by Imran Hashim
And it’s not as if my social life is that much better either. The people I know from school are just casual acquaintances for now. There’s Gula of course—she’s a bit scary but at least she makes me feel like Baudelaire. Sarah, a British girl with a slight lisp, is very nice but we seem to only be able to talk about school with each other. And I think Didi hates me for having exposed his disadvantaged social background. Sigh. I know I mustn’t be too hard on myself as it’s only the first week of school, but I also need to make more of an effort.
I look around the library and I see a group of hip-looking people semi-whispering and pretending to suppress their laughter. I can’t help but roll my eyes in distaste at their public display of happiness. Get a room, people!
The group reminds me of some classmates who meet up after classes and talk about not being able to make it for this party and that movie. Chief among them is Ursula Andersson, the Swedish bombshell, who is kind of aloof with me but very friendly with others. I bet she’s threatened by my dark exotic looks. Or by my inner beauty. Whatever it is, she seems to be at the centre of a few different groups that have formed.
Why, speak of the devil! Ursula is walking into the library with three other people—two girls I don’t know and Georges from our Philo tutorial, who seems to be a real party animal. And they’re coming this way! Should I look up and smile as an invitation for them to join me or pretend to be engrossed by the history of sociology? What if they don’t join me? That would be humiliating. But if they do, that would be my chance to break into the happening circuit. Okay, they’re approaching fast and are already in my peripheral vision—need a decision quick! Okay, I think I should, I mean there’s nothing to lose just from smiling, right? Okay, here we go, look up and…SMILE!
Crap! Too late…the only one who saw me was one of the girls I didn’t know. She looked a bit startled, so I had to quickly look down to my article still grinning to give the impression that I was terribly amused by what I was reading (Durkheim’s pioneering study on suicide, if you must know). The group has settled itself down just a row away, to my two o’clock. I will now have to make an effort not to look their way or risk appearing like a needy wallflower.
Okay back to work. Legally Blanche, Legally Blanche…
Oh my God. I can’t believe this. Just looked up “herméneutique” in all three dictionaries and I still don’t understand what it means. Now I have to go look for an English dictionary…sigh. I get up from my seat and walk towards the dictionary shelf when a colourful book spine catches my eye—The History of Haute Couture. I love libraries! So much to read, so little time. I’ll just take a really quick peek.
When I get back to my seat a quick 50 minutes later, the Ursula gang is talking quite loudly, though I can’t make out what they are saying from here. Maybe they’re planning their next party. I feel like shushing them—can’t they see that people are trying to learn about suicide? Seriously, they’re so inconsiderate!
I open the English dictionary to “hermeneutic”. Why don’t I have any friends? Why? Perhaps I should be a lot more outgoing here than I would be back home, out of sheer necessity. Yes, I think that’s it. I must map out an action plan to make more friends before Ursula hoards them all. Good Lord, all this intellectual stimulation is exhausting me. I’ll just put my head down on the table for five winks.
When consciousness creeps back, my senses tell me that my head is lying atop a huge drool-pool. Actually, because I used one of the open dictionaries as a headrest, it’s more like a drool-fall, a cascade of saliva from “hermeneutic” to the tabletop. I attempt to rummage discreetly through my bag for some tissue paper without moving my slumped torso but can’t find any. Shit. I hear Ursula coming towards me, and in a moment of sheer fright, I do the unthinkable—I slurp my drool back in.
I’m wiping my face against my T-shirt when I feel a gentle tap on my hunched shoulder.
“Salut Annabelle, my excuses for disturbing you, but are you using the Dictionary of Sociological Terms perchance?”
Perfect. Ursula wants the wet dictionary.
“No, I’m not,” I say, my head still on the table.
“Can I have it?”
“No, you can’t… I mean, I don’t have it.” I turn my head towards her so she can at least see my eyes. What the heck does she need a dictionary for anyway, with her stupid literary French?
