by Imran Hashim
“Your uncle’s the Prefect of Police?” Dad asks, impressed.
“Yes, he is. Actually, I called him earlier today to discuss Madame’s case, just to get an opinion. He tells me there is nothing the police can do if Touchon wants to press charges. The case will still have to go to court.”
“So there’s nothing your uncle can do to help us?” I say, a bit disappointed.
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“Oh, surely there must be a way,” Mum interjects confidently. “I heard that officials here are… Well, let’s just say that they can bend the rules with the right incentives.” She squints at Thierry in what she imagines to be a meaningful way. “So maybe if we take him out for a very nice dinner and explain our situation, he could help us…”
Thierry nearly chokes on his steak, and replies hotly, “I don’t think my uncle can be bought with a nice dinner.”
“Who said anything about buying, young man? It’s just an opportunity for us to explain our situation to him personally and who knows…”
Luckily, Dad is quick to defuse the situation. “I don’t think that would be proper, Mary. We wouldn’t do something like that in Singapore,” he says.
“Of course not,” Mum says, but as she brings her wineglass to her lips, manages to add under her breath, “but when in France…”
We all ignore her, and Dad says that the only thing we can do now is to appeal to Touchon to drop the charges.
“I’ve already fixed a meeting with their legal department on Monday. They’re our clients in Singapore, so I’m hoping that my contacts can put in a good word for me. But thanks for checking with your uncle, that was nice of you.” Dad picks up his napkin and dabs at the corners of his mouth. “We’ve been so self-absorbed all evening, we don’t know a single thing about you. How did you get to know Belle? Are you two in the same Master’s programme?”
“Ah, no. We got to know each other through a bulletin board. Belle was looking for someone to practise French, and I responded.”
“Oh, so what do you do in life then?” Mum asks.
There it is. The question I’ve been dreading the whole night. It takes two courses for it to come up, but I guess we’ve been saving it for dessert. I brace myself, ready to defend him should my parents say something insensitive or untoward.
“I’m a plumber.”
Thierry smiles when he says this, and makes eye contact with my parents. They, on the other hand, freeze for a split second, then somehow manage to look pleasantly surprised.
“A plumber? Oh…how interesting! You’re very…well, you’re very well-spoken for a plumber. Isn’t he, Peter?”
Somebody kill me now.
“Yes…very impressive. How did your English get to be so good?”
“I learned it in school, and I make sure I practise a lot.”
For some reason, Mum is speaking to him more slowly now, and enunciating every word. “Yesss, that’s very important. Lifelong learning, it’s called. We must always upgrade our skills. Upgrade our knowledge. That’s how we become successful in Singapore. Like my daughter, you see? She came here to upgrade herself, to get a Master’s degree from the top French university. Do you know the Sorbonne?”
I’m looking down, one hand covering my face in embarrassment, but I shoot up straight when I hear that. “Mum! He’s French! Of course he’s heard of—”
“Yes, I know the Sorbonne—”
“What I’m trying to say is, it’s never too late to upgrade yourself. You may be a plumber now, but if you continue to upgrade your skills, who knows, one day you could become a…” Mum tickles the air with one hand as she tries to coax out the right word. “A…”
“Chief plumber?” Thierry suggests wryly.
“Yes! A chief plumber! Now, wouldn’t that be lovely?”
My parents obviously don’t get it. They don’t understand that it’s perfectly respectable to be a plumber, or a gardener, or a baker, or a waiter. And I don’t blame them. I can’t. I mean, when I first met Thierry, wasn’t I just as quick to judge him, to pigeonhole him based on social markers? We come from a society that doesn’t value the contributions of “the little people”, an elitist meritocracy where you need to flash a degree—and not just any degree, but a degree from a good university—to get any respect. That or a million bucks, because in our eyes, what measures merit better than money?
