Annabelle Thong

by Imran Hashim

  “Excusez-moi, what are you doing?” Sonia asks the lady in French.

  “I am helping myself to these goods, madame,” the lady replies. She is probably Senegalese, if her accent is anything to go by.

  “I’m sorry, but as you can see, this is not the African pavilion,” Sonia says, as she starts to confiscate the bottles of oil. “These goods are for Singaporeans only. Singapore food for Singaporeans.”

  This is patently untrue—some of the exhibitors from other countries are happily bagging stuff from our abandoned shelves and display cases.

  “Really, madame?” the cleaner says as I walk over to join them.

  “Yes, please go away.”

  “Mais pourquoi?” I ask Sonia. “Why can’t she take the stuff? Everyone else is doing that.”

  “Stay out of this, Annabelle,” Sonia says, trying to brush me aside.

  “No, I’m serious. Why can’t she take the stuff?”

  “The stuff is for the people who…who work for the exhibition.” Sonia then turns to me and, switching to English, says, “And what do you care anyway? She’s just some black cleaner.”

  I don’t know why, but Sonia’s words feel like a slap in the face. “Ah bon? Is that why you’re picking on her?” I reply in French, incensed. “Because she’s ‘just some black cleaner’?”

  Sonia’s face falls to the floor at the same time that the cleaner’s face hardens.

  “Ça va pas, non?! Are you crazy or what?” the cleaner thunders as she grabs a bottle back from Sonia’s hands. “Connasse!” She puts the confiscated bottles back in her trolley, and calmly walks away to continue with her spree.

  “Annabelle! How could you do that to me? You have crossed the line!”

  “No, Sonia. You have crossed the line. Shame on you,” I say.

  Paf! In your face, biatch.

  I turn and walk away, leaving Sonia trembling and speechless, her fists clenched in fury. Something tells me I won’t find myself in the company of the Singapore Ambassador any time soon.

  I pick up the phone and Mum is on the line, sounding all cheerful and breezy.

  “Hello, dear! Happy birthday! How are you feeling today?”

  “Thanks Mum! I’m good. Oh my God, I can’t believe I’m 29, that’s almost 30!” I groan.

  “Oh, don’t worry about that, dear. You still look very healthy.”

  “Oh. Thanks. How’s everything at home?”

  “Everything’s fine. Grandma wasn’t feeling very well yesterday, and… Oh! Have I told you the good news?”

  “What good news?” I ask.

  “Crystal broke up with that Indian boy! She didn’t tell you?”

  “No, she didn’t… Why did they break up? Is she okay?”

  “From what I gather, he’s the one who ended the relationship. Well, it’s all for the best. A relationship like that would never have worked anyway,” Mum sighs, though I swear it’s more out of contentment than anything else.

  “Why do you say that? Why couldn’t it work?”

  “Well, to begin with, Indian men aren’t very trustworthy. You know, they have that fine way of twisting words, you can never tell black from white with them. That’s why they do so well in the legal profession, dear…”

  “Mum! That’s a really really horrible thing to say! Take that back!”

  “Why should I? Everybody knows it’s true,” Mum says, trying to sound reasonable.

  “No, it’s not! It’s offensive to reduce everything to someone’s race–”

  “Oh Belle. You and your high-falutin’ ideas–”

  “No, I’m serious, take it back!”

  “Why are you getting so worked up?”

  Because it’s awful that Singaporeans think they can make casual racist remarks and get away with it. Because it’s hideous that people are being judged by the colour of their skin or the work that they do. I mean, really, have we always been so melanin-unfriendly? And have I been blind to it all this while?

  “I said take it back or I’m hanging up!”

  “Watch your tone, young lady! I will say whatever I want about who I want and I will—”

  I hang up and find myself staring at the phone for a couple of minutes, terrified at what I’ve just done, and dreading the ring that will surely follow. But Mum doesn’t call back, and I start to back away from the phone, slowly, carefully.

  I spend the rest of the morning planning my next move, and decide that the only thing I can do is to steel myself for the storm to come and just try to take things in my stride. One baby step at a time.

