by Imran Hashim
So everything looks more or less set. Now all we need are guests.
Amsterdam is now one of my favourite European cities. It’s really pretty, with its Rem Koolhaas modern sensibility, canals, slanting houses, big windows, cafés, coffee shops (which are not the same as cafés, please note), pedestrian roads and bicycle lanes. There’s an extra something in the air, and it’s not just marijuana.
Yannick’s parents are goodness incarnate, welcoming us into their home with the kind of exuberant warmth one would expect these days only from people in grass skirts. Yannick’s father is Jean-François and his mother is Anneke. We are supposed to call them by their first names, but I can’t bring myself to do so on account of their age. Since they would think me mad if I called them Uncle and Auntie the way I would my friends’ parents back home, I settle for Monsieur and Madame instead. A bit formal, I know, but at least it is respectful.
We spend our first evening in Amsterdam with Yannick’s family, including his married and glamorous older sister, Sabine, who joins us for dinner. She’s about my age, blonde and as urbane as a New York Siamese cat—the kind of girl I would love as a friend. Didi and I chat easily with the Catteau family as Madame brings out dish after dish from her Ali Baba kitchen onto the dining table. I think they are taking to us, with the exception of Gula, who feels no compunction about castigating Madame for throwing leftover bread into the trash, which is apparently “against Uzbek culture”.
The entire family is effectively trilingual as they also speak English, and I am particularly struck by how with it Monsieur and Madame are. They talk about topics such as the evils of reality TV and their trekking holiday in Nepal (did they get sherpas to carry them?) where they ran into renegade Maoist guerrillas. Quite unlike talking to the old folks back home, who only seem interested in your impending old-maidenhood or, if they take pity on you, the recent successes of their own married children. To be fair, maybe Monsieur and Madame are on their best behaviour because we’re strangers, but I know for a fact that even that would never stop my Singaporean uncles and aunties.
The next morning we go to the Van Gogh museum (gorgeous, you can’t help but love those sunflowers) followed by lunch in a downtown café with Yannick’s friends. We then stroll through the red light district in the afternoon, where I see the infamous prostitutes standing in the window displays. It feels a bit surreal, as if I’m wandering about in the lingerie section of a department store where only the mannequins are on sale. One of the ladies gives Yannick the come-hither look even though he’s walking hand in hand with Gula—if that’s not Dutch liberalism in the flesh, I don’t know what is. I wonder aloud why most of the prostitutes look way over the hill, almost reaching auntie proportions, and Yannick explains that it’s the “old hands” that get the less lucrative afternoon shift.
After dinner, Yannick brings us to Sabine’s apartment, before we hit the bars. Situated along the Herengracht, it’s breathtakingly chic, like something out of Wallpaper. It turns out that she’s a travel agent cum art collector extraordinaire, a lifestyle choice she is able to afford thanks to her husband, Vincent, whom I can only describe as a debonair banker, if such a thing is indeed possible.
The entire apartment is a cosy gallery filled with paintings, prints and objets that are tastefully scattered about, cordially hobnobbing with designer furniture (of the likes of Philippe Starck and Le Corbusier). And that evening, the apartment is curated with some colourful characters as well. Apart from us Parisian visitors, Sabine has invited Romesh (an Indian guy from Surinam), Audrey (a production manager for a ballet company who hails from South Africa) and Dewi (an advertising executive from Indonesia).
Conversation and anecdotes ricochet over martinis and hors d’oeuvres as Romesh recounts his literal blind date the week before (she could only see with one eye), Dewi frets about her two-week-old relationship with a part-time model and Audrey talks about how she got her plumbing fixed in exchange for sex. I feel like telling everyone how I got mine fixed in exchange for just conversation, but am afraid it would make me look like a frumpy show-off, so I just keep quiet and ask for another drink.
By half past midnight, the martinis are dry and we’re out of hors d’oeuvres, so off we go to the clubs for a night of partying. At one of the trendy clubs we pop into, a cute waiter from Aruba gives us charming service, flirtatiously touching the ladies’ backs and shoulders as he speaks to us in his American accent and asking Romesh (clearly a regular) how his blind date went.
