by Imran Hashim
“WOO-HOO!” I exclaim, punching the air.
But the people suddenly stop dancing and everyone’s just staring at me.
“What? You guys don’t like Britney?!” I shout, to be heard.
Yannick comes up to me and removes the headphones from my head, which is when I realise that Britney is playing on the headphones and not the speakers. Right. DJ Bell(e) is gonna step aside now. Yannick takes over and does his thing, and the party starts to get into full swing.
The area around my kitchen sink has become “the bar” and I have to jostle some people to get myself a drink. From the bar, I can see Gula’s Uzbek clan. They’re a lot of fun, and most of them have typical looks of that region, with their sharp noses and small shifty eyes. And when Shafkat (or is it Furkat? I still can’t remember who’s who) dances, I’m mesmerised. Didi calls it a cross between kung fu and Cossack, but I prefer to think of it as a modern rendition of cherished tribal traditions, sort of like an Uzbek Riverdance.
Thierry is one of the last to arrive. I open the door to find him standing there in a trench coat, open at the front to reveal a tuxedo jacket and shirt tucked into shocking pink Lycra tights. I clasp my hand over my mouth to suppress a shriek but it’s too late.
“What? Is this the funniest costume in the party?” he smiles, glancing past the doorway trying to catch a glimpse of the other guests.
“Yes, yes, I think so!” I yell over the music. The vodka/gin/wine combination has worked its magic, so I’m thinking it’s the funniest costume in the world right now, laughing and clutching his plumber’s biceps for support. “Where’s your girlfriend?”
“She couldn’t make it in the end. Well, actually...”
I feel a hand on my shoulder, turn around and grip the doorjamb for support when I see that it’s Dudoigt.
“Annabelle, where have you been?” he hollers. Then, leaning over to within inches of my ear so he doesn’t have to shout, “I’ve been looking for you.”
The tangy smell of his cologne and the feel of his breath on my nape send a shiver racing down my spine. It takes me a moment to gather my wits and, even then, the best riposte I can think of is, “Why?”
“To thank you for being a wonderful hostess. Albeit an elusive one, but wonderful nonetheless.”
At that point, I should just step back and shout, “Thank you!”
But I don’t.
Instead my base instincts take over. I wantonly put my hand on his shoulder, pull it in and say thank you into his ear.
“Ahem! Excuse me. Can I come in?”
Thierry’s little intrusion jolts me back to my senses, reminding me that there’s a guest at the door looking cold in his hot pink spandex, waiting to be invited in.
“Of course, come in! Thierry, meet Monsieur Dudoigt. Monsieur Dudoigt, Thierry,” I say.
“Bonsoir!” they say simultaneously, shaking hands in a virile manner that’s semi-handshake, semi-arm wrestle.
“Monsieur Dudoigt is my International Politics lecturer,” I say, looking at him with eyes glassy from admiration and Absolut.
I can see Thierry making the link between my stories about Dudoigt and the guy in front of him, and he nods his head slowly and says, “Yes, Belle has told me about you.”
“Please, call me Patrick. Annabelle, that goes for you too. So, how do you guys know each other?”
“Thierry’s just a friend I made through conversation exchange to improve my French,” I say quickly.
“Yes, we’re just conversation partners,” Thierry echoes, his eyes scanning the room. “Annabelle, I thought this was a costume party.”
“It is, it is,” I assure him, in the way one would a mental patient when asked if the straightjacket was in fact part of this season’s Thierry Mugler collection.
“Well then how come I’m the only one in fucking cycling shorts?”
Dudoigt bursts out laughing, which isn’t helping the situation.
“Your shorts are NOT fucking! They are…” I search wildly for an appropriate adjective, “…fetching,” and collapse into a heap of giggles myself.
“Okay, I’m going home,” he says, wrapping the trench coat tightly around his waist.
“No! Please stay. I’m sorry these people didn’t make an effort to dress up. I really didn’t realise you French people were so disobedient. But you can’t go home. Stay. Please?”