  My birthday lunch with the bunch at Le Saumon Qui Fume is an altogether more sedate and happy affair. After I blow out the candles on my cake, all 29 of them, my friends present me with a small box, beautifully wrapped in pink, which I rip into with great relish.

  “Love in Paris by Nina Ricci! Oh my God!” I cry as I open the box. I uncap the bottle and spray some of the perfume on my wrist. “Mmm… I love it!”

  “Yes, we thought it would make a most appropriate gift for you. And speaking of Love in Paris, where’s Thierry?” Didi says innocently. “I didn’t think he would miss this for the world.”

  “He can’t make it,” I say, deciding to ignore Didi’s teasing. “He went back to Rouen a couple of days ago. Seems like his dog is in a very bad way.”

  Didi, Gula and Yannick, make a sad face to show their sympathy. Just then, Irène stops at our table to check on us.

  “So, how is the birthday girl doing? Everything okay?”

  “Everything’s wonderful. And thanks again for the cake! The chocolate mousse is to die for.”

  Irène looks pleased and laughs. “Anything for my petite puce singapourienne. Coffee for everyone?”

  “Oui!” we chorus, and off she goes.

  “Hey, have you guys heard anything about the Dudoigt case?” Yannick asks.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I haven’t told you guys!” Didi says. “I called Monsieur Blois last week to see if there was any news, and he told me that Dudoigt confessed! He admitted to having improper relations with Ursula and Belle, and the Ethics Committee will now have to meet to decide what kind of disciplinary measure to take.”

  “So we got him? Oh my God, that’s great! When is the committee meeting?” I ask.

  “I’m not sure, but I think it’ll be before the next rentrée, maybe some time in late August.”

  “What do you think they’ll do to him?” Yannick asks doubtfully.

  “I don’t know,” Didi says, shrugging. “But I can’t wait to find out.”

  I’m so excited! I’m going to Rouen! Although, I shouldn’t be too excited. After all, I am going there for a funeral.

  Well, sort of. Fifi…how shall I put this…has gone to doggy heaven. Thierry called last night to tell me he had her put to sleep, to keep the poor thing from suffering any longer. He sounded really miserable, and mentioned that his parents were going away for the week. I felt bad for him—nobody should have to be alone after the passing of a loved one—so I asked him if he wanted some company, and he said yes, he would appreciate that.

  So here I am at the Gare Saint Lazare, waiting for my train. I should be at home, furiously writing my thesis right now, but Thierry’s been there for me every single time I needed help or comfort or encouragement so I couldn’t possibly abandon him in his time of need. Besides, I’ve never been to the French countryside before—it’ll be interesting. I just hope they have Internet there.

  The journey to Rouen takes only an hour and a half on the TGV. When the train pulls to a stop, I jump up to join the queue of people in the aisle as we wait for the train doors to open. It doesn’t take long, and I soon find myself on the sheltered train platform, standing a bit to the side so as not to block the heavy stream of people rushing for the exits.

  I look around to see if I can spot Thierry in the crowd—he told me he would pick me up—but I don’t see him. Maybe he’s on the other end of the platform, or maybe he’s late. I pull out the latest iss
ue of Cosmopolitan that I was reading on the train, and pick up where I left off—an article on 20 guys to avoid when you’re in your 20s. It’s very educational, and Patrick Dudoigt is sixth on the list. If only I had read this article sooner…

  Suddenly, I become aware of a man to my four o’clock, leaning against a pillar and looking in my general direction. I throw him the briefest of glances—clean-cut, mid-twenties, handsome, white shirt—and go back to my magazine, but I can see from the corner of my eye that he’s staring at me. The crowd has now thinned out, and butterflies come alive in my tummy when he starts walking towards me.

  “Bonjour,” he says.

  I recognise the voice, and look up from my magazine.

  “Thierry? Is that you?” I know I sound ridiculous, but I’m so stunned, I can’t think of anything else to say. “What…what happened to your beard?”

