs, called Dad to break the news, and finally fell into bed, exhausted, defeated and confused.
When I woke up this morning, I was just confused, which was an improvement, I guess. I still can’t, for the life of me, understand how Mum could be arrested for anything other than emotional blackmail and bullying. It’s really out of character, and yet, surely the French police have better things to do than arrest innocent tourists?
After a 20 minute wait, Officer Ardouin walks into the room and I rise to greet him anxiously.
“Thank you bringing us your mother’s documents. I’ll take you to see her now. If you’ll follow me,” he says, walking out the door.
The moment I see Mum when I walk into the interview room, my heart goes out to her. I have never seen her look so haggard and broken. Her eyes are puffy, from crying or lack of sleep, I can’t tell. Her hair, usually buoyant and bouffant, looks like a bird’s nest after a storm; her clothes are all dishevelled.
I rush over to hug her, and she hugs me back tightly, saying, “Belle, Belle, my darling Belle,” and we both start to cry a little. When the emotions begin to susbide, she lets me go and I pull up a chair across from her, hold her hands, and ask her to tell me what happened.
“It’s all a mistake, darling! One big mistake! They tricked me into it!”
“Who tricked you?”
“The Chinese couple.”
“What Chinese couple?”
“The one I met on the Champs-Elysées.”
I give her a blank look. She sighs and says, “My so-called accomplices! Why aren’t you following the story?”
I take a deep breath. “The police refuse to tell me anything. So can you please tell me what happened from the very beginning?”
Mum closes her eyes and sits still, as if to brace herself. Eventually, she opens her eyes and launches into her story.
“Ever since I left your apartment, I’ve been feeling low and down, like nobody loves me any more…”
“Mum, how could…”
“Don’t interrupt, dear. I didn’t raise you to be a rude girl. Now, where was I? Yes, like nobody loves me any more. Not you, not your father, not your sister, nobody. So I spent my days just walking around Paris, sitting in cafés, talking to strangers, shopping, just… trying to distract myself from my miserable life. Then yesterday, as I was walking up the Champs-Elysées, this young Chinese couple approached me. The girl was a bit round and sweet-looking and reminded me of you. They introduced themselves as tourists from China, and they told me they needed some help. So I said, well, it all depends on what kind of help you need. They said they needed help to buy some jewellery, and if they gave me the money could I go to the boutique across the road and get it for them? I didn’t understand why they couldn’t just buy the items themselves, so I asked them. They said that these were limited edition items, and that every customer could only buy one, and since they had already bought their quota, they couldn’t buy any more for their mothers and aunts back home, who would be so disappointed not to get any gifts from Touch On. I said…”
“Wait a minute. Touch On? What’s that?” I ask.
“Touch On, darling. Don’t you know them? They’re the super exclusive jewellers. They only advertise in Tatler, you know…”
“Oh! You mean Too-shonh! T-o-u-c-h-o-n?”
“Yes, that’s the one. How do you pronounce it here? Too-shown? Anyway, I looked at the couple and said what lovely children you are, so thoughtful and caring, even my own children have never gotten me anything from Too-shown. And they thanked me and said that they hoped I could help because none of the white people would help them. This totally incensed me, and I said I wasn’t surprised one bit, because white people have no sense of filial piety or caring for their elders, just look around at all these old people tottering on their last legs with only a walking stick for physical and emotional support. So I agreed to help them and they whipped out a catalogue and pointed at two different necklaces. And then they passed me a wad of euros and we counted them together—two, four, six, eight, 10, 12, 14, 16, 18, 20 thousand. They said they would wait for me there while I crossed the road to buy the necklaces.
“Once I was in the store, I tried to get the attention of the sales staff but it seemed as if none of them would serve me. I waited a good 20 minutes in the queue for one piece but when I reached the counter, the girl abruptly took off. Then I went to another counter and the same thing happened, and you know how I can get into a temper sometimes, darling. So I started to shout at the salesgirl to come back, and three security guards—these apes in suits!—came running over and asked me to leave.
I was furious! Why should I leave? I was just there to buy jewellery and give them business, why should I leave? Why wasn’t
I being served? Was it because I wasn’t Japanese? Where’s the manager! I wanted to speak to the manager! One of the guards then said, ‘Please leave, for your own good.’ And I told him, ‘For your own good, let me buy my necklaces.’ Then they started to talk into their walkie-talkies and said some things amongst themselves and finally, a salesgirl appeared to serve me. I was feeling very pleased with myself, because nobody makes a fool of Mary Anne Thong. And so I got the necklaces, checked them upside down and back to front to make sure there were no defects, and got the girl to pack it. Then I went to the cashier, took out the money and handed it to her, and the next thing I knew, I was being handcuffed.