The weekend is here, and I spend the day showing my parents around the city. Their relationship seems to have received a new lease of life; Mum is being very nice and wifely to Dad, hanging on to his arm, asking him every other minute if he wants a crepe or a drink or a rest, pretending they are on some sort of second honeymoon, trying to obscure the fact that Dad is here to save her sorry ass. Dad is happy to play along; he is obviously a more forgiving person than I am, bless his soul.
I manage to excuse myself from dinner, and only because Mum wants a tête-à-tête at the restaurant in the Eiffel Tower (“Wouldn’t that be so romantic, Peter? I’ve always wanted to do that!”).
I give Thierry a call the first moment I get, and apologise for the way my parents behaved towards him.
“Your mother, she’s quite a character,” he says.
I fight off a wild urge to say she’s not my real mother. Instead, I say, “Yes, but I take after my Dad. One hundred per cent. I swear.”
“I don’t know about that. I was watching her last night, and there’s something about her that reminds me of you.”
“No! Take that back! How could you say something so mean?” I say, slightly panicked, but he just laughs. “Wait… So does that mean we can still be friends?”
“Sure. We can be friends. Actually, Belle, maybe we can…” His voice trails off.
“What?”
“Nothing. Maybe we can meet up when they’ve gone home?”
“Of course, silly,” I say. “After what I put you through, the least I could do is give you a big treat.”
Hallelujah! Halle-lu-jah! My parents just called to tell me that Touchon has agreed to drop the charges. Dad had been coaching Mum on her story, and it seems that she delivered a performance worthy of Margaret Chan. She went for the meeting decked out in her finest, pleaded not guilty, and promised never to be duped into doing anything like that again. Dad had also banked on his contacts coming through and, with all the stars aligned, Touchon couldn’t possibly send a sentimental old fool to jail (her words, not mine).
“So get dressed in something nice, dear, and meet us at the hotel. Tonight, we’re going out to celebrate!”
“That’s great news Mum! Just wonderful! Can I speak to Dad?”
She passed the phone to him.
“Hi, Belle? Great news, yeah? I’m so glad everything’s settled now.”
“Yes, great job, Dad! So…now that all this is over, when do you think you guys will be leaving? You know, just so that I can plan my work around your schedule…”
“I don’t think we can stay much longer. I have to be back at the office by Thursday.”
I was so relieved, I nearly fainted.
Today’s the summer solstice, the longest day of the year. It’s already 10pm but the sun’s still shining, my parents are gone, music’s in the air, and I’m going out with Thierry and the gang tonight. La vie est belle.
June really is the best time to be in Paris. The summer tourist crowds aren’t out in full force yet but the city has already started to kick into R&R mode with events like the Fête de la musique. The concept is quite simple: musical groups and performers of all genres and achievement (or lack thereof) come out of the shower or wherever it is that musicians hide and make as much music/noise as they want in front of adoring fans/long-suffering family members and friends. And so I find myself en terrasse at Le Saumon Qui Fume, enjoying the festitivities. They’ve closed off the street for the local “talent”. My neighbourhood being what it is, it feels like I’m at a world music concert, which is not usually my thing, but I’m snapping my fingers and swaying my head
like it’s Mambo night at Zouk. And in two hours, I’ll be going dancing with Thierry and the rest. If only life could always be this way.
My exam results came out today and I’m happy to report that I did much better than last semester—I only failed one paper this time! Hurray! And I passed French! Who would’ve thought that little old me, who had never lived in France before, who at the beginning of the year could hardly string together a paragraph and not run out of steam, could actually score a solid 10.5 out of 20? Ooh la la, je suis très fière de moi. My best score is for Butty’s Politics of Southeast Asia. Sucker. I guess the lesson here is to never underestimate what flattery can achieve. I failed Bony Face’s module though, but I wouldn’t blame him; maybe he couldn’t decipher my writing through the chocolate and coffee stains. That said, he is a bit of a tough marker—when I scanned the notice board earlier, I saw that he only gave out grades ranging from 5 (Georges, ouch) to 13 (Yannick, the bastard). And he’ll be marking my thesis! Which means that I’ll need at least…let’s see…
Holy crap. 11 points. I need 11 points for my political science thesis on maids if I want to go home with a degree. Oh God. Siti and her friends had better give me some good interview material to work with or my ass is toast.
