Annabelle Thong

by Imran Hashim

  “Do you know when that would be?”

  “Well, you’re the last candidate we’re seeing, and the post needs to be filled as soon as possible,” Madame says. “You can expect to hear from us by the end of the week.”

  2.00am

  I can’t sleep. I’ve been tossing and turning in bed for half an hour now. I can’t stop thinking about the interview.

  Why did I do that? Why did I sabotage my one and only shot at staying in Paris? What has Mandela done to me?!

  Today is another fine August day—all sunshine and blue skies—and a cool breeze breathes through the Parc des Buttes-Chaumont. This is where Thierry has his Paris moment, and I can see why—grassy slopes, flower beds, gothic trees, a Roman temple on a cliff in a lake—parks don’t get any more dramatic or beautiful than this one. The park is filled with people—walking, picnicking, sitting on benches—but it doesn’t feel claustrophobic or suffocating. There’s so much happiness here, it feels like we’re all guests at a giant outdoor party. Good. I’m counting on the general ambience to cushion the fall.

  We’re lying on the grass, me on my side, Thierry on his back with an arm across his eyes. I watch him in silence for a while, then put a hand on his chest. He covers my hand with his, squeezes it gently, and my heart breaks.

  “Hey.”

  “Hmm?” He’s drowsy and doesn’t stir.

  “Hey, listen. I’ve got something important to tell you.”

  “What is it?” he murmurs, his eyes still covered.

  “I got the internship at the ILO.”

  “What?” He’s wide awake now, and springs upright to a seating position. “When did you find out?”

  “They called me last Friday.” I sit up and breathe deeply; I’m trying not to cry.

  “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” He’s jubilant, and leans in to kiss me on the lips. “We’ve got to go celebrate!”

  “I turned them down.”

  Thierry freezes and doesn’t say a word. His face is blank, he’s stunned.

  “I have to go home, Thierry.” I am crying now, despite myself. “Trust me, it wasn’t an easy decision, I’ve hardly slept these last few days… But I’ve found a calling and I can’t run away from it.”

  “A calling? What are you talking about?” He looks at me like I’m crazy, and maybe I am.

  “I want to help people. People who are disadvantaged, people who work two jobs and 18-hour days just to feed their families.”

  “But you can do that here.”

  “No, I can’t. I have to help the people at home. It took being away from Singapore for me to realise that I hate the way we treat our domestic workers, and I hate the way we treat unskilled workers, and I hate the way we talk about dark-skinned people.”

  “But…but you told me once you came here to find someone.”

  “I did! And I found him—I found you—and I’m so grateful for that. I love you, Thierry. But I don’t want to hate my country.”

  “You told me you wanted to stay.”

  “I did, and a part of me still does. But I can’t. I’m sorry.”

  Thierry stands up and pats himself down angrily.

  “Where are you going?” I ask.

  “I don’t know.” He refuses to look me in the eye. “Just somewhere away from you.” Without another word, he walks away and doesn’t look back.

  I just got off the phone with the travel agent—my plane ticket to Singapore has been confirmed for Saturday. This Saturday. I look around the studio and realise it’s going to be a mad rush, but there’s no point in dragging this out, no point in prolonging the pain for the both of us.

  I pick up the phone and call Thierry, even though he’s been ignoring my calls. His phone rings once, twice, thrice… Come on Thierry, please pick up the phone, please…

  “Allo.” Thierry’s voice is cold, steely.

  “Thierry? It’s me. How are you?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Look, I know you’re angry, and you have every right to be. But if we could just meet and talk things through maybe…”

  “Maybe you’ll change your mind?” he asks.

  “No, I was going to say maybe we’ll find another way to still be together.”

  “Like how?”

  “Maybe you could…I don’t know…move to Singapore. Who knows, you might like it. Things are changing really fast in that region and there are lots of things you could do. It’ll be an adventure.”

  “Come on, Belle, who are you trying to kid? You know full well what my views are about Singapore.”