“And what’s your reason for not dressing up?”
“Because… Because I don’t have anything shocking to wear.”
Thierry protests and says he’s sure that we can find something. This is the perfect excuse for me to get away from Dudoigt and his demonic charm, so we leave him and go off to raid my closet.
“Well, well, what do we have here?” Thierry says, when he opens one of my drawers. He whistles like Indiana Jones as he reaches into the drawer of doom and grabs a pair of faded granny pants by their worn out elastic waistband. The extra large panties are white, with sad violet orchids interspersed with Singapore’s tourism lion, and I only wear them when I’m cleaning the house.
“No,” I intone firmly.
“Yes,” he nods, a wicked grin peering out of his beard.
“But they’re obscene!” I protest, not caring that they are mine.
“Then wear them over your jeans,” he smirks. “Like Superman.”
“I can’t…”
“Look, if I can wear this,” and he opens his trench coat to flash me, “you can wear that. Come on, you owe it to me.”
I grab the giant panties, glare at him, and slip them on. “Happy now?” I ask, my hands resting sulkily on my waist.
“Yes, very,” he grins, shrugging off his trench coat. “Okay, now let’s get this party started.”
Shortly after, everyone starts to count down to the New Year, and at zero, the entire apartment erupts in rapturous cries of “Bonne année!” Carried by the collective euphoria, I mechanically plaster bises on everybody in my vicinity—left cheek, right cheek, bonne année! Left cheek, right cheek, bonne année! Left cheek, right cheek, bonne…
“Bonne année, Annabelle.”
“Bonne… Bonne année, Monsieur Dudoigt.” Despite my inebriated state, I suddenly feel self-conscious; my hand is on his shoulder (again!) and the jostling crowd leaves little room for personal space.
“No, that doesn’t count. I’ve told you before, yes? Call me Patrick. Let’s try that again.” And without warning, he leans in and does the bise. “Bonne année, Annabelle.” He smiles at me encouragingly.
I feel the air being sucked out of my lungs; all I can manage is a whisper now. “Bonne année, Patrick.”
“Much better. Listen, we still haven’t gone for that coffee I promised. What would you say if for our next meeting we head to Café de Flore?”
I can’t answer because I’ve forgotten how to breathe.
“You do drink coffee, don’t you?” he asks.
“Sure,” I gasp. “Sure I do. I drink everything,” I say, wanting to sound like a no-fuss girl.
“Yes, I can see that,” he laughs, giving a playful nod at the half-empty glass of red wine in my hand.
Oh God, now he thinks I’m a lush.
“So that would be next Thursday, right?” I say, trying to change the subject.
He furrows his brow for a moment. “No, I can’t make it next Thursday. How about this Saturday?”
“This Saturday? To discuss my thesis?” I ask disbelievingly. “Monsieur, I mean Patrick, please don’t trouble yourself. We could meet the week after if…”
“No, it’s no trouble at all. You can’t afford to lose any more time—from my recollection, you still haven’t pinned down your central problématique, yes?”
I nod sheepishly.
“That settles it then. I will see you at 2pm, Café de Flore. And it will be my job to ensure that the afternoon is…” he pauses, maintaining eye contact, “…stimulating.”
I don’t think M. Dudoigt means that in an untoward way, but it sends a frisson
coursing through my body anyway. I continue to nod dumbly.
“Very well, see you on Saturday.” And with that, he excuses himself and goes off to chat with a group of revelers.
The rest of the evening is bit of a blur, but I do know that Dudoigt leaves soon after. As for me, I continue to dance and float about until 5am, when Yannick cuts the music and people suddenly collapse into each other’s arms in mirth and exhaustion.
After lunch today, Didi and I seek refuge from the winter freeze in one of the cafés lining Place Georges Pompidou. We rub our hands, sip on hot chocolate and survey the square but all we see are moving bundles of black and grey. Winter days can really be bleak sometimes, even in gorgeous Paris.
“Chérie, I’m thinking of checking out the Issey Miyake winter collection tomorrow afternoon, and maybe pick up a new coat. Do you want to come along?”
