by Imran Hashim
I check my LB-LP and it says that I’m supposed to be at the gym now. The only problem is that I still haven’t signed up with one. Since there’s no time like the present, I think I’ll go do that now. I’ve got to keep myself busy, distract myself and not obsess about Dudoigt.
Last night, I tossed and turned, worried that Dudoigt wouldn’t buy my story about Georges. So when he asks me to stay back after today’s lecture, my heart does a double backflip and lands with a thud in the pit of my stomach. When everyone is out of earshot, I drag my feet down to the centre of the auditorium.
“Annabelle,” he says, as he stuffs the last of his notes into a seasoned leather satchel. “Listen, I’ve been thinking about what you said yesterday…”
He pauses to look me in the eyes. I turn away.
“…And I’d like to apologise for embarrassing you like that. In fact, I embarrassed the both of us.”
I feel a surge of relief that I’ve fooled him but it’s short-lived. I look up and see a sheepish looking Dudoigt. “You must think I’m conceited.”
“Non, Monsieur. Please, it’s not your fault. I’m the one who should be embarrassed. After all, I was the one who was drunk. In fact, if you ask me, I’m still way ahead of you in the embarrassment stakes.”
He laughs. “Well, you were rather…how shall I put it…liberated that evening. On the plus side, it did give your Macarena a really mean edge.”
“I can do the Macarena?”
“You need to see it to believe it,” he says, and we both start to laugh. And just like that, all is well with the world again. Well, almost. I may have salvaged our student-teacher relationship, but the fact remains that I am still psychotically infatuated with him. I’ll need to work on that.
Later that evening, on the way home, I pass by Le Saumon Qui Fume (the Smoking Salmon), which is the new bistro that has taken the place of Café Roger. I’m feeling cold and hungry, and it looks so cosy and welcoming with its congratulatory bouquets of roses and white lilies from well-wishers. I can’t resist the temptation and step inside. Besides, I deserve a little treat for having brilliantly defused the situation with Dudoigt.
I take a seat at a small table by a large glass window that looks out onto Rue Doudeauville, and notice immediately that it’s different from other eating establishments in the neighbourhood. It’s almost (dare I say it) middlebrow. For one thing, it’s the only place around here that uses tablecloths, and napkins you can’t tear with four fingers. When the waitress, a svelte blonde in her mid-thirties, approaches with a smile, I reflexively cast a backward glance, but there’s no one behind me. Warm, friendly service—this must be a first for a Parisian restaurant.
The menu offers standard bistro fare (steaks, pot-au-feu, duck confit and the like) but the food served is anything but mediocre. My meal is deeply comforting, as if it has been lovingly prepared by the French grandma that I never had. After my decaf espresso, I ask for the bill and the waitress and I make small talk as we wait for the card machine to spit out a receipt. It turns out that Irène isn’t just a waitress—she owns and runs the bistro together with her husband Henri, who is also the chef.
When she finds out that I arrived in Paris just three months ago, she draws in a sharp breath. “But you speak such good French! C’est épatant!”
I don’t know what “épatant” means, but my guess is that it’s something along the lines of my being magnificent and extraordinary. I smile and shrug my shoulders, as if to say, “I can’t help myself!”
“Here you go,” she smiles as she hands me the receipt. “Have a good evening, and I hope you’ll come again.”
“I definitely will,” I reply. “You had me at ‘bonsoir’.”
It’s the weekend and the Frog & Rosbif, the English pub along Rue Saint-Denis, is warm and buzzy as usual. It’s become the gang’s regular hangout outside the Latin Quarter and what I love about it is that it’s as popular with the French as it is with the Brits. The crowd is interesting and all the waitstaff seem to have more personality than they can cope with.
We’re waiting for our order when Yannick starts clearing his throat.
“Um, I have an announcement to make. This may come as a surprise to you guys, but…Gula and I are now a couple,” he says.
“Surprise? What surprise?” Didi says, rolling his eyes. “I saw it coming like a cruise liner. When did you guys officialise it?”
