Annabelle Thong

by Imran Hashim

“Whenever I am feeling low,

  I look around me and I know,

  There’s a place that will stay within me,

  Wherever I may choose to go…”

  Damn that Kit Chan. She really knows how to press my buttons. As homesickness engulfs me, I ask Thierry to get the bill while I wait outside.

  “Is everything okay?” he asks, as I get up and grab my tote bag.

  “Yes, but this song is going to make me cry, and I’d rather not,” I laugh nervously. I make a hasty exit and breathe in the fresh air in gulpfuls to steady my emotions.

  Oh my God. Emergency. EMERGENCY! Just woke up, and am tiptoe-pacing (as opposed to properly pacing) around my tiny kitchen. Thierry is still fast asleep on my bed, snoring lightly, mouth slightly agape, and I can’t help smiling despite my agitated state.

  I know. I’ll call Didi. I take my nightie off, throw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, grab my phone and slip downstairs.

  Please pick up please pick up please pick… “Didi?”

  “Bonjour chérie! Comment vas-tu? I was just about to call you!” he says, in that insincere way that means he’s doing nothing of the sort. “You will never guess what Kevin said to me the other day. Never. But go ahead. Just try.”

  “Can we do yours later? I have an emergency on my hands,” I say, as I walk aimlessly up Rue Doudeauville.

  “But mine’s big, chérie. Huge!”

  “Didi…”

  “Okay, only one way to settle this. We’ll say it out at the same time. To the count of three…un, deux, trois!”

  “He said ‘I love you!’” we say simultaneously and gasp.

  I break the short, stunned silence. “Kevin told you he loved you?”

  “He did! We went window shopping last Saturday, you know, just to see if there’s anything left from the summer sale. Anyway, I was trying on this really cute pair of Gucci shorts. I looked at myself in the mirror, saw how fabulous I was, and said, ‘I love me.’ Kevin was just beside me, and he said ‘Me too.’ He said that he loved me too, chérie! Isn’t that just the most touching thing you’ve ever heard?”

  “Maybe he meant he loved himself too. Was he trying something on as well?”

  “That’s besides the point, chérie. You are so not a morning person.” I picture Didi’s eyeballs rolling in their sockets, his lips forming a sulky pout. “Well, let’s see what you’ve got.”

  “Okay, so last night Thierry came over to my place for dinner. I cooked, we had a bottle of Bordeaux, dessert, the works. After that, we retired to my sofa bed to make out and…that’s when he said it.”

  “Did he say it just to get sex?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “I said, ‘I love you too.’ And then I kissed him and let him get to second base… Wait, second base is my breasts, right?”

  “What would I know about breasts, chérie? But for argument’s sake, yes. I think the right breast is first base and the left breast is second base.”

  “Okay, so he got to first and second base, and he wanted more. But I told him I wanted to move very slowly on that front, and he said okay, he would let me set the pace. So we just cuddled and talked and pretended as if his erection wasn’t there, even though it was so there, sort of like the proverbial elephant in the room.”

  “Like an elephant? My my…” Didi purred.

  I stop in my tracks in the middle of the pavement, appalled. “Zaid Rachidi! Are you perving on my boyfriend?!”

  The realisation is sudden, not so much a dawn as a lightning bolt. “Oh my God! I have a boyfriend!”

  “Oh chérie, we’ve both got boyfriends! And they love us!”

  “And we love them!” I look around me and realise that I’ve walked two blocks without realising it. “Didi, I have to go,” I say, and grinning, start to run all the way home.