  “Then do it for me. Come for me.” I steady my voice and quietly wipe the tears away. “I’ll never ask another thing of you in my life ever again. I swear.”

  Silence.

  “Can I see you once more before I leave?” I say.

  “When are you leaving?”

  “This Saturday.”

  Another silence. Then he finally says in a quiet voice, “You really can’t wait to break us up, can you?”

  He has broken me, and I start to sob.

  “Thierry, I don’t know what to say to make things better, except I’m sorry…”

  “No Belle—I’m sorry. I’m sorry I met you, I’m sorry I fell in love with you, I’m sorry I thought we could build something together. So go ahead. Go home, and have a great life.” Then the line goes dead.

  “Oh chérie, this really sucks.”

  Didi takes a pause from scrubbing my kitchen sink and takes off his rubber kitchen gloves. “It sucks so bad, like a thousand toothy blowjobs, that’s how bad it sucks.”

  I am blowing my nose, but I can’t help laughing. “I know, but what do you want me to do?”

  “Take up the internship. Do you know how many people would kill to have that opportunity?”

  “I know, but”—it feels like I’ve been saying “I know, but” the whole day—“where does that leave me five years from now? Living an enchanted life with my bobo friends in Paris, when I could be making a difference back home?”

  “I want to support you, but I feel like you’re making a big mistake,” Didi says. He comes over to the sofa bed, pushes aside all the clothes that have been pulled out of my wardrobe and sits beside me.

  “Listen Didi. Until I met you, I’ve never met anyone who had to fight, I mean really fight, to get to where he is. People like you shouldn’t have to fight alone. No one should.”

  Didi caresses my forehead, his fingers tracing the scar of our friendship. “You’ve got a big heart. You know that, right?”

  “Well, I think Thierry would beg to differ. I feel so guilty, but…”

  But there are no words, only a heart thick with feeling. Didi hugs me and puts my head on his shoulder, and I cry, like a baby, just so I can breathe.

  I hand over the keys to the real estate agent, who scours every corner of the apartment like a forensic detective, in search of any evidence of neglect she could use to justify keeping my deposit. But despite the microscopic scrutiny, chez moi gets a clean bill of health, so I’ll be getting all of my money back.

  Just before we leave the apartment, I ask the agent to give me a minute to say goodbye. She gives me a dirty look (the same one I got a year ago when I told her I wanted to move in), then crosses her arms and waits outside. I take one last tour around my 21 square metres, this chez moi that I have grown to love so much... Goodbye my lovely kitchen with its gas stove, the crime scene of many a midnight Nutella binge. Farewell my French window, where I’d perch on lazy mornings, sip my coffee and fantasise about going to the library before crawling back into bed. Au revoir my lovely toilet, that incubator of ideas both fresh and foolish.

  And now that I’m out in the street, Irène and Henri pop out of Le Saumon Qui Fume and we do the bises.

  “I’ll miss you, ma puce! Who’s going to come in at 11pm to order boeuf bourgignon once you’re gone?” Henri says.

  “Stop it! It happened that one time!”

  Irène laughs and gives me a
hug. “Take care, Belle. We’ll miss you.”

  “Thank you, to the both of you. For all the delicious food, and for bringing so much life to this street.”

  Honk! Honk!

  “My friends are here. I have to go.”

  Didi, Gula and Yannick have come to send me to the airport, and as we pull away from Rue Doudeauville, I turn around to take one last look before the street disappears from view. Didi leans forward from the middle of the back seat to get my attention. “Have you heard, chérie? About Dudoigt?”

  “No, tell me,” I say.

  “The Ethics Committee has decided to remove him from all teaching duties, so now he’ll do purely research work. And guess where his lab will be? Never mind, you’ll never guess. They’re posting him to Boulogne-sur-Mer! Imagine that, chérie! Boulogne-sur-Mer!”

  “Where is this place?” Gula asks.