“Last week,” Gula says. “I ask Yannick to be my boyfriend. I say, I give 24 hours, you think about it. But he immediately say okay! He is so cute!” She pinches him affectionately as she says this, leaving red fingermarks across his pale white cheeks.
The drinks arrive and I propose a toast. “To our Sorbonne sweethearts!” I say, and we clink our glasses—three beer mugs and a pink Pussyfoot for Didi, who doesn’t drink. Yannick and Gula recount in vivid detail the moment when they realised they had feelings for each other, their first date and their blossoming relationship. I feel truly happy for them, but I also feel a tinge of jealousy that yet another two people are now attached while I’m still single.
“Well, I’ve got news too!” Didi says. “I’ve landed myself an internship!”
There’s a whoop of excitement and more congratulations all round. I’ve learnt that here in France, internships are crucial for young people preparing to launch their careers. Given the high unemployment rate in France, internships are often the only means of getting a foot in the door, unless of course you have a benign uncle or family friend who could be your piston and push you into the right places.
“Where at?” asks Yannick.
“Action Contre le Racisme. I start next week.”
“Wow! So what does ACR do?” I ask.
“Well, we sit around and knit sweaters for stray cats so they don’t freeze to death in winter.”
I shoot him a look that could cut an Armani suit. “What I meant was, how does ACR fight racism, you imbecile. Is there a hotline? Is it through advocacy?”
“Oh, we do it every way we can. Did you know that this country has never had an ethnic Arab minister until only recently? What does that tell you?”
“That there aren’t enough good politicians coming forward from the minority groups?” I suggest.
“No, that racism is alive and well. Chérie, do you know how many CVs I had to send out before finally landing this internship? One hundred and seven. One hundred and seven individualised, targeted CVs, in order to get two internship interviews, and one offer. From Action Contre le Racisme. Our other classmates with comparable CVs had a much easier time landing something.”
“Did you guys know that employers are forbidden from asking for private particulars such as your religion or ethnic origins? But when your surname is Rachidi, well, it’s kind of obvious,” Yannick says. He takes off his fogged glasses and starts to wipe them. “What is it like in Singapore? Is there racism there?”
“I don’t think so. The different races generally get on quite well with one another.”
Yannick and Didi both cringe.
“The different ‘races’? Newsflash!” Didi says, flashing his palms as if they were headlights. “You’re speaking like a colonial, chérie. Or Hitler. We use ‘race’ for cats and dogs, not people.”
“Well, in Singapore we do. You know, my race is printed on my national identity card. Look…” I whip out my pink IC, pointing, “It says here ‘Chinese’, right after my name. And our government always sorts data by race. It’s just how we…look at people. But not in a racist way, or anything like that. It’s just to, you know, to understand social trends and stuff…”
“You mean so they can pinpoint the poorest race, or the least educated or the most criminal. And you’re telling me that’s not a racist society?” Didi asks, giving me an incredulous look.
“No! Racism is when you use race to do bad stuff to others. We use it to help people. And to promote a multiracial society…”
“And what do the minority ‘races’ say about that?�
�� Didi delivers the air quotes disdainfully.
I’m a little stunned by the question. I don’t know the answer, because truth be told, I don’t have any close Singaporean friends who aren’t Chinese. Not by choice or anything, mind you, because I’m not racist, but well, we just don’t move in the same social circles, that’s all. Sure, I had some Malay and Indian classmates in school, even a couple of Eurasian ones, but I wasn’t very close to them and we didn’t keep in touch. And of course I had colleagues of other races when I was teaching. I had never heard them complain about racism. But then again, I had never heard anybody ask them about it either.
“I don’t know. We don’t really talk about it,” I finally say.
Gula breaks the silence that follows. “So, Belle, what about you? You meet anyone you like?”
“Well…” For a split second, I consider confessing my crush on Dudoigt, and then think the better of it.
“No, no luck yet.” I put my hands on Didi’s and Yannick’s shoulders. “I guess it’s true what they say—all the good guys are either gay or taken.”