  The week leading up to thesis submission was gruelling to say the least, both mentally and physically. Because I was running behind schedule, I had to devote my every waking moment to finishing the bloody thesis, limiting my activities to those that were strictly necessary for human life—eating, drinking, breathing, going to the loo, talking to Thierry on the phone (often simultaneously for greater efficiency, though I drew the line at eating in the loo). On some days, I didn’t even bathe—that was how bad it was. I would wake up at 10, write two pages (which would take me to 3pm), have lunch, write two pages (which would take me to 11pm, cf. law of diminishing returns) have dinner and write one page (which would take me till 5am), then throw in the towel and sleep till 10 the next day. I did this every single day till I hammered out my last sentence, printed everything out, dashed to the photocopying shop to get my 87 pages copied and bound, ran to the Post Office before it closed, and mailed a copy each to Blois and Bony Face. Then I limped back home like I’d just finished the marathon, crashed into bed and didn’t wake up for 13 hours.

  And today is the day of the soutenance, my thesis defence. Essentially, it’s going to be the Mother of All Oral Exams, so help me God. Thierry has been coaching me, so at least I’ve had a bit of practice. Speaking of which, Thierry and I are seeing each other almost every other day now. What can I say? Being around him just makes me so damn happy. He either comes over for dinner after work or we go out for a drink and a quick bite. When we’re chez moi, it feels very domestic and exciting at the same time; it’s like he has unleashed this primal force within me that I never knew existed—Belle as a nurturing Earth goddess—and my basic instincts take over and before I know it I’m cooking curry and tossing salads and smothering him with my breasts.

  But it’s not all smooth sailing. We’re also learning how far we can push or pull before the other one snaps. Sometimes it seems like we’re congenitally programmed to disagree on everything—social issues, politics, fashion, movies, home décor, the hotness of Guillaume Canet, you name it. The most innocent of remarks can escalate into full-fledged debates, which have then been known to degenerate into fist-thumping, chest-beating, door-slamming tantrums. We’re trying to cut down on those.

  Didi asked me the other day if Thierry is The One, the great love of my life, and I told him that I loved Thierry, and that was all I needed to know. I look at my parents and I see that love isn’t meant to last, but you can make it last, by sheer will, acceptance and forgiveness. And if that’s good enough for them, it’s good enough for me.

  When I walk into the examination room, my palms are so sweaty they leave a mark on the red jacket of my manuscript.

  “Bonjour Monsieur Blois. Bonjour Monsieur Boniface,” I say as I shake their hands.

  We exchange a couple of niceties about the beautiful weather and how we are spending summer, and then, it’s down to business.

  They start by asking me to do a quick overview of my thesis. Easy peasy. I launch into my spiel. Ten minutes into my monologue, Bony Face interrupts me and tells me to “skip to the conclusion”. I suppress a panic attack and clear my throat.

  “And so my conclusion to the central problématique of this work—‘Foreign Domestic Workers in Singapore: Salvation or Exploitation?’—is that the reality on the ground is more complex and nuanced than what many scholars would have us believe. Salvation or exploitation, it all depends on the narrator’s identity and agenda.

  “As my interviews have shown, foreign domestic workers in Singapore generally feel well-integrated into their employers’ families, and enjoy a sense of wellbeing. For many of them, working overseas is seen as an opportunity, a lifeline that allows them to escape harsh economic and working conditions at home, while at the same time ensuring a better economic future for their family. They do not feel oppressed or enslaved, because there is agency—they have choices that they can, and do, exercise.

  “That said, Singapore society does try to get away with the minimum necessary to benefit from the contributions made by these workers, as I have shown in my thesis. And when you give the least possible in order to get the most out of s
omething or someone, that’s the very definition of exploitation. So salvation or exploitation? I think there’s an element of both, but as a society, we should be working towards the promotion of domestic workers’ welfare and the elimination of exploitative practices.”

  Blois speaks first, and when he expresses “shock” at some of Singapore’s policies, his beard quivering, I know I’ve hit the jackpot. The French love to be shocked, especially by “authoritarian regimes” like Singapore; for them, there’s no moral horse higher than the fight against tyranny.

  “I didn’t know that domestic workers’ welfare isn’t protected under the law. That’s scandalous,” he says, spraying his beard with spittle. “And to think that some of these workers get only one day off per month… It’s beyond comprehension.” (For someone with four months of paid leave a year, his incredulity is understandable.)

