by Imran Hashim
“In that case, how about sexy? Guys like sexy lady,” Gula says.
“No. That’s too slutty.”
“Gentle?”
“Too soft.”
“Strong?”
“They’ll think I’m a shrew!”
“Intelligent?”
“Too intimidating.”
Gula gave a few more inappropriate suggestions and then, there’s a pause. “Annabelle?” she says.
“What?”
“I think I run out of French adjectives.”
I thank her and call Didi next, hoping for better luck with a native French speaker.
“Oh, that’s fun!” he exclaims when I explain to him my emergency. “Off the top of my head, maybe you could try kitten.”
“Why kitten?” I ask in surprise.
“Because a kitten is playful, naughty, cute and innocent. And most importantly…” You can almost hear the drumroll, “…it’ll grow into a pussy when given tender loving care.”
“Gross!”
“Then how about tortoise?” he says.
I try to resist from asking why, but curiosity gets the better of me.
“So that when your date asks you the same question, you can say, ‘Because I am most vulnerable on my back’.”
He is laughing now, amused by himself and oblivious to the fact that the future of my womanhood is at stake.
“I am NOT describing myself as a tortoise for my personal ad! Could you please try to be a bit more helpful?”
“Well, you can try terrapin but I don’t know if it’ll have the same effect.”
“I’m serious!” I say, infuriated.
“Okay, okay. I can’t think of anything else, but the idea is not to restrict yourself to just adjectives—cute, lively, smart—these are for amateurs of the dating game, chérie. What you need are words that will tear apart the competition. Try a mix of adjectives and nouns. How about ‘crazy-yummy-Belle’? I think that sounds sexy.”
“Yeah, I’ll be sure to use that when I’m ready to date a cannibal. Thanks!” I say and hang up.
5.10pm
After hours of agonising, I have finally uploaded my new profile on the web personals, proclaiming myself to be caring, honest and sincere. Oh God, I hope it works!
11.20pm
No replies to my ad yet.
11.45pm
Still nothing. Maybe I should change my profile picture. Think I’ll use the one of me smiling, white teeth gleaming as I cuddle Auntie Stella’s Westie up to my face. It’s so much more “caring, honest and sincere” than the current one, where I look like I’m enjoying my bowl of ban mian a tad too much.
1.30am
No reply! Incredible!
7.45am
Oh God. I need to get up. Move legs. Move head.
I slowly sit up in bed. God, why are mornings so hard? I wonder if anyone has given me a digital rose whilst I was enjoying my beauty sleep. My hands are now functional, and they are itching to switch on the laptop, but I decide not to check for replies today—I will not be a slave to such girlish insecurities. I am a beautiful, modern Asian woman and I must repeat, mantra-like, Beauty Secret Number 10: “Self-confidence is the ultimate aphrodisiac.”
11.56pm
I have resisted checking the personals today. I am indeed confident and beautiful.
12.01am
Why is the Internet so freaking slow? Come on, come on! Load my messages already…
Nothing.
I’m beginning to wonder if there’s been a nationwide disruption of Internet access from which I have been miraculously spared.
11.30pm
Oh Lord, WHY? Why don’t any French men want to meet this caring, honest and sincere Asian girl? Don’t they like Asian girls? Don’t they like dogs?
I glance through some of the male profiles. Huh! I think I’d be a great catch for many of them, if I may say so myself.
The thought of sending a message to some of the more interesting profiles did occur to me, but it’s too late now. A line has been crossed. This is no longer about me finding a date; it’s about personal pride and dignity. If these guys aren’t interested, I’m not interested.
Whatever. I am now going to go to bed with my head held high (figuratively of course, as it’s difficult to hold one’s head high and lie down at the same time).
8.27am
I wake up trembling from a horrible nightmare where I immaculately conceive a balding 37-year-old man named “Rich Clever Lonely” and then die during delivery. What could it mean?
11.30am
A quiet, inexplicable panic has come over me, and I find myself making my way to the Basilica of the Sacred Heart. I light a prayer candle, place it in front of a statue of Mother Mary, and pray.