Didi spots me in the cafeteria and rushes towards me yelling, “Chérie, I’ve got exciting news!”
“I saw your results, congrats!” I say, hugging him.
“Oh yeah, that! Thanks. But chérie, you won’t believe this. Guess what I found?”
“What?”
His excitement is infectious, and I look on eagerly as he rummages through his giant tote bag. His face lights up when he finds what he’s looking for and, in one swift motion, uses a pair of tweezers to wave a black pair of men’s bikini briefs in my face. It’s one of those slim European cut things. I scream.
“Ssshhh!” he says, as he falls about trying not to laugh.
“What the freak?” I say furiously. “That thing had better be clean, Didi, or I swear…”
This set off another round of hysterical giggling, while I wait, stoic and unamused. He finally composes himself, stuffs the briefs back into his bag and says, “Sorry to disappoint, but...”—now speaking slowly and emphatically—“it’s…Dudoigt’s… used…underwear.”
“What?! How did you get it?” I start to imagine all kinds of things, then narrow my eyes and say, “Did you sleep with him?” Honestly, I wouldn’t put it past the both of them.
“No, silly. But Ursula did,” he says, eyes bright and wide with scandal.
“What?! Ursula slept with him? Oh my God! How do you know this?”
Didi says that he found out from the grapevine that Ursula was having an affair with Dudoigt. She denied it at first when he asked her, but when he told her that Dudoigt was also dating me, she apparently blurted out in shock, “But Annabelle and I are nothing alike!” Didi then cornered her into admitting that she did have an affair with Dudoigt, but she said she had ended it recently because she discovered he has a girlfriend!
“Anyway, she sounded very bitter, and so I told her that we’ve been trying to get him for some time now, and then she told me about this…”
He’s reaching into his bag for Exhibit A again but I stay his hand. “There’s no need. It’s still fresh in my memory.”
“He left it in her room. It seems,” he says, lowering his voice and arching a suggestive eyebrow, “he sometimes likes to set it free.”
My jaws fall to my boobs; does FP’s perversion know no bounds?
“So now Ursula wants her revenge too. Belle, before, it was just your word against his, but now we’ve got someone else to corroborate. And we have evidence! We can take this to the Head of Department. What do you say?”
I try to encapsulate Patrick in a single thought, and all that comes out is the hurt I still feel at how he took advantage of my feelings and then humiliated me.
“Oui. I say yes.”
Didi whoops with joy and hugs me. “One serving of justice coming up! Just leave it to me, chérie. I’ll make all the arrangements.”
Chapter 11
TODAY’S THE BIG day—the showdown with Finger Pervert in Blois’ office. Blois has called for the meeting to formally hear our complaint about FP’s abuse of his position to obtain sexual favours.
Just before the meeting, the gang meets me for lunch at the cafeteria, to lend moral support. As we’re about to tuck in, Ursula comes up to our table, looking pinched and perfect as usual.
“Salut! Can I join you guys?” she asks.
We all make welcoming noises and I pull out the chair next to me. After all, the enemy of my enemy is my friend.
“So, you have dirty underwear?” Gula says, a bit too loudly.
Ursula turns a bright pink, glances at the neighbouring tables in embarrassment, and says, “It’s not mine, and yes, I brought the evidence.” She starts to put her sandwich to her mouth, but thinks the better of it and puts it back down.
“You’re not eating that?” Yannick asks.
“No—I just lost my appetite.”
Didi steers the conversation towards The Plan. We discuss our various lines of attack, FP’s possible defences, Blois’ uncertain allegiances. We try to cover all the different scenarios possible till it’s time to get the show on the road.
When Didi, Ursula and I enter Blois’ office, we find Dudoigt already there. We say bonjour, and he smiles and greets us back nonchalantly, cool as a cat.