We stay at Frog’s till a quarter past two and since cabs are so expensive here, I decide to take the night bus home. I sit at the back of the bus, and a scruffy-looking white guy takes the seat beside me. As the bus moves off, he starts to smoke, and being the only Asian in the crowd, I just open the small rectangular window at the top to help with ventilation. There’s an Arab guy and a black guy sitting nearby, and of course they won’t take any of this crap, and proceed to tell him to stub the cigarette out. White guy won’t give in and Asian girl then proceeds to pretend to sleep to avoid becoming collateral damage. A few minutes later, a strapping bus official (BO) and his mates board the bus and issue white guy with a fine for smoking. The black guy (BG) gets fined too, for not having a valid bus ticket. As the officers are leaving, BG calls BO’s colleague a bastard. Unfortunately for him, BO’s a bad cop, and isn’t going to take any abuse from freeloaders.
He turns back and asks, “Who’s a bastard?”
“I’m not talking to you.”
BO then goes right up to BG and breathes down into his face. “Who’s the bastard?! He’s the bastard or you’re the bastard?” More tough talk from BO (ooh so sexy, Asian girl is now very much awake and interested in proceedings) and I think he gives BG an additional fine for insulting law enforcement. All this has nothing to do with me, of course, but my heart’s beating fast throughout the whole exchange. I find this encounter strangely invigorating. Living in Paris is relatively safe but, unlike Singapore, there’s a latent danger that surfaces in sharp flashes, giving you that adrenaline rush that makes you feel so... I’m looking for the right word, but the only thing I can think of is alive.
Uh-oh. Something is wrong with my plumbing—there is water coming out of my kitchen wall. Not in a gushing stream, thank God, but it’s quite a steady trickle. And the weird thing is, the source seems to be a spot right in the middle of the wall. But there’s no crack there, no fissure, nothing.
I’m about to look up the Yellow Pages for a plumber when I remember that I already know one: Thierry! I call to tell him about the mysterious leak, feeling very pleased with myself for having such useful friends.
“You’re very lucky,” he says. “It’s a miracle!”
Thierry knows I’m Catholic. He was born one too, but like many Frenchmen of his generation, he has forsaken the Church. Tsk tsk. Well, at least he is atheist, unlike many of his compatriots who have replaced God with the Sunday horoscopes.
“I didn’t feel very lucky waking up to a little lake in my kitchen this morning. Could you come and repair it for me, please?”
“You sure you don’t want to wait a while to see if the Virgin Mary makes a special appearance?” he chuckles.
“Listen, the real miracle is that your Taiwanese girlfriend can stand your communist ass,” I say, my voice rising, as I tighten my grip on the telephone. “So enough with the blasphemy and just tell me if you’re going to help me or not.”
This seems to take him down a notch or two, and there’s an awkward silence at the end of the line. When he speaks again, his tone is serious and businesslike. We now both want to get off the phone, so we set an appointment for Tuesday and hang up.
When Tuesday comes round, Thierry swings by my place wearing his work overalls and carrying his toolbox. I feel a sudden impulse to tell him about Dudoigt, whom I haven’t been able to stop thinking about this whole week. I mean, why not? After all, Thierry doesn’t know Dudoigt or anyone from school. And even if he does, he’s so stoic and self-righteous, he would never blab to anyone. My secret would be safe with him.
So as he sets to work on the leak in the kitchen wall, I hover behind him and raise my voice so he can hear me over his hammer and chisel. “Thierry, how do you say ‘crush’ in French?”
“Ecraser,” he shoots back.
“No, not that kind of crush...” God, it’s crazy how much men love violence. “I’m talking about when you have a crush on someone.”
“Crush on someone? I don’t know what that means,” he grunts, still hammering away.
“You know, when you really like someone…when you feel this strong attraction?”
“Béguin. You say, ‘J’ai le béguin pour quelqu’un.’” The tapping stops, and he turns around to face me. “You crush someone?”
“I didn’t crush anyone!” I say, laughing. “But I have a crush on someone. By the way you’ve got some plaster in your beard…”
He shrugs. “I’ll have a shower later.” He turns back to his work. “So who is it?”
That’s my cue to launch into the story of Brainy and the Beast. As Thierry picks up one plumbing implement after another, I tell him about my various encounters with Dudoigt, and how each one seems to add to his allure and subtract from mine.