  “I shaved it.”

  He’s waiting for me to respond, but I am confounded, flabbergasted, floored, so we just stand there staring at each other.

  “What? Do I look so different?” he says, laughing.

  Are you kidding me? Are you freaking kidding me? Hell yeah, you look different. You look fine, fine, fine, that’s how you look—now that your hair is tamed and we can see that strong jawline and high cheekbones framing those deep-set brown eyes.

  “Um-hum. You have a chin,” I say. “And your hair. It’s got a style. You actually have a hair-style.”

  “Wow. Enough with these extravagant compliments. They’re too much to handle,” he says. He’s trying to sound sarcastic, but I can see that he’s blushing a little.

  He picks up my bag. “Come on, the car’s parked outside.”

  We drop the bag in the car, and Thierry suggests that we walk around the centre ville of Rouen for a while. He takes me to see the Gros-Horloge, this huge, gilded astronomical clock built into a 16th century archway, followed by the gorgeously gothic Rouen Cathedral. Even though cathedrals aren’t really his thing—you know, what with him being a devout atheist and all—he hangs around patiently, as I explore the interior, admire the stained glass, say some prayers. As we are leaving, I tell him I said a prayer for Fifi, and he seems touched by the gesture. Then, we pick up some groceries and walk the pedestrian streets in the brilliant summer sunshine, which makes the half-timbered Norman houses look smart and precious.

  We leave Rouen in the late afternoon, and soon his car is heading for the open plains, leaving the city behind. It turns out his parents live in a village (it’s really a village, I’m not trying to be mean or funny) about half an hour from Rouen called Saint-Didier-des-Bois. I must admit that I have a small panic attack when he tells me this in the car. But the house turns out to be very nice, a huge brown brick and timber bungalow, sort of the size of Bukit Timah bungalows back home, minus the swimming pool.

  Later, I offer to make dinner, but Thierry insists on cooking for me. To my surprise, the guy’s got mad cooking skills! We have a delicious mesclun salad with roquefort and roasted walnuts, followed by a really succulent roast chicken and potatoes. He opens a bottle of chilled white wine, and we spend dinner talking about our past—childhood memories, youthful follies, first loves—things we’ve never shared with each other before. The wine makes us chatty and keeps us going till past 11, and as we’re cleaning up in the kitchen, I can’t help but notice how he keeps up a steady rhythm of physical contact—standing close to me as we load the dishwasher, brushing my arm when he asks if I’m cold, touching the small of my back as he passes by. I hope to God that my friends are right about him having feelings for me because…

  Because I think I’m in love with him.

  I’m sitting at the desk in the guest bedroom, looking out of the window into the verdant woods behind the house. There’s an enchanted forest quality to this place, like in a fairy tale, and my heart feels heavy to be leaving so soon.

  This morning, we had a late breakfast, and watched TV for a while. After lunch, Thierry and I took a walk around the village. There were quite a few houses but nobody was around and the place was deserted. It was foreign to me, city girl that I am, Parisian-Singaporean to the core, but I was happy to see him at home. At one point, we came to a sort of dead end, but not like a Parisian dead end where you inevitably face up against a barrier. This dead end opened up to acres and acres of undulating fields and open space and sky; you could cross the line but there was nowhere to go. We turned right and walked up to a grassy patch where there was a fresh mound of earth with a water bowl stuck upright in the ground like a headstone. They had buried Fifi there.

  “She liked to play here,” he said, then fell silent and started to kick the dirt around a little. Finally, he looked up and said, “Thanks for coming, Belle. I’d be quite lost if you weren’t here.”

  I wanted to reply but couldn’t—I was trying hard to choke back my own tears. So I just smiled, nodded my head and hugged him as tight as I could. I think he understood.

  I hear a knock on my door.

  “Belle, we have to go. Your train leaves in an hour,” Thierry says from the other side.

