by Imran Hashim
“But surely people must interact at parties? Strike up a conversation over a glass of wine, or ask someone you like for a light. Or a piece of cheese so you can brush fingertips at the point of exchange, yes?”
I suddenly have an image of myself brushing Dudoigt’s hand over a piece of Brie and shudder.
“I wish!” I say quickly to silence the language of my traitorous body. “Do you want to know what typically happens at Singaporean parties? Someone, usually the host, will have the bright idea of popping in a DVD, a good one if we’re lucky, and we’ll spend the rest of the evening being treated to the technical magnificence of his surround sound home theatre.”
“So nobody flirts?”
“Nobody socialises.” I’m relishing the look of alarm creeping onto his face. “Is it any surprise that more and more Singaporeans are single these days?”
“Well, it’s always tough to meet new people once you start your professional life. But I’m sure you had a boyfriend in your student days?”
“No, no, I didn’t. I used to be…kind of chubby, and Singapore’s not a very forgiving society in matters like that.”
“Then I guess you’ve got the last laugh.”
An uncomprehending frown knits my brow. “Like how?”
“Well, you’re living in Paris now, you’re beautiful, and I can imagine many a Latin lover vying for your attention. Yes…” and now his eyes look right into mine and his voice drops a decibel, “I can well imagine it.”
The next few moments are pure chaos—well, in my head at least. He may or may not have said something; I may or may not have replied. The next thing I know, we’re getting up to go, and he gives me the bise before dashing into the bowels of the Saint-Germaindes-Prés Metro station, leaving me leaning on a railing along the boulevard for support.
What is going on here? Did he just make a pass at me? Or am I reading too much into it? Maybe he thought I was suicidal about my past fatness and decided to throw me a lifeline. But surely that talk about me being a ravishing beauty who’s irresistible to Latin lovers—surely that was above and beyond the call of duty? Surely it was a tad over the top?
I stand there a while longer, letting the late afternoon sun clarify my thoughts, and finally come to the conclusion that M. Dudoigt really knows how to motivate his students.
The house phone rings, jolting me out of my sleep. I open my eyes—it’s still dark outside, and the luminous face of the clock shows 5am. For the life of me I can’t think what can be so important that it can’t wait. I get up to pick up the phone, ready to scream at whoever it is at the end of the line.
“Good morning, dear. Time to wake up!” It’s my mother speaking in her convent-school-headmistress voice. Even at this age, there is something about that voice that always manages to put me in check. I drag the phone across the floor, stumble back into bed and put a pillow over my head.
“Mum…it’s five in the morning…” I groan.
“Yes, but it’s 12 noon here already,” she says, as if it’s obvious that my biorhythm should be running on Singapore time. “Listen, dear, I need to speak to you about something terrible that’s happened.”
My heart lurches sideways, and I prop myself up in bed. “What? What happened?”
“Crystal told me last night that she has a boyfriend.”
“But that’s great. What’s so terrible about that?” I sink back into bed, relieved.
My mother tsks impatiently, as if we have been through this a gazillion times.
“He’s Indian, dear. She showed me his photo. He’s very dark-skinned. Almost like the Darkie toothpaste man.”
“Mum! I can’t believe you just said that!” (Actually, I can.) “And by the way, it’s called Darlie now.”
“Darkie, Darlie, Ravi—he still looks like Justice Bao, dear. Crystal says they’ve been going out for six months!”
I can hear Mum pacing up and down the kitchen tiles now. “Does Dad know?”
“He does, but he doesn’t seem to care. It’s so typical of him!”
“But he’s right, Mum. It’s no big deal,”
“What’s that, Annabelle? No big deal?” I can hear her heckles rising—I might as well have slapped her with a Hokkien expletive. “Do you know what the relatives will say?”
“Who cares what they say? If they want to be racist, that’s their problem,” I say sulkily.
“I care. I care what the relatives say about our family. You know, I’m tired of this. Tired of being the only one who cares about this family’s good name.”