As we troop onto the dance floor together, I can’t help but marvel how glamorous Sabine’s life seems. Unlike those in my gang, Sabine and her friends are all around my age, and their lives seem so Sex-and-the-City-ish, but co-ed. I feel a bit wistful that I’m not part of the permanent cast, and it makes me wish that I had my own glamorous International Yuppie lifestyle in Paris. But nothing destroys happiness faster than the green-eyed monster, so I push such thoughts aside and focus on having a good time, which is easy since Vincent is keeping the alcohol flowing. Oh God, I hope I’m not becoming an alcoholic!
While I’m very much in love with the Dutch right now, my love isn’t blind and I’ve noticed something very unappealing about the Dutch: their public urinals. I must confess my shock that such a thing could exist in the First World. I have nothing against public urinals per se, but what stunned me was just how public it was. The one I saw was essentially a slim pillar with low partitions that divided the base into platforms where men could stand to urinate. There were no doors, and anyone relieving themselves did so in full view of passersby, given that it was located beside a small traffic junction. As it is, I feel self-conscious and can’t make eye contact in any public toilet, so I don’t know how these men cope with the stress of having to actually pee in a urinal on a crowded pavement. Like the local menus of McDonald’s restaurants, I’ve always thought that toilet habits make a strong cultural statement. I guess, for the Dutch, that statement would be, “I’m tall, I’m beautiful and I’ve got nothing to hide.”
Christmas brunch with the Catteaus and friends is a lovely affair. We exchange cute but useless Christmas gifts and feast on turkey, oysters, ham, foie gras, six kinds of cheese and four kinds of bread, downing it all with champagne. The food is delicious, but roast turkey isn’t exactly Grandma’s braised duck, is it? And just like that, I’m feeling homesick. Homesick for ayam buah keluak and chap huay soup, the Charlie Brown Christmas special on Channel 5, Dad, Mum, Crystal, Siti and our gaudy overdressed Christmas tree. Christmas does strange things to you.
I excuse myself from the party and call home on my mobile, and am genuinely happy to hear Mum answer the phone.
“Hi Mum! It’s Belle! Merry Christmas!”
“Belle! Merry Christmas! I was just thinking about you. Have you gone for Mass?”
“Yes, Mum.” I manage a smile as I say this, feeling in a pretty forgiving mood.
“Have you eaten?”
“Um-hum. We’re having oysters and foie gras and champagne, it’s fabulous.”
“Oh good. I’m glad your friend has such nice parents. Listen, all the relatives are here and I need to attend to them. Do you want to talk to Crystal?”
“I’ll talk to Dad first. Is he there?”
“Okay. Enjoy the rest of your holidays and speak to you soon. Crystal! Get your Dad on the phone, it’s Belle!”
A short while later, Dad is on the line. “Hello?”
“Hi Dad, it’s Belle! Merry Christmas!”
“Merry Christmas! I’m happy to hear you. We missed you this morning.”
My throat catches as I try to say something. “I miss you guys too. So how’s Christmas this year?”
“Not very merry, actually,” he says.
“She’s being mean to you on Christmas?”
For a while, all I can hear are shrieking children and adult laughter in the background.
“I don’t think now is the best time to talk about it,” Dad finally says.
“Okay. I underst
and. I…”
“You have no more credit left. Please top up your account. We wish you ‘Happy Holidays’!” sings a French lady before my phone line goes dead.
My French “service provider” strikes again!
I finish putting away my post-Amsterdam laundry and look out the window of my apartment. It’s cold, grey and gloomy outside. I put the kettle on the boil and make myself a cup of Christmas tea, glad for the smell of spice and the heat as I wrap my hands around the mug. December’s gone by in a flash and, from the looks of it, January and February will dissolve before I know it. I can picture the next year already—book reviews, French essays and assorted written work for different professors will just eat away at the days, not to mention preparations for exams, gym, housework and staying moisturised. Staying moisturised—that’s the real killer.