Oh God, please don’t let me die a virgin old maid. I’ll help You to help myself, I promise—I will change my profile photo, drop the stupid caring persona and just be my true self: Funny Independent Belle.
2.15pm
So Frenchmen don’t like funny and independent. Maybe it’s too radically different from their conventional wisdom on Asian women. Maybe Gula was right after all; I’ll try out “Young Cheerful Asian”.
3.55pm
Twenty-four hours later, there’s still nothing. Strange strange strange. Maybe I’ll need to mix-and-match my friends’ ideas. Synergy is the key! I am now “Crazy Gentle Belle”.
8.45pm
Young Intelligent Belle.
9.15pm
Crazy Asian Kitten.
11.45pm
Kitten Crazy Asian.
Seven days and 59 permutations later, I still have no reply to my personal ad. This website is obviously a dead horse that’s taking me on a ride to nowhere. I’m feeling very bitter now, like I have been scorned by all the men online, but rather than surrender meekly to their collective indifference, I’ve decided to express my fury and contempt through an act of vengeful amour propre, a spectacular digital hara-kiri that will save my face and free my soul.
I switch back to the photo where I get orgasmic over ban mian (who needs men when you have ban mian? Not THIS girl!), and sign off as “Yummy Asian Tortoise”.
Patrick Dudoigt is seated behind the small table at the front of the classroom, speaking soulfully about something anthropologically related, and I must admit that I am quite smitten with him. He is really such a lovely man and he dresses very well; the shirt he’s wearing today is very fetching, if a bit G2000-esque. And his hair is really lovely; his fringe is a bit long, so he has to sweep it back from his face from time to time. What a rogue.
It’s just a crush, of course. I mean, obviously. He may be of marriageable age, but I’m sure he’s spoken for. And even if he isn’t, well, it’s still totally impossible. Which is why this is such a fun crush to have. The knowledge that nothing could ever happen between us keeps me safe, like steel armour around my heart.
One and a half months into the semester, I would love to report that I’m getting an education at the Sorbonne, but my grades seem to be suggesting otherwise. I have failed both the essays I’ve submitted so far. That’s a 100 per cent failure rate. I knew I was going to break new ground for myself in France, but this wasn’t quite what I had in mind. I had nine over 20 (everything is marked over 20 here in France, don’t ask me why) for my commentary on a Charles de Gaulle speech, which wasn’t very surprising because I had realised that it was totally out of point only as I was writing the conclusion at home, at eight in the morning (due for submission at 8.30).
What devastated me more was the six that I got for a book review for French class. To be honest, I’m not quite sure which is more depressing, getting a six or being tied with Gula at the bottom of the class. And I thought I had done quite a good piece of work too! M. Duprieux returned the essays one by one, starting with the best, and giving a verbal commentary each time so the whole world would know what kind of work you were turning in. My paper was the last one he handed out (after Gula, if you can believe that) and he must
have registered my pained and humiliated expression because all he said was that I needed to buck up. He didn’t mince any words in his written comments though: “Your arguments are convincing enough but your lack of mastery of the language hardly does them justice.”
I need to try harder. I really do. I must live up to the Singaporean work ethic, and it’s never too late to start. Never. In fact, I should be paying attention to Dudoigt right this very minute, and try to make a good impression. After all, he’s my supervisor. Is he talking about Clifford Geertz now? The way he’s pronouncing it, I can’t be too sure.
I raise my hand and clarify the point. He apologises for his pronunciation and thanks me, making me blush a little. I’m emboldened. I think this is my chance to show off a little about Geertz, because I do know a thing a two about that old coot. So I say, “And the book you are referring to, it’s Religion of Java, am I right?”
As it turns out, Dudoigt has been talking about Bali, and Geertz, God bless his prolific soul, had written more than one famous book in his lifetime.
“No, we’ve moved on to The Interpretation of Cultures. I did mention that earlier. Am I going too fast, Mademoiselle Thong?”