It’s obvious to me that Mum is working herself into a state, and the best thing to do is to calm her down.
“Maybe it’s not a serious relationship…” I venture.
“That’s what I was hoping. But she wants to introduce this Ravi to us.” She sighs. “Belle…” Her voice is soft as velvet now. “Will you talk to her for me? Tell her there are so many nice Chinese boys out there for her to pick from, even one from Malaysia if need be. She doesn’t have to do this.”
“Mum, you make it sound like she’s committing suicide! I happen to think it’s nice that she’s found a boyfriend, so leave me out of this. Can I go back to sleep now?”
She becomes all huffy again and launches into a dramatic monologue about how she’s just trying to “keep this family together”, and threatening to “take care of the problem myself”. It’s all too much to handle before sunrise so I just say “okay” a lot and hang up as soon as I can.
Oh my freaking God. So this is what a meltdown feels like. I’ve just come out of my Philo tutorial with M. Stempin, which never fails to depress me, but today I’ve sunk to new depths and am now seriously afraid that school will drive me mad, like Nietzsche became. Not that philosophy and school drove Nietzsche insane, of course. Bloody smart aleck. I hate him the way I hate the rest of the philosophers, who collectively stupefy me like they never have before.
And I hate my tutor for being able to explain complicated texts in the simplest possible way and make it seem so easy, and yet even after he explains it in the simplest possible way (he uses words like “shitty” to explain concepts to us) I STILL don’t understand, and I think the favour is returned because I believe he hates my guts. No, in fact, he doesn’t hate me but rather he is contemptuous of me because I am so unreachably stupid. Sure, some of my classmates find the class difficult, but in a way that the subject is always accessible if they wade through all the stuff slowly. Whereas I believe I have hit my mental ceiling at lightning speed, and am now reeling from the pain, dazed, wounded and very angry. How dare they insult my (lack of) intelligence like this?!
And I’ve got SO much work to do. I’m absolutely terrified. I still have got that philosophy essay to write (where I’m supposed to explain and comment on a short text by Rousseau, which has only four lines and I’m supposed to fabricate an essay around that), and a new presentation to do where we have to comment on a text on non-violence. I didn’t know who the author was, and when I asked my tutor, he didn’t even look at me but just said to the entire class, “Why, John Rawls, bien sûr”. I mean, what is that supposed to mean? All I had was the title of the book, from which I was supposed to know that Rawls wrote it, as implied by the “bien sûr”?
And then, there is my dissertation to work on. I haven’t done a single thing since my last meeting with Dudoigt and I have to submit a general outline soon, or risk disappointing the only lecturer who has ever called me a ravishing beauty. And if that’s not enough, there’s also a book review to write for Duprieux, and of course there are the exams at the end of the month, which I have to start revising for like yesterday.
I really wish I could rant and rail to someone, but there’s nobody. I don’t want to moan and bitch to the gang because they’ll think I’m a psycho nerd, and can’t really do that with Thierry, because he’ll just tell me to fuck it all and become a seamstress or suchlike, and I can’t do it with neighbours because I don’t know them from Adam. Deep in my heart, I wish
I could cry on Dudoigt’s shoulder and tell him how much I hate Levinas and Nietzsche and Heidegger and the whole bunch of them, so that he’ll tell me it’s okay that I don’t understand them because he doesn’t either and that’s why he does International Relations. But fat chance that’s ever going to happen, because everyone knows he is Professor X trapped in a movie star’s body. Somebody help me!
I bring my pot of tea to the table and pull my chair closer to the radiator. I’m trying to concentrate on my readings, but the cold makes it hard. I contemplate my academic future. It feels like that moment in Titanic when some chunks of ice fall onto the deck and you know there’s going to be trouble ahead and that you’ll be sinking into shit that’s ocean-deep. My presentation on Rawls’ work on civil disobedience went all right, but only because 90 per cent of my sources were in English. Yes, yes, I bring shame to the name Sorbonne, but given the shit I’m in, I’ll take all the breaks I can get. Then last night, I fell asleep whilst writing my Rousseau essay, woke up with keyboard-face at four this morning, started working on it non-stop till 9.40am, and rushed off to class without even showering. I fear I am turning French.