  Bony Face turns to Blois and says, “It’s to be expected when they can’t unionise. They have nobody to represent them. It’s no wonder their salaries have stagnated over 20 years, while the per capita GDP has increased fourfold.”

  “I don’t know about that, Jean-Paul,” Blois says, stroking his beard pensively. “Singaporean workers aren’t massively unionised but their salaries have managed to keep pace with growth, at least until about five years ago. It’s the levy that the government imposes that is holding foreign workers’ salaries down.”

  Bony Face, doesn’t take this very well, and they start to sedately but savagely debate the role and importance of unions in a politically closed society, while I twiddle my fingers with glee. Better to have them at each other’s throats than mine. Fifteen minutes later, they suddenly remember there is a third person in the room.

  “Congratulations, Mademoiselle Thong,” Bony Face says, turning to me with a smile, “you’ve managed to get two old men very excited.”

  “All in a day’s work,” I say sweetly.

  “Well,” he continues, “I must say that I am pleasantly surprised by your work. Your research gives us interesting new information about Singapore, and your critique of government policies relating to foreign domestic workers is analytical and well-argued. You have a tendency to use modernist language—you have to watch out for that—but overall, I am impressed at your ability to step outside of yourself, and see the world with new eyes.”

  “We’ve discussed your grade,” Blois adds, “and we are happy to confirm that you will get a grade of 13 for your thesis.”

  I can’t believe my ears. 13 points from Blois and Bony Face?! Me? It’s as if I’ve turned into a smart French person or something. It looks like two months of libraries, 16 hours of interviews, 257 footnotes and countless bowls of instant noodles have finally paid off!

  “Merci! Merci messieurs, merci pour tout,” I blubber, clutching my copy of the thesis to my heart.

  “Once again, congratulations, and I hope you’ve enjoyed your stay in Paris,” Bony Face says with a twinkle in his eyes.

  The Metro gushes from its tunnel into broad daylight and my fellow passengers and I suddenly find ourselves travelling overground through some of the posher neighbourhoods in the 15th arrondissement. Needless to say, this is not a part of Paris I am familiar with, and the reason I’m here is because I’m headed for an interview with the International Labour Organisation. Yes, that’s right. The International Labour Organisation.

  Now, I can tell you that no one was more surprised than me when they called regarding the internship I had applied for. After all, the counselor from the Sorbonne’s international students desk had told me that it would take a miracle for me to get an internship with the UN (notice the nurturing environment?), given how I would be competing with droves of grande école graduates.

  So when a lady phoned one afternoon and said “Bonjour, Mademoiselle Thong. Je m’appelle Céline de Rocher, et je vous appelle de l’Organisation internationale du travail,” I froze. I-bloody-L-O was on the line. I didn’t know what to say, but I knew I needed to say something.

  “Oui…ça va?”

  The words slipped out of me before quality control had time to kick in. I’d just asked Madame de Rocher, a perfect stranger, how things were going. Like we were old friends or something. I might as well have said, “Hey sistah, how’s it hangin’?”

  Madame de Rocher was obviously perturbed by this uncalled for familiarity. “Yes, all is well with me…” she said uncertainly, and then, making a special effort herself, “… how’s everything with you?” I said I was very well, thank you, and we somehow managed to get back on track.

  The upshot is that I have an interview at their office at Boulevard Garibaldi in 20 minutes. When the Metro pulls to a stop at Sèvres-Lecourbe, I flip the metal handle to open the doors, step out and take a moment to breathe in really deeply. Gravy Town, here I come!

  When I step into the interview room, I immediately see that the panel is made up of a French lady in a Chanel jacket (très classe), a dashing blonde Scandinavian (like there’s any other kind), a balding Korean and a grandfatherly African man who momentarily freaks me out when I mistake him for Nelson Mandela. I should also specify that the Scandinavian and Korean are both men, just in case there’s any doubt.