I bite my lower lip and shake my head, now blushing for all the wrong reasons.
Dudoigt must have felt bad for me, and says, “Sorry about the Southern accent. But don’t worry, foreigners get used to it faster than Parisians do,” and flashes me a sun-drenched smile.
Oh God, isn’t he lovely?
I’ve just finished washing my hair and look at my reflection in the bathroom mirror as I rub my head with a towel. Thankfully my hair doesn’t grow very fast and is still in pretty good shape, but then again what’s the point of having nice hair when it’s sitting at home on a Friday night, waiting to dry? This hair deserves to be out and about, being tugged at playfully in a bar or swinging wildly in a club. Sometimes I feel like such a loser.
I walk over to the table in my bathrobe and take a quick glance at my inbox before crawling into bed, just out of habit. But wait. What’s this? Is that a heart I see on my dating profile? My own flesh and blood heart skips a beat as I click on the message with trembling fingers. A message in French pops up, and this is what it says (and here I translate):
Dear Annabelle,
I was intrigued by your personal profile and felt compelled to write to you. I love Asian animals, and would really like to get to know you better. You said in your profile that you enjoy getting out of your comfort zone and being of service to others; it seems to me you are a girl after my own heart. Write me soon.
Pierre
There’s a link to his profile which I follow as keenly as a treasure trail, my heart palpitating, my lips quivering, my imagination racing ahead of time to the moment of truth.
First come the three words: Fun Dog Master. What a nice mix of frivolity and authority. And dogs are loyal and faithful—definitely qualities I would look for in a man.
Then comes the all-important photo. It’s a classic mug-shot, but you can tell he’s a tall, lean man. He’s average looking with brown hair, but his eyes are unusually small. The combination is slightly disconcerting but not enough to stall my revved up engine. I’m quite determined to like him, really. Basic courtesy demands it. After all, he did respond to my ad, which surely says something about his impeccable taste.
I then read his detailed profile, smiling to myself, sucking on the tips of my hair and generally feeling like a sex bomb. According to the profile, he’s 34, 1.82m, likes jazz, opera, fine dining and hates doing housework. He also enjoys “being in control” and is looking for an “Asian with great inner strength in the face of hardship.” Just as well that I have inner strength (and inner beauty to boot)!
I’ve read enough, and before I know it, I’m already hammering out a reply to Pierre on my keyboard to tell him that I would like to get to know him better too.
After having read his email at least 12 times (my favourite part is “a girl after my own heart”) and mine 14 (to check for spelling and grammar mistakes), I am now emotionally, physically and mentally drained and am going to call it a night. More than ever, I need my Beauty Sleep.
The next day is another exciting one as Pierre and I furiously exchange text messages. We’re mainly introducing ourselves, providing little nuggets of information that aren’t found on our respective profiles and exchanging small compliments. By nighttime, he is suggesting the timing of our first date, and telling me that he’ll be away on business in the intervening period. I can’t get over the speed at which things are developing—we’ll be meeting next Friday!
But something’s just struck me. I have a date in less than a week and I still have not sorted out my winter fashion! How am I supposed to make a good first impression without the right coat? On cold days, I’ve been making do with a mini trench coat I brought from Singapore, a country not known for either winter or fashion. Okay, I’ll need to do some research on this season’s collections and spend the rest of tonight planning my First Date Outfit.
Our Philosophy tutor, M. Stempin, calls for a smoke break (he can’t last 30 minutes without a cigarette) and everyone troops out into the courtyard, relieved. Incidentally, I’m the only one in class who doesn’t smoke. I go up to Didi as he lights a Virginia Slims (is it Virginia Slim if it’s just the one?). He takes a deep breath and tilts his chin upwards as he blows the smoke out. Smoking may be bad for your health, but the French manage to make it seem so cool and sophisticated, especially after a half-hour discussion on Rousseau.
“I don’t understand this country,” I say by means of starting a conversation.
“What don’t you understand?” Didi asks.