Ursula looks doubtfully at the buffet of books around me. “Oh? The librarian said you had requested for it earlier…”
“Nope, not with me. Sorry.” I give her my best version of a Gaelic shrug, something I recently learnt from Parisian waiters.
“Never mind then,” she says. Then, peering down at my covered face, she raises a finely plucked eyebrow and asks, “Are you all right?”
I try nodding, which is impossible without lifting my head off the book, and end up looking like Quasimodo to her perfect, concerned Esmeralda. “Yes, I’m fine. Had a late night yesterday. You know… parties and such,” I say weakly.
“All right then, à toute à l’heure,” she whispers and makes her way to the dictionary shelves. Once she’s out of sight, I quickly pack up all my belongings, gather the dictionaries in my arms, dump them in the book bin and make my escape.
On my way home, I make a trek through the Dark Neighbourhood that is Paris’ 18th arrondissement. There’s a run-down African market just down the block, with grocery shops (most of which are surprisingly run by Chinese shopkeepers) selling all sorts of exotic products and boasting brands from around the continent. A quick survey of the fresh produce indicates that Africans eat a lot of corn, chilli peppers and peanuts, but not so much carrots and potatoes.
Walking around the area, I feel like I’ve stumbled upon a Paris from a parallel universe. With its grimy graffiti, daylight drunks and shady shenanigans, it’s the exact opposite of the France of my imagination. But there’s a side of me that’s revelling in the novelty of being shocked and scandalised by the noise, colours, odours and extra-generous Nubian curves that constantly threaten to spill into the public arena. I imagine this is what it’s like to live in South Africa, with its white minority and developed economy (to the extent that the 18th arrondissement of Paris can be said to have a developed economy—it’s easier to find kang kong here than a cash machine).
I clutch my sling bag close to me as I pass the open butcher shops at Rue Myrha, displaying huge slabs and planks of meat streaked with white fat hanging from hooks. I’m a reverse Marco Polo, an anti-Lara Croft, come from the creature comforts of shiny Singapore to slum it out in this secret France. Come to think of it, I kind of like the Lara Croft/Angelina Jolie idea. I should braid my hair and wear a tank top when going marketing in the future.
By the time I reach my apartment, the sun has almost set, and I squint in the semi-darkness as I prepare dinner, but it doesn’t help. Isn’t squinting something you do when it’s too bright? So I open my eyes really wide, and suddenly, as if by magic, the flat is bathed in a white fluorescent light, blinding me for a while. Oh my God, the electricity has come on. Yay! The only downside now is that my hideous sofa bed duvet looks even more grotesque in this harsh light, but this is a happy problem that can be solved with shopping.
I smile as I look around my well-lit home. Things are slowly falling into place, aren’t they? Three days ago, I finally had gas for the stove for the first time. Now I just need a phone line. In itself, the phone line isn’t really important but it’s the first step towards getting myself an Internet connection at home. First gas, now electricity. I smell civilisation coming my way.
It’s a Tuesday afternoon and, as usual, the Sorbonne’s printing lab is heaving with people. I’m looking for the shortest queue when I see Yannick messing about with one of the printers in the hopes that it will print him what he wants, instead of the wiggles and blotches that I’ve seen pass for contemporary art at the Pompidou Centre. But then again, those wiggles and blotches were on canvas, not computer paper, and as Cosmopolitan’s art
critic says, medium is everything. I seize this golden opportunity and try to help Yannick with his printer problems (unsuccessfully, of course). We finally give up, and as he’s about to leave, I make the incredibly sassy move of asking him if he wants to go for coffee. He hesitantly says yes (I suspect he doesn’t get many invitations), and we go to a nearby café where he asks me all sorts of questions about Singapore. It’s amazing how much he already knows about Singapore—he’s especially interested in Lee Kuan Yew, Ah Meng and Annabelle Chong (the latter more so than the first two, but just by a bit). And I’m suddenly struck by this thought: what does it say about a country when its three most famous personalities are a politician, an orang-utan and a porn star? We hang out for about an hour, until Yannick realises he has a dinner appointment.