I look down at my hot chocolate, pick up the teaspoon and start to stir. “Hmm, it sounds like fun, but I can’t. I’ve got this… appointment.”
“What appointment?” he asks.
The whirring teaspoon picks up speed. I contemplate lying to Didi, but know I can’t pull it off.
“Oh, it’s just work. You know, for my thesis.”
“Who are you meeting?” he says, his voice registering a heightened interest. I’m reeking of guilt, and he has picked up the scent.
“Nobody… Just Monsieur Dudoigt.” There’s a pregnant pause, and I finally look up at Didi. “I’m very behind time on my thesis, you see…”
“He’s meeting you on a Saturday?” Didi says, cocking his head quizzically to the right. My composure begins to crack.
“Yes. I know that might seem strange,” I blabber, “but there’s a simple explanation, really. Dudoigt is a very busy man, you see, and I think he’s really busy this week, but he’s a really dedicated supervisor, so he needs to help me out this weekend. With my thesis.”
Didi just stares blankly at me for a while, and then, his expression changes—his eyes light up and a sly smile creeps into his lips. “You like him, don’t you?” he says.
“No! Of course not!” I protest, with all the fake conviction I can muster.
“You do! You like him! You’re such a bad liar. I mean, look at you. Your face is all red.”
I consider keeping up the pretence for a second, but realise it’s a lost cause.
“Okay, fine, I like him. Happy now?” I try to sound indignant but end up giggling despite myself.
“I knew it! I knew it, I knew it!” he says, poking excitedly at my shoulder. “You little slut!”
“Hey!”
“Oh no, chérie, that’s a compliment in my community. The gay one, not the Arab one, just in case you’re wondering. One of the biggest, actually. Anyway, I think he likes you too. I saw the way he was looking at you at the party. It was pretty ob-vious,” he sang.
“Really? You think so?”
Didi nods his head sagely.
“No. That can’t be. It doesn’t make sense. Why would Dudoigt, who’s brilliant and gorgeous, be interested in me? And besides, I’m his student! Why would he hit on a student?”
Didi gives an exaggerated pout, then reaches out and strokes my cheek as if I were a baby.
“Oh Annabelle, you’re so naïve it breaks my heart. Promise me you’ll never change. Anyway, you have to tell me what happens on Saturday, okay? I could do with some second-hand drama.”
“There’s not going to be any drama. Do you hear me? Dudoigt is just being a wonderful supervisor and I just have a silly crush, which I’ll get over soon enough. No drama.”
Didi replies with a smug “we’ll see” shrug. “Speaking of crushes, I’ve been meaning to ask you, who was that hottie in the pink Lycra at the party?”
“Hottie? Which one?”
“Your friend, the tall one in the hot cycling shorts.”
“You mean Thierry? The guy with the beard?” I’m surprised that Thierry caught Didi’s eye; he usually has great taste in men. “You think he’s hot?”
“Ah oui, complètement. I’d give my left leg to bag one like that.” His eyes suddenly open wide and he clutches the table to brace himself. “But would he sleep with an amputee, you think?”
“I think the more pertinent question would be, ‘Would he sleep with a man?’” It’s now my turn to hold both his hands in mock pity. “Don’t worry, chéri, you can keep your legs. All three of them.”
By the time I walk through the doors of Café de Flore, I’m ready. Armed with a stack of readings worthy of an adolescent tree, I’m finally prepared to present the problématique of my thesis to Dudoigt. After all, given the attention and concern he has shown for my work, I can’t possibly let him down.
I scan the large, open room. There are grim waiters in black waistcoats and white aprons briskly and purposefully manoeuvring past patrons in red chairs and booths, subliminally telling everyone that they’re very busy and are not to be disturbed. The crowd is a mix of tourists and well-heeled Parisians, some of them reading, some deep in conversation and some literally spacing out.
I see Dudoigt waving from a window seat. I tighten my grip on my bag, and walk over.