The essay nearly killed me, but the good news is that it’s the last piece of work I have to hand in for the semester. I’m a little behind schedule for my thesis, but that can wait till after the exams—and the first paper is next Thursday! The problem is, I am feeling overwhelmed and am already convinced I will flunk the exams spectacularly. I’m not even in crisis mode to make this whole experience enervating; I am just calmly and joylessly accepting my fate. It doesn’t help of course that the French education system is falling apart even as we speak. Last week, two out of four classes got cancelled at the last minute, and yesterday, the teacher turned up 40 minutes late because he still was “not familiar with the semester’s timetable”. I mean, if the lecturers have problems taking classes seriously, can you imagine what it must be like for the rest of us?
The phone rings. It better not be Mum, because I’m just not in the mood right now.
“Bonjour, can I speak to Annabelle please?” It’s a man’s voice I can’t quite place.
“Yes, this is she,” I say. I don’t know why, but I always get a bit hoitytoity with strangers on the phone. “May I know who’s on the line please?”
“Hi Belle, it’s Patrick here.”
The phone almost slips from my fingers, if not for my mediocre reflexes. “Monsieur Dudoigt! What a surprise! I was just thinking about you.”
Oh my God. Where the hell did that come from?
It’s his turn to sound a bit surprised. “Please, I’ve told you before, call me Patrick. And why were you thinking of me?”
“Well I…I wasn’t thinking of you per se, but I was just sitting down and working on my thesis outline and tweaking it to make it better. I know you wanted to see it last week, and you’re probably wondering why it’s not in yet. The thing is, well, I’m not too happy with what I have, so would it be okay if I showed it to you…I don’t know…some time after the exams?”
“Sure, that’s no problem at all. And anyway, that’s not why I’m calling.”
“Oh.” I silently curse myself for getting my panties in a twist for nothing. “What are you calling about then?”
“Well, while you were busy being studious, I was thinking about you, but not in any work-related kind of way. Actually, I was wondering if you’d like to go out for a movie with me.”
My eyes would have popped out if not for my exceptionally retentive eye sockets. Something is not right, and I half-suspect that I have somehow been transported to another dimension, like to Bizarro World or the Twilight Zone.
“Sorry?” I say. “Did you just ask me out for a movie?”
“Well, there’s this new film out by François Ozon that has gotten great reviews, and I’m hoping we could watch it together.”
“Just the two of us?”
“Yes, just the two of us.”
“You mean, like on a…like a…” I can’t even finish the sentence.
“Yes, I’m asking you out on a date,” he says patiently.
OH…MY…GOD. Didi’s right. He likes me. He really likes me.
“I… I don’t know what to say.”
“You know, I’m starting to sense some hesitancy on your side,” he says with a chuckle. “Is it because you don’t enjoy my company?”
“No! It’s not that at all. I’d love to go out with you but…”
“Okay, stop right there. That’s all I want to hear right now. Listen, I know this is not the most orthodox of situations.” He heaves a sigh. “But I really enjoy your company, and I like being with you. I know this is probably too much to absorb right now, so why don’t you think about it, okay? I don’t need an answer right now, and you’re probably busy with your exam preparations. So just think about it, and I’ll check in on you once the exams are over. D’accord?”
I barely manage an okay, and even after he hangs up, it takes me a while to even put the receiver down.
So my professor, the dreamboat from Fantasy Land, wants me to think about going out with him. Sure, I can do that. In fact, excuse me while I go sit in a corner and obsess.
Chapter 6
DISASTER. COMPLETE AND total disaster. Today is the first day of Semester One exams and I’m about to sit for the Constitutional Law oral exam. The last time I sat for an oral, I still had braces on my teeth and ribbons in my hair. Even though I’ve studied really hard for this, the thought of having to speak in French to pass an exam frazzles me—at least with a written exam, you can plan things out, take things back. You can’t do that with an oral. Once it’s out there, it’s out there.