“I’m sorry to rush off like this, but my sister’s in town and she hates it when I’m late. Did you know that Type A personalities lose their tempers 27 per cent more often in a week than the others?”
“No…” I say, not quite sure what to do with this piece of information. “I did not know that.”
“Well, now you do,” he says as he clumsily gathers his things. “Nice chatting with you!” And off he scurries, thus ending a most interesting afternoon.
Encouraged by my success with Yannick, I decide to organise a trip to the Sciences Po library a week later, and ask my classmates if they’re interested. You will recall that Sciences Po is the so-called “big school” for political science, and supposedly has a much better collection of books compared to ours. Yannick, Gula and Didi are the only ones keen, and so we have lunch together before setting off to Rue St Guillaume.
The expedition to the library is a giant failure, as it turned out to be members-only, but we hang around the Sciences Po campus to see what the grass is like on the other side of the academic universe. My first impression is that the students all somehow look alike, and only later realise why: almost all of them are white! They’re also more dressed up than the Sorbonne students and are more preppy looking. Some are even wearing business suits, no doubt for a presentation. Looking wistfully at them, I can’t help but think how I’d have fit right in.
Their cafeteria is also nothing like ours; it’s a very glam-looking, lounge-like area that looks like it came straight out of the set of a scifi movie about genetically enhanced French clones bred to staff an elitist bureaucracy and government. Students huddle around tables sipping espressos and talking animatedly, probably about something serious and important like the battle for Afghanistan, welfare system reform or how to divide the work for their group assignments. Others are hammering away on their laptops (they have wireless internet connection in their canteen!) and for those without laptops, there’s an Internet corner with special blue lighting for ambience. By now, I am green with envy (in spite of the blue lighting), but it doesn’t stop me from asking Gula to snap a photo of me against this backdrop of excellence to send back home. I’ll need to re-read the list I made to remind myself why I am fortunate to be in the Sorbonne.
The cafeteria opens up to a beautiful sloping garden to the left, and we all buy a coffee and sit on the lawn to soak up the autumn sunshine. Naturally, the conversation turns to how wonderful this school is compared to “la fac” (pronounced la fuck and short for la faculté, i.e. the university).
“Hey, did you guys know that two current and four former government ministers are also lecturers here? Plus the CEOs of five publicly listed French companies,” Yannick says.
“Urgh. Don’t rub it in. Why didn’t you come here for your exchange year, Yannick?” I ask.
“I don’t know. It never even occurred to me. I’m not really the ambitious type, I guess,” he says. Looking at him, you can sort of tell. Maybe it’s the way he keeps pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Or the way his clothes hang loosely off his lanky frame. No, I definitely can’t see him striding across these lawns in a suit and briefcase.
“And you, Gula?”
“I am government scholar, so my father choose for me,” Gula says. It’s a pretty good excuse.
I look at Didi. “How about you?”
“I sat for the Sciences Po entrance exam, actually, but I wasn’t accepted,” he says.
“It’s very difficult?” asks Gula.
“Yeah, especially for someone with my background,” he says.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Well, let’s just say that I don’t have all the ‘social conditions’ necessary to guarantee access to such establishments and leave it at that, shall we?”
I sense that I might have touched a raw nerve, and a short silence follows until Yannick changes the subject. He asks us what we’re doing the coming weekend and we make tentative plans to go out for a movie. The storm in the teacup passes almost as suddenly as it was brewed.
Soon it’s time to go for class, and we trek back up Boulevard St Germain, walking past designer boutiques, swanky restaurants and specialty stores. As we turn into Boulevard St Michel, I notice from the corner of my eye that the two tall men in brown suits and sunglasses who’ve been hanging around us at the Sciences Po garden are walking close behind.
“Hey, don’t look now, but I think those guys in sunglasses are following us,” I say in a low voice.