In the aftermath of Amsterdam, I am super motivated to cultivate a fantastic social life here in Paris, and I figure that what I can’t get in terms of quality, I’ll just make up for with quantity. Our New Year’s Eve Party will be HUGE—in my marketing efforts to woo invitees, I have christened it “la soirée dansante alcoolisée de l’année”, which loosely translates as “the boozy dance party of the year”. We’ve invited about 15 people each, which would mean that if they all turn up, we would have three people per square metre, including in the toilet and shower stall. Just deciding who to invite was a gruelling exercise in strategy and coordination: the girl-guy ratio must be good, the beautiful people index must be high, the fun-level must be maximum, future returns must be optimised by inviting people who are likely to organise parties themselves, etc.
I’ve invited Thierry and his Taiwanese girlfriend, Irène and Henri from the bistro downstairs, and two Singaporean gals from the Singapore Ladies Club, friends of friends whom I’ve never met. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to befriend some Singaporeans here in Paris, for those days when you just need to rant about the French in Singlish, and God knows I’ve had such days. Besides, I was having a tough time hitting my quota of 15.
The only dark cloud to all this is that I discovered yesterday that Didi had invited Dudoigt to our soirée. Yannick and Gula didn’t seem to mind, so I thought it would be odd if I kicked up a fuss. But I guess there’s always a silver lining if you look hard enough. In this case, it’s a New Year’s resolution that should be pretty easy to keep: I will stay away from Dudoigt at the party, or my name isn’t Annabelle Rosemary Thong.
Chapter 5
IT’S HALF PAST eight and I’m freaking out. The guests for our New Year’s Eve party will be here any minute now, and I’m still looking like a coolie from the quartier chinois. I need to get ready and look my best—after all, it’s my New Year’s party for God’s sake, and some very glamorous and sexy people have said they would come, including Georges, who replied to my email invitation with “I’d be delighted to go to your party!!! But can you remind me who you are?”
My friends and I have spent the afternoon preparing the apartment and putting away as many breakables as possible. I’m expecting things to get wild, but that’s just me being ambitious. When I asked Yannick what his stage name was, the fool said he hadn’t thought of one. I, on the other hand, am going to be DJ Bell(e) (pronounced bel-le). This is a very conceptual persona for a DJ because:
a) The parentheses give it a Po-Mo edge.
b) The separation of the “e” from my name is a subtle feminist statement.
c) A bell is, of course, a musical instrument.
Yes, DJ Bell(e) is the intellectual’s DJ. I tried to explain this to my friends as they industriously sliced carrot sticks and diced cheese cubes, but they were unmoved, that is until I asked them if they would dance to Celine Dion, whereupon they looked at me as if I had just walked out of the Malaysian rainforest in a polka dot burka.
“Mon Dieu, we’ve created a monster,” Didi said.
“What, you don’t like Celine Dion?” I said incredulously, but he just shot me a look that said stay-away-you-freak-of-nature. “You’re just being mean because she’s from Quebec!”
I tried to enlist Gula onto my side, but she told me, a bit too bluntly, that Celine Dion wasn’t hip, not even in Uzbekistan. I explained to everyone that I was going to play her remixes (duh!) but they would have none of it so I gave in, but warned that I drew the self-censorship line when it came to Westlife.
“Who are you spinning, Yannick?” I asked competitively.
“Tiësto, and maybe some Armand van Helden if I’m feeling a bit retro.”
“Who’s that? I’ve never even heard of them.”
“Just let her be, guys,” Didi said, his knife slicing away at the slab of Comté cheese in front of him. “It’s called a generation gap and no army of tastemakers can ever bridge it.”
The first guests to arrive are the two Singaporean girls, who introduce themselves as “Deborah Tellier” and “Sonia Bragnard, née Wee”. Defying our dress code, they’re dressed to the theme “Chic Top, Chic Bottom” instead, and have thrown in a chic Louis Vuitton handbag apiece for good measure. I introduce them to my friends, but after some perfunctory exchanges with the others, they corner me and start sussing me out in the way only fellow Singaporeans know how.