  Yannick, who is driving, looks into the rearview mirror to catch Gula’s eye. “It’s not too far from Calais. It’s one of the country’s most important fishing ports actually…”

  “Whatever! It’s so far up north, they’re practically Belgian there,” Didi laughs. “Oh, and in other great news, guess who has landed himself a permanent job with Action Contre le Racisme?”

  “Really? You landed yourself a permanent position?” Yannick asks incredulously. “I’m still looking for a job…”

  Didi looks at his nails and starts to polish them against his jacket lapel. “Well, they think I did a great job as an intern, so they’ve decided to take me on. It helps, of course, that Kevin wrote me a glowing report,” he says coquettishly.

  As we turn into the highway, Yannick turns the radio up a little when an old Obispo song comes on. I love this song, but given my circumstances, it’s a bit of a downer, to say the least. My friends don’t seem to notice though, so I don’t say anything and let Obispo get on with it.

  L’important c’est d’aimer, pour tout donner

  L’important c’est d’y croire sans s’en apercevoir

  L’important c’est toujours d’être en amour

  L’important c’est donner, et ne rien demander

  My bags are checked in. Now comes the hardest part. I promised myself I wouldn’t cry, but Didi starts to, and his tears are as infectious as his laughter, and I can’t hold back. I hug each one of them in turn.

  “Au revoir, chérie,” Didi says, holding me tight. “Come back and visit, okay?”

  “I will, I promise. And you can come visit me too. There’s lots of space at my house…” I don’t bother to finish the sentence.

  I finally extricate myself. Yannick has an arm around Gula, and Didi hugs himself with one arm while his other hand wipes his wet cheeks. I say a final goodbye, turn around and walk towards the entrance to international departures.

  “Belle!” I hear Thierry’s voice in my head. Guess I’m not doing such a great job of banishing him from my mind. I keep walking—I have to, if I don’t want to fall apart.

  “Annabelle, wait!” A hand on my arm stops me. I spin around and see Thierry, his face red and a little breathless.

  “Thierry…”

  “I’ll do it. I’ll go to Singapore, if that’s what you want. But you need to give me some time to settle my affairs here, but yes, damn it, I’ll go to bloody fucking Singapore if that’s what it takes to be with you.”

  I can’t believe he’s really here. “That’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me,” I say, laughing and crying at the same time. I’m relieved and overjoyed.

  “Look, I’m sorry about what I said on the phone. I was—”

  “Just kiss me already.”

  Thierry doesn’t need any further encouragement and pulls me in for a long, slow kiss that dissolves the weight I’ve been carrying in my heart all week.

  “Call me when you get home,” he said into my hair, in a strangled voice.

  “Okay. Thanks for coming for me. But I have to go now or I’ll miss my plane.”

  “Okay. Bon voyage.”

  We have one last kiss. It takes all of my strength to pull myself together and walk away from him. I cross over to the passengers-only zone and turn around for one last look and a final wave goodbye. Wiping my tears away, I hold on tight to my red passport and continue onwards to the boarding gates. But this time, there’s a spring in my step because finally, my life is on the takeoff.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank the French Government for their generosity in supporting my studies in France, and giving me access to a life-changing experience.

  Many thanks to Anath Riveline and Philippe Barberousse, two of my earliest readers, for their advice and encouragement. And also to the wonderful team at Epigram Books and Steven Soh, who have been instrumental in helping this book find its final shape and form.

  I am deeply grateful to Dinesh Naidu and Sharon Chia, for their friendship and inspirational nonsense, and my family for their love and support.

  About the Author

  Imran Hashim fell in love with France a little late in life (in his teens) but made up for it by studying French with a vengeance at the National University of Singapore, and then winning a French Government Scholarship for his postgraduate studies at the Sorbonne and Sciences Po Paris. Apart from providing the inspiration for his first novel, his time in Paris prepared him for jobs with an international focus, and he is currently working for a British university.

  Also available on shop.epigrambooks.sg

  Winner of the 2015 Epigram Books Fiction Prize

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