  We are on the platform when the train to Paris pulls in and people around us start to gather their bags and kiss their loved ones goodbye. Just as I am about to grab my own bag, Thierry suddenly puts an arm around my waist and pulls me to him. His questioning eyes look into mine for a moment, and find the answer, because he proceeds to kiss the bejesus out of me. I kiss him back with an enthusiasm that… Well, let’s just say I’m very enthusiastic.

  When he finally pulls away, he says, “You have no idea how long I’ve been wanting to do that.”

  “Me too,” I say breathlessly. “Well, honestly, since yesterday afternoon for me.”

  “You really are shallow, you know,” he says in a half-joking way, and we both laugh because it’s sort of true. “You remember when you said that I could never be your boyfriend?”

  “What? I never said that!”

  “You did. You were ashamed that Singaporean friend of yours thought I was your boyfriend, just because of my beard. I was so mad.”

  “I was not ashamed… Wait, so you shaved your beard off for me?”

  Thierry nods. “But I’m sorry to report that I’m still a communist. Some things I can’t change.”

  “That’s okay. Apparently, so am I.”

  We both laugh, then quickly get back to the serious business of French kissing. After all, we only have a few precious minutes left before I have to board.

  I jump onto the train just as the final whistle blows, and wave to Thierry, as he walks with the train as it gathers pace. Within seconds, Thierry is out of sight and I take my seat, close my eyes, and let the euphoria of the moment carry me. As the train hurtles towards Paris, the wheels drum out a constant rhythm, but all I hear is, “Tous ensemble, tous ensemble, ouais, ouais!”

  Chapter 12

  TODAY IS SINGAPORE’S National Day, the day we celebrate our tiny island’s separation from Malaysia to become an independent nation. As I prepare my morning coffee, I start thinking about home, and all the things I miss about it—my family, especially Dad, my friends, prata for breakfast, Katong laksa, year-round sales, Saturday afternoons at the Borders at Wheelock Place, our local theatre scene, the straightforward efficiency of everyday life. I know I’m being sentimental and nostalgic, but I indulge myself. Today is Singapore’s special day after all and, besides, there’s nothing like being in a foreign land to bring out the patriot in you. Except maybe war, but let’s not be macabre.

  I start to surf the net for National Day songs and one thing leads to another. The next thing I know, I’m having a plate of chicken rice with Thierry in, of all places, a Malaysian restaurant. This is mainly because there are no Singaporean restaurants here in Paris, and Chez Fung, a sanctuary for homesick Malaysians, is the closest Singaporeans get to food from home.

  “How was your nasi lemak?” I ask Thierry as the waiter clears our plates.

  “It was very good!”

&
nbsp; “My chicken rice was excellent too,” I say, surpressing a burp just in the nick of time.

  Thierry looks around, as if appraising the place. “I have an idea. Why don’t you ask them if they have a job opening?”

  “Ask who?”

  “The restaurant.”

  “This restaurant?” I give him a look. “You’re kidding right? I didn’t come here to get a Master’s degree so that I could work in a restaurant.”

  “Excuse me for trying to be helpful,” he says. “It’s just that...” He trails off into a complete silence, looking suddenly despondent.

  “What?”

  “I’m getting a bit nervous about you not finding a job. I want you to stay.” He pauses. “I need you to stay.”

  His raw confession makes my heart swell with emotion. “I want to stay too. I’ve applied for so many positions, you know that. But I haven’t been called for a single interview so far.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying. Maybe you need to lower your expectations a bit. It’s a tough economy out there. This isn’t Singapore.”

  He’s right of course. This isn’t Singapore, where unemployment stands at two per cent and people quit their jobs because a 30-minute commute is too much to handle. This is Paris, where youth unemployment is 25 per cent and everyone’s living in fear of getting the sack. So should I start applying for waitressing jobs, just to cast my net wider? But even if I did, would that really improve my chances of getting a work visa? My student visa expires in a month, so...

  The restaurant has been playing a mix of Mandopop and Malay songs as the soundtrack to our food, and just then, whether by design or coincidence I’m not sure, Kit Chan, comes on air, interrupting my thoughts.