“‘What’s this?! What’s the meaning of this?’ I shouted, but all he said was that I was under arrest. And they brought me here. I met Officer Ardouin, and he told me I had been arrested for industrial espionage with the intent of producing counterfeit goods! I was floored darling, I was just floored. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing so I asked him, do you know who I am? Do you know who I am? I am Mary Anne Thong, the wife of Peter Thong from Singapore. And do you know who Peter Thong is? He’s a partner at Allen Partnership, Chairman of the Serangoon Gardens Residents’ Committee and a Party member, so if you don’t want any trouble, you’d better let me out of these handcuffs! But he’s an oaf, dear. A numbskull. He just muttered something in French, asked me for my statement, allowed me to make one phone call and then locked me up. So that’s what happened, darling. Now, can you please explain that to them in French so we can go home? Nobody here speaks English. It’s simply atrocious.”
I can’t even begin to think what to say. Sometimes, my mother just defies description. I sit there looking at her, shaking my head as I gather my thoughts.
“Story’s over, dear. You can speak now,” she says encouragingly.
“Look Mum, it’s not so straightforward. I called Dad yesterday, and he’ll be here tomorrow morning. He’ll know what to do. But in the meanwhile, you’ll have to endure another night here.”
Mum clutches my arms in panic. “But why can’t you bail me out, darling? Isn’t that what these criminals do all the time—they get bailed out? Why can’t you bail me out?”
“Because no bail has been set yet. In fact, they’re still trying to work out the charges, so there’s really nothing we can do for now.”
Her face falls. I move closer to wipe a tear from her cheek. “Don’t worry,” I say, putting my arms around her and drawing her into a tight hug. “We’ll get you out of this. And…you know I love you.”
Thierry comes over to my place after work, we order pizza and I give him a rundown of the events leading to my mother’s incarceration. I figure that, of all my friends, Thierry would probably be the most helpful in this situation. I mean, his uncle’s the Prefect of Police, right? But apart from that, he’s really shown himself to be dependably good at fixing things—broken pipes, bandages, hurt feelings… It’s great having someone like that you can count on.
I’m trying my best to keep my spirits up, but my mind keeps drifting to how Mum is coping, wondering if she is physically capable of eating prison food, terrified at the thought that she might be bullied by six-foot-tall prison chicks with snake tattoos that bite their breasts. As we finish with the washing up, I start to cry a little, from worry and exhaustion, and Thierry leads me to the sofa, wraps my arms around his waist and lets me have a good cry on his shoulders.
When I collect myself, I ask him if he can have dinner with Dad and me tomorrow, just so he can talk to Dad about the Touchon affair from a French perspective and he agrees. He tells me it will be over soon, that Mum will be released and all will be fine. I know he’s just saying that to make me feel better, but I believe him anyway. We continue to chat—he distracts me with enquiries about the exams and his own gory tales of toilet emergencies—until I realise it’s already half-past midnight.
“God, look at the time. Sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you.”
“Don’t worry about it. But yes, I should start to make a move. You sure you’ll be okay?”
I nod and smile. He picks up his navy blue windbreaker and we walk the few steps to the front door.
“Hey, thanks for coming tonight. I feel much better now,” I say.
Thierry gives me a smile that even the bushiest of beards can’t hide.
“Really? Good. I’m glad you called me.”
He gives me a hug, does the bise, wishes me goodnight, and disappears down the staircase. I close and lock the door, then rush to the window. I look down and see him emerge from my building, then watch as he slowly disappears down the moonlit Rue Doudeauville with long, sure strides.
6.15am
Oh crap oh crap. Just woke up when I should have been out of the house 10 minutes ago. I hate early morning arrivals at Charles De Gaulle Airport. So bloody ungodly. To shower or not to shower?
6.30am
Didn’t shower, and I have a strong feeling that everybody else on the Metro made the same executive decision. I look around at the faces of Sarkozy’s France, la France qui se leve tôt, the France that gets up early, and honestly, it looks like they could all use an extra hour of sleep or two. I bet they’re thinking the same thing, poor things. I’m glad I don’t have to pick someone up at the airport at seven every morning.