“Bien. S’il vous plaît, asseyez-vous,” Blois says in his deep paternal voice as he seats himself behind his desk. We’re arranged in a semicircle in front of him, Dudoigt on his right, and Didi, myself and Ursula fanning out to the left. “We are gathered here today to examine a troubling matter. Yes, very troubling indeed. Monsieur Dudoigt”—and here he pauses as he strokes his beard—“Mademoiselle Thong and Mademoiselle Andersson have both complained to me that you have made sexual advances on them over the course of the year. Is this true?”
Dudoigt turns to Ursula and me, looking saddened, disappointed, hurt. “Thank you Monsieur Blois, for bringing these accusations to my attention. I don’t understand where they could have come from, or why these young ladies would say such things about me.”
“That is the problem that we are trying to examine, Monsieur Dudoigt. Please answer the question, is this true?”
“No, it’s not true,” he says, shaking his head. I realise then what a waste it is for him to be teaching—the bastard really should be in movies, preferably in roles where he gets his brains blown up for messing with the wrong chicks.
“Mademoiselle Thong, Mademoiselle Andersson—Monsieur Dudoigt is unaware of any alleged misconduct on his part. Could you please detail for us what your allegations are?”
“Well, it all started when I went to Monsieur Dudoigt’s office one day and told him I wasn’t a lesbian,” I begin, but there is a small commotion as Blois’ elbow slips from the table and almost sends him crashing face down. He quickly sits up again, adjusts his excited spectacles and tries to regain authority over the proceedings.
“And why did you do that, Mademoiselle Thong?” he asks.
“Because she’s homophobic,” Didi pipes in unhelpfully.
I glare daggers at him. “I am not homophobic! I told him that because I thought that he thought that I was. I’m sorry, I’m not being very clear, but…” I take a deep breath. God, this feels like one of my orals. “Can I start over?”
“If you wish,” Blois says, though I sense a trace of regret.
“It all started one day in December when I went to his office and…”
This time I’m interrupted by Ursula. “December? He started to flirt with me in November! You know, at that party we went to,” she says rather competitively.
So I say, “Well, good for you Ursula, but can I please finish my story?” Chastised, she leans back and inspects her manicure.
I tell Blois about our early flirtation, our first date at the movies, how we we
nt out several times after that, about how we were physically intimate—but not all the way!—and how he finally offered to help me get better grades for my thesis if I slept with him. During this whole time, Dudoigt acts aghast, horrified, as if I’m describing heinous crimes beyond his wildest imagination.
Then it’s Ursula’s turn. She describes how Dudoigt made a move on her on the night of the November party, how assiduously he courted her afterwards, taking her to the theatre, riding in a hot air balloon over Parc André Citroën, making her romantic dinners at home. She fell to his charm and they “had sexual relations” but she started to suspect something was amiss when he kept going off to visit a sick aunt (was I the “sick aunt”?!). So one day, while he was in the shower, she went through his phone and found amorous text messages from another woman. She confronted him about it, and he admitted to already having a girlfriend without so much as a fight. That was when she threw him out and broke the relationship off.
Blois strokes his beard, nods his head, and strokes his beard some more. We wait in anticipation, for pearls of wisdom to tumble from his lips, and finally, he says, “Monsieur Dudoigt, these are serious allegations. Do you recognise any objective truth to them, insofar as it is possible to be objective in a situation where one is Subject?”
“Non, Monsieur,” Dudoigt says self-righteously. “This is a conspiracy against me, and I will not stand by and watch them drag my name through the gutter. These two young ladies are lying.”
Blois turns back to us. “Mesdemoiselles, Monsieur Dudoigt has denied your allegations,” he says, as if we need a running commentary to help us follow the plot. “While I admit that your stories combined give some plausibility to your allegations, I must say that in such matters, evidence is key. If you can give me some empirical proof to work with, I will be more than happy to investigate and take corrective action if necessary. But without it, I am afraid my hands are tied.”