By the time I seat myself in front of the examiner, I am finding it hard to speak intelligibly, what more intelligently. Our Constitutional Law professor, M. Boniface (also known as Mr Bony Face amongst the English-speaking crowd), finds it necessary to tell me to “relax” and “take a deep breath” in the manner of an ancient yogi.
He then proceeds to ask me about Article 49, which should have been a piece of brioche. After all, I have spent the last few days committing all the key articles of the Constitution of the Fifth French Republic to memory.
“Article 49!” I think to myself, seeing the words flash across the screen of my mind, willing my brain to process them. But all I get is the blue screen. My brain has inconveniently crashed on me.
“Mademoiselle,” Bony Face says, tapping impatiently on the desk with his long index finger, “Qu’est-ce que c’est, ce fameux Article 49 alinéa 3?”
I refocus. Okay, famous article, famous article, I’ve got to know this one, since it’s so famous, right? I look out the window and search the sky, as though a small airplane might be flying around trailing a banner with Article 49 miraculously printed on it. Damn, I know the famous Article 40, but 49? Is he sure it’s famous, or is he trying to trick me?
I clear my throat, in the manner of someone about to announce something very important and say, “Can I take another deep breath?”
He gives a slow nod of consent, closing his eyes, looking as wise and world-weary as Buddha himself (the ascetic one, not the huggable pot-bellied laughing type).
I clear my throat again. “In Napoleon’s time…”
But I can’t finish my sentence because Bony Face puts his hand up in front of my mouth, almost as if to stop the words from leaving my lips. “La rationalisation du parlement?” he hints.
This sparks something in my head and I go, “Oui! Oui! In the Fifth Republic, the Parliament’s powers were reduced, for example the FAMOUS Article 40...” I’m hoping he won’t notice—I mean, it isn’t as if I’m jumping to Article 78, but old Bony Face is quite the tenacious poodle and brings me back to le stupid Article 49. I concede defeat and give him a sad, searching look and he ends up telling me the answer. He then asks me a few more questions, but my mind starts to zone out because this isn’t going well at all, especially compared to my nemesis Ursula who went just before
me. She must have been brilliant because after the interview, Bony Face asked her how long she had been studying French, said he was impressed by her mastery of the language, congratulated her, blah blah blah. I mean, he almost looked lively.
When it’s my turn to be dismissed, he simply says, “Merci, Mademoiselle Thong. I wish you an enjoyable stay in France.”
I’m so stunned, I nearly fall off my chair. I mean, what does he take me for, a tourist? Does he think I happened to wander into the Sorbonne to take an oral exam in between the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre? Ok, so I had a mental blackout, so I forgot a couple of special powers the President had over the Parliament, but I’m a student of the Sorbonne and I demand to be taken seriously! I feel like telling him that, but of course I can’t, so I just smile, say “Merci” and slink away.
Just spent 16 hours in bed—I’ve discovered to my great surprise that you can get a headache from too much sleep. I manage to drag myself out of bed but somehow end up curled up on the floor instead. I’m still in yesterday’s clothes. A croissant and some jam have been left out on the table from last night. I feel like a deviant. I’m going to fail four out of six subjects, which will set a spectacular precedent since I have never, ever, failed an exam before (except for Art and PE, which obviously don’t count). Oh the shame! I will become the laughing stock of the entire Thong clan, which will be quite an achievement given that my cousin Tim is a professional clown.
Apart from Constitutional Law, the other exams were written exams. I thought these would be easier to handle, but oh, was I wrong. I had so much difficulty trying to express my ideas. Every so often I found myself trying to translate whole paragraphs from English, which isn’t ideal because I’m supposed to be thinking in French. But if I were to do this under exam pressure, my thesis on the international system would go something like this: The US is still very powerful. But other countries like China are becoming powerful too. The United Nations is not powerful. Therefore, they are fighting for power and—watch out for the razor-sharp analysis!—this is not good.