  The first part of the interview goes pretty well—they ask me about my educational qualifications, experience as a teacher and my motivation for applying for the internship, which I am well prepared for. But just as I’m starting to feel more relaxed, the questions get tougher.

  At one point, the Scandinavian gentleman very undashingly says to me in English, “Ms Thong, are you aware that the Singapore government has not ratified three of the ILO’s core Conventions, one of which is the Convention concerning discrimination with respect to employment and occupation? Given that you are applying to be an intern with the ILO’s Working Conditions and Equality Department, I am very interested to hear your views on that.”

  I take a deep breath. “Well, my understanding is that the Singapore government has some concerns about how ratification will cause rigidities in the labour market—”

  “Are you saying that it’s all right for employers to have discriminatory hiring practices, for example, for the sake of a more flexible labour market?”

  “No, of course not. But the Singapore government prides itself on being business-friendly, so it’s loathe to regulate the market. If Singapore is to move towards zero-tolerance of discrimination in the workplace—and it should—then businesses need to be educated and brought on board. Lobbying the Singapore government alone won’t help.”

  Nelson Mandela and the Korean smile and nod, but the blonde man just looks at me coolly, while the French woman tilts her head to one side as she poises herself to ask me a question. She clears her throat, then speaks to me in French (of course).

  “Mademoiselle, do you think that Singapore has achieved gender equality in the workplace?”

  “I believe so, for the most part.”

  “If that is the case, could you explain to us why, in the history of your country, no woman has ever been named a Cabinet minister?”

  I have never noticed this before, and my mind races through the list of ministers past and present, at least the ones I can remember, and she’s right. I can’t recall a single one. Crap.

  “I guess the glass ceiling still exists for women in Singapore?”

  She smiles, but not with her eyes, and jots down some notes, probably something along the lines of “Traitor to feminism; does not deserve to wear that Armani power suit”.

  The Korean man is next, and he speaks with a heavy accent. “What are you passionate about? Maybe you can tell us about the social causes you support.”

  Finally, an easy question. “I’m passionate about policy issues concerning the working poor in general, and low-skilled migrant workers in particular. In fact, my Master’s thesis was on the topic of foreign domestic workers in Singapore and their working conditions.”

  “Very interesting. Please tell us more.”

  And so I tell
them about my findings on the lives of maids in Singapore—their hopes, their dreams, their grouses, their horror stories. What they want from their employers (better pay, more rest days, a thank you every now and then) and the government (clearer and better protection enshrined in the law) and how they are powerless to make any demands.

  “And domestic workers aren’t the only group that are at risk of exploitation by unscrupulous employers. There are many others that need better protection—construction workers, security guards, frontliners in the service industry. And not just legal protection. As a society, we need to give these people the respect they deserve; we need to take them seriously. Because despite the shiny cars, the gleaming skyscrapers and the immense wealth, there are sizeable groups of people in Singapore who have been squeezed out of the magic circle and who are made to feel like they don’t matter.”

  “You make it sound like there’s a lot of work to be done in Singapore,” Mandela says.

  “There is. It’s quite daunting when you think about it, but it needs to be done.”

  “Then why don’t you do it?” Mandela asks, not as a taunt, but as a thoughtful suggestion.

  For the first time during this interview, I falter. I don’t know how to respond.

  “Well… I could if… What I mean is… I would like to…when I go home eventually.”

  “And where do you see yourself in five years’ time?”

  I know what the right answer is—“Here at the ILO, contributing to the policy work of the Working Conditions and Equality Department.” At least that’s the answer I’ve prepared. But I can’t bring myself to lie to Mandela. Who could?

  “I’m not sure.”

  “You’re not sure?” Blondie says, incredulous.

  “I guess I’m keeping my options open.”

  I think I hear a grunt come from Madame. The panel then asks a few more questions before bringing the interview to a close. I get up to leave and make sure to give everyone a sweet smile and a firm handshake.

  “We’ll let you know the results,” Mandela says, smiling back at me like a kind granduncle.