“Bonjour,” he smiles, standing up to give me the bise. I’m caught off guard by the familiarity, but perhaps it’s okay after the precedent set on New Year’s Eve? Does bise etiquette demand that once you bise, there’s no turning back?
“Bonjour,” I say, breathing in the now familiar scent of him and trying to make it last. “Have you been waiting long?”
“For a while,” he says, shutting his laptop down. “I’m trying to straighten out some structural problems for my latest book on NATO. I usually come here to think—in the vain hope that the ghosts of the intellectuals who haunt this place will whisper something in my ear,” he grins.
“Really? Like who?”
“Well, let’s see—there was André Breton after the Great War, then there was Georges Bataille, Raymond Queneau, Michel Leiris…” He pauses. “Not ringing any bells?”
I shake my head apologetically.
“Well, moving straight to the heavyweights, Picasso used to come here, and Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir practically lived here.”
“Ooh la la,” I say, which makes him laugh.
“Yes, ooh la la indeed. So, Belle—can I call you Belle?”
“Well, my friends call me that but…”
“Okay, Belle. First, can I get you a coffee?”
“No, it’s okay, I can get it,” I say, turning round to look for a waiter, but he pulls me back.
“No please, let me.” He raises his hand, and a waiter strides over and takes my order.
“Now, let’s get down to business. Have you made any progress on the thesis?”
This is my cue to launch into a literature review of ASEAN cooperation. I give him an overview of the themes already dealt with, scholar by scholar, the areas of research that are already saturated, and gaps in ASEAN scholarship that need to be filled.
Half an hour later, I reach my conclusion. “Based on my readings, I’ve decided that the problématique should centre around the key question: how important is ASEAN to Singapore’s foreign policy in relation to its key bilateral relationships?”
“Sounds to me like you’ve thought this through very carefully,” Dudoigt says. “There’s maybe just one more thing you’d like to consider—what level of influence does Singapore have within ASEAN and as a member of it? As a small city-state, it’s important for Singapore to be able to punch above its weight in international relations, so you should assess the importance of ASEAN to Singapore from that angle as well.”
God, does he have to be brilliant all the time?
“Thanks, Monsieur Dudoigt, that’s a very good point. I’ll take note of it. And thanks again for helping me on your own personal time,” I say as I gather my things and put them in my bag. “I really appreciate it.”
“Glad to be of help,” he beams. “Wait, are you going off already
?”
“Yes, I think I’ll make my way home.”
“Why don’t you stay a bit longer?”
“I don’t want to keep you…”
“No, stay. I don’t have any other plans,” he says, shrugging his shoulders casually.
“Oh. Okay.” I put my bag back on the empty seat beside me and randomly wonder what his stubble would feel like under my fingertips. “So…”
“So how are you enjoying your stay here in Paris so far?”
“Oh I’m loving it. I love being a student again, and having the luxury of time to learn about things that really interest me. And to be able to do it in this city… I mean, it’s Paris, come on!”
Dudoigt gives an amused chuckle, and it occurs to me that I’m probably not the first student to be awestruck by Paris. I clasp both hands over my mouth, suddenly embarrassed. “Oh God, I sound like a total groupie, don’t I?”
“No. Well actually, yes, but you know what? It’s a perfectly legitimate response; Paris has its charm. Do you miss Singapore, though? I’ve been there a few times for conferences, and it’s always struck me as a really buzzing place.”
“I miss my family, of course, and my friends, but…” I pause, almost ashamed of the confession I’m about to make. “I don’t miss my life there.”
“What do you mean?” he asks. He’s speaking softly now, and I can hardly hear him above the hum of the café.
“I don’t know. I just remember working very hard, and very long hours; coming home feeling like the walking dead. Singaporeans—we’re just so busy all the time. And when I did go out, it was always with the same group of single girlfriends, to the point that it was impossible to meet anyone new. I guess I was stuck in a rut, but there was also safety in numbers. So we just clung to one another. Even at parties, people pretty much kept to their own groups.”