“So nice to finally meet you! Ching Ching’s been telling me about you. So what are you doing here in Paris?” Deborah asks, in that loaded way that implies an ulterior motive, yet kind enough to inspire confidence.
“I’m doing a Master’s degree in political science,” I say.
She gives me a knowing, coaxing smile. “Yes, but why Paris? Do you have a special someone here? Don’t be coy now…”
I don’t know why, but I instinctively fold my arms and go for the safe answers. “I studied French in Singapore, so why not Paris?”
“Oh…” Deborah looks disappointed, but perks up almost immediately. “Well, maybe you’ll meet him here. Sonia and I both met our husbands in Singapore. She came to Paris just two years ago—right, Sonia? But I’ve been here for four years.”
Sonia completely ignores Deborah, and asks me, “You did a third language in school? Which school did you go to?”
“CHIJ,” I say.
Deborah starts clapping her hands, all excited by the news. “Oh! You’re the first convent girl we’ve met here in Paris! I’m from TKGS and Sonia’s a Raffles girl!” She looks at me expectantly, like I’m supposed to shriek in delight or flash the V-sign.
I heave a deep inward sigh. Haven’t I had this exact same conversation with every other adult Singaporean I’ve ever met? Which school did I go to? Which junior college after that? In that case, do I know Carol and Gerard? Did I go to the local university, or did I study overseas and, if overseas, was I on a scholarship? Am I Christian, and which church do I go to? In that case, do I know Boon Thong and Grace? And what job am I holding now? All I need to do is give them a couple of clues, and they’ll solve me like a level one Sudoku, because apparently we Singaporeans really are that simple to figure out. They would be able to pin down all there is to me, from the TV stations I watch to my likely career trajectory, including—and this is the most important part—whether or not we could be friends.
Back in Singapore, I would have been happy to play along, but of what relevance is it here in Paris? I didn’t travel 10 thousand kilometres to be pigeonholed. So I just smile and say, “That’s nice.”
“You said you were doing a Master’s in political science? That sounds interesting,” Sonia says, without actually sounding interested.
“It is, but I’m really suffering. It’s a lot of hard work, and it’s not my forte.”
“Political science?”
“No, hard work.” I crack an ironic grin but Deborah just looks confused. She’s about to say something but Sonia perseveres with the Singaporean inquisition.
“So where are you studying?”
“At the Sorbonne,” I say.
“Oh… Do you like it there?” she says with a little frown. “My cousin studied political scien
ce here some time ago. But he went to Sciences Po. Merit Scholar. Isn’t Sciences Po the best school for political science?”
I decide then and there to escape the clutches of little Miss Perfect and her fine taste for excellence, so I say, “Yeah, that’s what I found out. But there are lots of interesting people at the Sorbonne, like some of my friends here. In fact, you guys really should be mingling.” And with that, I grab Gula and Didi and offer them up as sacrificial lambs to the Goddess of No-Mercy.
The conversation then switches into French and, in a valiant but misguided attempt to break the ice, Gula says to Sonia, “I know Korean girl look just like you.”
Sonia doesn’t seem too pleased with this and raises an immaculate eyebrow. “Really?” She turns to Didi. “Do you think I look Korean?”
Didi studies her carefully, pauses, and finally says, “North or South?”
Dudoigt enters the front door at half past 10, blatantly flouting the dress code with his faded jeans and grey bomber jacket over a casual white shirt. God, why are You testing me like this? Why did You have to send him over looking like a rakish Guillaume Canet? Why? But I remember my promise to myself and, summoning my deep reserves of willpower, tear my eyes away and dissolve into the crowd.
Most of the other guests arrive at about 11, by which time there must have been about 30 people crammed into my tiny apartment. Yannick gives me the signal to start the serious dance music. I go to my laptop and, with my headphones hanging off my neck the way the DJs wear theirs at the clubs, start off strong with “It’s Not Right But It’s Okay” by Whitney. The music is on full blast, people start dancing, and the gratification is immediate. Yeah! I’m really doing this! DJ Bell(e) is gonna rock the house! I line up the next track on my headphones, a Britney number, and as the two songs cross-fade, I let out a shout above the din.