This of course has the effect of making all of them turn round simultaneously to look.
“I said, don’t look! Now they’ll know that we’ve noticed them following us!” I quicken my steps and start to break away from the pack but Gula catches my arm.
“Relax! It’s just Shafkat and Furkat.”
“You know them?” I ask in astonishment.
“Of course I know! They are my bodyguards. From Uzbek Secret Service. Protect me from kidnappers.”
“Well, that’s very glamorous and all, but why would anyone want to kidnap you?” Didi asks.
She looks at him like he’s an idiot, and says darkly, “I am Education Minister’s daughter.”
So the long and short of all this is—I have friends! Yay! I’m not a social misfit after all, drool-slurping aside. You see? All I need to do is consciously set myself goals, apply myself, and success will follow. Just like for the ‘A’ Levels.
Autumn is a beautiful time in Paris. Back home our trees are evergreen, but here it’s amazing to see the chestnut and linden trees that line the avenues change colour and start to shed their leaves. Reading about autumn is one thing, seeing it and smelling it in the air is something else. With autumn comes the premonition of winter, and sitting at home, I start to feel a bit chilly. I go over to my wardrobe to grab a sweater when I suddenly realise that I have nothing to wear. For the first time since moving in, I look at my wardrobe. I mean really look—and a cave stares back at me. I stick my head in, say “Hel-lo?” and sure enough, an echo bounces accusingly back at me.
There’s no time to waste. I throw on the emergency Zara sweater I bought last month, a scarf, and do a quick mirror check. Jet-black bangs still in shape, nose powdered, exotic-Asian-beauty attitude activated. But something’s still missing though…
Oh, that’s right. I’ll need my Chanel sunglasses. Okay, now I’m ready. Boulevard Haussman, here I come!
12.00pm, Boulevard Haussman
I love my neighbourhood. I really do. But the Galeries Lafayette—now this feels like home. Of course there’s that moment of pure reverence when I first walk into the huge atrium, tilt back my head and—eyes widening in awe—scan floor upon floor of back-lit balconies before taking in the store’s magnificent steel and stained-glass dome. Hallelujah! I’m in the Sistine Chapel of Shopping! I let out a gasp and a prayer (Dear God, let this day never end…), a primordial instinct kicks in and my body just goes on auto-pilot.
12.10pm
Are my eyes playing tricks on me or are those the suede Chloé boots from this month’s Vogue? How did they get to the stores so fast? In Singapore, I would have to wait at least six months for anything in Vogue to materialise in the shops, by which time it would
be so-last-season. I walk quickly towards them, almost fearful that they would disappear into thin air like a mirage. I pick up a shoe and marvel at the leather. It feels good to the touch. But touching them isn’t enough for my fix, and I look around to make sure no one’s watching. All clear.
I put my face into a boot and inhale, hard and deep. Oh God, nothing smells quite like fresh shoe leather. Inhale…
“Can I help you, Madame?” comes a voice out of nowhere.
I jerk myself upright and pretend I haven’t been caught shoe-sniffing.
“Yes, I’m looking for the size on these boots. Everything’s printed so small! Can you…oh there it is. Perfect, it’s exactly my size.”
“Would Madame like to try them on?” says the assistant encouragingly.
She doesn’t need to ask twice. In 30 seconds flat, I’m in those shoes, striding, strolling and stomping all around the shoe department. When I’m done looking at them from every possible angle, I hand them back to the assistant and say, as is the custom in Singapore, “Can you get me a new pair please?”
But the assistant just stands there and looks at me.
“But Madame, these are new,” she says, not understanding that I am asking for a pair that hasn’t been soiled by human contact.
“Yes, but can I have a newer pair? From the storeroom?” I suggest helpfully, with the sweetest smile I can muster.
That doesn’t seem to cut any ice with the assistant. Her own smile is gone, and she says somewhat glacially, “Every item we carry is equally new. We are the Galeries Lafayette, Madame, not eBay.”