“I ran around town from one place to another yesterday and found most of the shops closed. Why are shops closed on Sundays? I mean, what’s the purpose of a day off if you can’t go shopping? It just doesn’t make sense!”
“Sunday is for resting, chérie,” Didi says, and takes another puff. “People need to rest and relax.”
“Well, I find shopping relaxing, but I can’t do it here on Sunday, which makes me pretty tense.” I fan my face with my hand, but it’s useless. The smoke is coming from every direction. “You see, I’ve got a date coming up and nothing to wear. It’s tragic.”
“Ooh-la-la. A date,” Didi says, looking impressed. “In that case, why don’t we skip the Sociology lecture this afternoon? I could show you some really nice shops if you want.”
“You mean, for women’s clothes?” I ask sceptically.
“No, they’re boutiques for ogres,” he says rolling his eyeballs. “Of course for women’s clothes! We’re shopping for you, aren’t we?”
“But what about the lecture?” I ask. I’ve never been the type to cut classes. Hand in assignments late, maybe, but not play hooky.
Didi grasps my arm, looks me straight in the eye and says, “Chérie, you can always copy someone’s notes, but when it comes to style, it must always—always—be your own.”
I am immediately mesmerised by Didi’s wisdom, and so after class, Didi and I set off for the St Michel Metro station. As we stride down Boulevard Saint-Michel, I turn to him and ask eagerly, “So where are we going?”
“Have you been to Manouch?”
“No,” I say.
“Okay, we could try that. How about Iro?”
“No, not really…”
“And Sandro?”
“Where’s that?”
Didi brings himself to a sudden halt in the middle of the busy pavement and stares at me incredulously. “Zadig et Voltaire? The Kooples? American Retro?” he says, his voice rising in pitch at each name, while I shake my head in shame. “And you call yourself a Parisienne?”
Didi decides to take my fashion education in hand that afternoon, and even though it’s a steep learning curve, I prove to be a more than able disciple. After five shops, I get a good sense of what real Parisiennes are buying, which can essentially be summed up as black, grey and white wool or c
otton-wool mix in deconstructed, organic shapes.
By the time we get to American Retro, I am labouring with my bags like a Samsui woman, happy but exhausted. My legs are aching and I almost refuse to go in, but then I see it—the fur coat that will become the pièce de résistance of my winter wardrobe, draped around the shoulders of a mannequin that even looks like me.
Okay, so it’s not really a fur coat. I just like calling it that. It’s a black, woollen coat, with a luxurious faux fur collar and cuffs and big shiny buttons. I try it on, and Didi takes a step back to make his assessment.
Finally, after a full two minutes of eyeballing me, he makes his pronouncement. “Magnifique!”
I look in the mirror and have to agree—I’ve never looked sexier with so much clothing on. Mr Fun Dog Master, here I come!
Next stop is Café Beaubourg, situated beside the Centre Pompidou and a popular place to see and be seen. It’s not too cold today so we sit outside en terrasse, to people-watch, the shopping bags arranged at our feet like ancestor offerings. A smartly dressed waiter takes our order with professional courtesy, but nothing more.
“Have you noticed that Yannick and Gula have been hanging out a lot by themselves recently? I wonder what’s going on there,” I say.
“Yes, I’ve been observing them. I think he has the hots for her. I guess he likes them bossy,” Didi says, laughing.
“How about you, Didi? What kind of girls do you like?”
He stares at me for a moment, with a look I can’t quite fathom, and finally says, “Generally, I like them tall and hairy.”
“You mean girls who don’t shave? Eeewww…that’s nasty!”
“No, I mean men who don’t shave.”
“What do you mean ‘men who don’t sh...’” I stare at him. “What do you mean men?”
“I mean homo sapiens with penises. You know, the kind you’re trying to snag?”
The picture is getting clearer but it still takes some time for my mind to wrap itself around the idea.
“Are you gay?” I ask.
“Yes, I’m gay.”
“Ohhhh…” I’m not too sure what else to say.