6.38am
I have to wait 15 minutes for the next RER to CDG. Fifteen minutes! Unbelievable. This would never happen in Singapore with our amazing MRT sytem.
7.20am
Dad just called on my mobile to ask me where I was. I’m a horrible, horrible daughter. Really wish the stupid RER would go faster instead of making stops at all these stations in the middle of nowhere.
7.50am
I sprint over when I see Dad waiting patiently by a phone booth and give him a big hug.
“Dad! I’m so glad you’re here,” I say. “Mum’s in such a mess.” I take a step back to have a good look at him. He looks older than I remembered. “Is it me or do you have more white hair?” I ask.
“It’s a sign of wisdom. Well, that and suffering,” he laughs, pulling me in for another hug. Dad has never been someone with a big and striking personality. But what he does have is a quiet strength and resilience, oodles of it, and I’m starting to feel more confident that he’ll set things right. I’ve never thought much of it before, but now that he’s here, I suddenly realise how much I’ve missed him.
10.30am, Police Prefecture
The police will only let one of us see Mum, so I sit in the waiting room. After half an hour, Dad reemerges.
“So how did it go?” I ask as he sits down beside me.
“Very well. Considering it’s the first time we’ve spoken in months.” He gives me a sidelong glance and says, “Nothing like a crisis to pull a family together, huh?” which I think is a very generous take on the situation.
“And Mum, how is she?”
“Well, she’s obviously shaken by the whole thing. This is your mother we’re talking about, the same woman who throws a fit if I ever book us into a four-star hotel. But it looks like she’s digging in her heels. Yesterday, she refused her dinner and asked one of the guards for sparkling water. Told him she’d pay him €10 a bottle when she got out.”
Just then, Officer Ardouin walks into the room.
“Bonjour Monsieur, Madame. I have some good news and some bad news for you with regards to Madame Thong,” he says in French, which I then translate for Dad’s benefit. “The good news is, upon interrogation, the young couple from China has admitted that your mother is not part of their syndicate, but an unwitting pigeon that they picked up on the Champs-Elysées...”
“That’s wonderful!” I say. I’ve never been so happy to hear someone call my mother a pigeon; he could have called her a turkey and I’d still approve.
“But the bad news is that Touchon is not dropping the charges against your mother. So the charges still stand.”
“What? So she has to stay in police custody?” I ask, alarmed.
/> Dad squares up against Ardouin. “Officer, I believe charges must be finalised within 48 hours from the time of arrest, so I would appreciate it if your office could expedite the process with the investigating magistrate and set bail by this afternoon at the latest,” he says, and then turning to me, “Belle, could you…”
I discharge my duties as Dad’s interpreter. After a few more exchanges, Ardouin says that proper procedures will be respected and he will do the best he can. I must say I’m pretty impressed with Dad—the man really knows his stuff.
4.05pm, Hotel de Vigny
Civilisation at last. Mum is soaking in the bathtub and Dad is downstairs checking his e-mail. Her release on bail was a pretty emotional affair. When Dad handed over the security deposit to Ardouin, Mum gave him a big hug and started to cry—it was so touching, I got swept up in the moment and we huddled together for a long group hug. Officer Ardouin looked on, bemused, and finally told us to get a move on because this was a police station, not an afternoon talk show.
It feels like things have turned a corner, that the immediate crisis is over, and now it’s just a matter of following things through, re: Mum’s criminal case and her relationship with Dad.
Which reminds me—we’re having dinner with Thierry tonight!
Oh God. Mum will be there too. Oh no. It was just supposed to be the three of us!
I really don’t want Thierry to meet her because she’ll say all sorts of awful things and embarrass me faster than I can say “I’m adopted”. I mean, I love my mum, but she’s really not someone you want to inflict on your friends.
God, I almost wish I could send Mum back to jail.
8.30pm
Over dinner, Mum recounts her exploits on the Champs-Elysées to Thierry. Nothing wrong with that except that she doesn’t bother to filter out the offensive bits, like how she thinks the French are rude, and uncaring towards the elderly. I mean, it’s bad enough to make racist comments, but to not tailor it to your audience? That’s just pure laziness.
I hurry Mum along so we can move on to safer topics, like the charges Touchon are pressing against her and how Thierry might be able to help.