“Initially, I thought it was fun. I figured, until Mr Right comes along, well, at least there’s this wonderful distraction. But I realise that it’s making me act crazy around him, and after what happened recently, I feel like I need to get a grip or I’m going to be in deep merde.”
“From what I’m hearing, he sounds like a great guy. But, like you said, he’s your supervisor, so you’ll need to keep your feelings under control. Personally, I find cold showers very helpful.”
I lean against the kitchen sink and roll my eyes. Some guys just don’t get it, do they? Don’t they know that it’s not always about sex?
“What’s the most attractive thing about him anyway?” he asks, as he aims a welding torch at the now exposed pipe.
I close my eyes, twirl my hair around my fingers and think about it. “Everything! But if I really had to pick one thing, I’d say it’s his brilliance. He’s already published eight books and rumour has it that he’s being groomed to head the Sorbonne’s…”
“ARRGH!”
“What happened?” I rush over to look, and nearly faint when I see him still holding the blazing torch in one hand while bits of skin flap loosely from the other. I stand there frozen in panic; he needs water for his burnt hand but we’ve already switched off the water mains to stop the leak. In desperation, he plunges his hand into a big bowl of water in the sink. The problem is, I was cooking sambal prawns earlier, so it’s water mixed with chilli paste.
The howl that escapes his lips is gut-wrenching. Not only does it bring me back to my senses, it also unleashes my inner Nightingale (the nurse, not the songbird). I switch the water mains back on, run to the pharmacy downstairs, speed back up and, before either of us knows it, his hand is all wrapped up in bandages. I step back to look at my handiwork—he looks like a forlorn one-gloved boxer. Well, at least the bits of skin are back in place. I tell him to go to the hospital immediately but to my utter amazement, he refuses and insists on finishing the job, saying he’s almost done. It’s another 20 minutes before I can get him packing, and although he turns down my offer to accompany him to the hospital, it’s my turn to insist.
His hand must be hurtin
g like hell because he doesn’t say a word while we wait at the Accident & Emergency Department. He’s leaning back, his eyes are closed and he’s still got kitchen debris in his beard.
Poor Thierry. He really shouldn’t have made fun of Mother Mary.
Christmas is two weeks away and I’ve just received a Christmas e-card from Mum. She is very IT savvy for someone from her generation, especially when it comes to all these free Internet services. The card’s animation features night-time snowfall over a tranquil European village, but the accompanying message is short and sharp, in every sense of the expression. It reads:
“Dear Annabelle,
Why haven’t you called recently? I’m still fighting with your Dad and not talking to him. Merry Christmas in advance!”
Fittingly, the card is set to the melody of “Silent Night”, which must be a coincidence since my mother is not known for her sense of humour. It’s too late to call home tonight to see how they’re doing. I’ll call first thing tomorrow morning.
My social calendar this end of year is shaping up nicely, contrary to my initial fears. I was beginning to get worried that I would have to spend my first Christmas overseas miserable and alone, eating self-bought log cake as the rest of Paris empties out to join their families in the countryside. But today, Yannick bore good tidings and invited the whole lot of us to spend Christmas with his parents in Amsterdam! I am absolutely thrilled because:
a) I have never been to Holland.
b) I can celebrate Christmas with friends instead of with French TV.
c) A pair of wooden clogs is just what I need for my shoe collection.
We leave next Friday! Yay!
As we were discussing the Amsterdam trip, I had a brainwave and suggested to the group that we throw the party I had promised on New Year’s Eve. Everyone agreed that it was an inspired and cunning strategy, as none of us had been invited to any New Year’s parties ourselves. It will be a social coup; we’ll go on the offensive and take the party to people, instead of waiting for it to come to us. After further brainstorming, we settled on the theme “Chic Top, Shock Bottom”, which I am sure Didi has filched from one of his gay parties, but in our case, top and bottom will refer to items of clothing instead. We also talked about other details like food, decor, logistics, etc. Yannick and I will be co-DJs to ensure a good mix of songs with and without words (despite his geeky demeanour, it turns out Yannick is a techno freak) and the discussion ended on a super high note.
