Annabelle Thong

by Imran Hashim

  It’s a bit too early to be curled up in bed, but I’ve been unable to do anything since I got home from lunch with Patrick; for now, I’m just content to smile and sigh to myself in turn, and look out the window far into the distance à la Mariah Carey before she started wearing hot pants. I’ve just turned on the radio to Chérie FM to hear Dido singing “Aaaaaaa-hai want to thank you, for giving me the best day-hey of my laaa-ha-ife...” Coincidence? Methinks not.

  When Patrick first saw me approaching him just now, he did a double take; I think he didn’t recognise me at first glance. And when he did recognise me, he initially had the startled look of a stun gun victim, which quickly morphed into amusement for some reason.

  “Hello there. You’re looking gorgeous,” he said as he chuckled into my lips. “Even with that intriguing haircut.”

  “Don’t make me go buy a wig,” I said, dead serious, which made him laugh even harder.

  We were going to La Mosquée de Paris, the North African restaurant and tea house located on the grounds of the Great Mosque, which has to be one of the best hidden gems in the city. Stepping across its arched wooden threshold, we entered a tiny garden oasis terraced with blue and white chairs and shrubs and tiny trees, with sparrows flitting about amicably in search of crumbs. Passing through the intimate courtyard, we made our way into the tea house and found ourselves in a plush, Oriental (in the Middle Eastern sense) interior, with Moorish arches, deep red banquettes and ornate brass tables. The place wasn’t too crowded and we seated ourselves at a corner and ordered a lunch of tagine and couscous.

  Now that we’ve gone on a few proper dates, I can officially say that I really like him. In fact, I think I am falling in love. And this man, who is a fine specimen by all accounts, likes me too, and I think this must be what it feels like to be one of the last two contestants at the Mediacorp Subaru Car Challenge. I feel so grateful, but also very scared because it feels like my whole life has been a journey towards this pivotal moment, and I now need to keep my hands on the prize! So when I’m not with him, I feel a funny sort of anxiety, like he might suddenly regain sanity and realise I’m not pretty enough or thin enough or smart enough. Or that he might accidentally meet the love of his life at a party or a club or, worse still, a library. But when I’m with him, he makes all those insecurities go away. The way he focuses his attention on me, I feel like I’m the only girl left in the world, it’s so seductive.

  On today’s date, we ended up talking about intellectual stuff like the impact of Critical Theory on contemporary art (him) and the Death of Horizontal Stripes (me). But there’s still so much more I don’t know about him. For example, he hasn’t really told me much about his family background. After all, he’s got a very interesting surname—Patrick Dudoigt means Patrick of the Finger which might mean he is of noble ancestry (it seems in France, surnames preceded by a particle usually denote aristocratic lineage). Oooh…. Maybe Doigt/Finger is the name of a French estate (as opposed to the body part). And who knows, maybe his family still maintains their chateau to retire to during the holidays. How classy. I indulge myself in a fantasy sequence where I marry him and become Mme Annabelle Dudoigt, mistress of my domain. From “Thong” to “Finger”—mmmm… that’s what I call upward social mobility.

  Sigh. I know, I know. I’m getting ahead of myself. But a girl can dream, and this one’s going to keep her, well, fingers crossed.

  It’s Easter Sunday, and I’m attending Mass this morning at Notre Dame (yes, of the Hunchback fame). The cathedral is majestic enough on any given day, its stone façade creamy from its recent facelift, but today, it’s radiant in the late morning light, pregnant with the faithful. For once, the tourists are outnumbered by the worshippers (at least from the looks of it), and the moment I step through the huge medieval doors to join the pews, I have a sense that something very special is about to happen.

  And it does. The Archbishop’s Mass in French taps into a spiritual well deep within, and the Gregorian chants by the Benedictine monks of Fontgombault are divine, but the highlight turns out to be the live telecast of the proceedings in Rome, that are so near, yet so far. I feel bad saying this, but there’s no way Bishop Tan’s staccato oration and the Tiny Tots Easter Special in church back home could ever compare to this. Before I know it, three hours have passed (an Easter miracle!) and the service comes to an end. I feel light and cleansed, and almost ready to watch some porn with Thierry.

  Now let me explain. The only reason I am attending the Fetish Film Festival held in the nearby Latin Quarter is because Thierry asked me to accompany him. And he found the perfect bait to hook me with—Sex: The Annabel Chong Story, a documentary on the porn star’s journey to worldwide notoriety, is on the festival programme. I’ve been fascinated by Annabel ever since her story broke in the New Paper—how did a girl who went to one of Singapore’s most prestigious schools, who was being groomed as a scholar in the Confucian mould, turn out to become a sexual daredevil? Was the driving force behind her record-breaking fuckathon the Singaporean yearning to always be Number 1? Of all the names in the world, why did she choose mine for her stage name (spelling variation aside)? These were burning questions, and so I threw caution to the wind and told Thierry I’d go.

  Crossing the Quai Saint-Michel, my apprehension begins to resurface as I wonder how I am going to blend in with a group of leather-clad, nipple-pierced, pain-seekers. But as I turn the corner at Place Saint-Michel, I am relieved to see that, apart from a lone, leather-bound bunny, a whip in one hand and a basket of chocolate eggs in another, the crowd looks very normal. I immediately spot Thierry, who stands a head taller than the rest, outside the cinema and, after the customary greetings, make a remark along those lines.

  He breaks into a big smile and says, “Don’t you know? It’s always the quiet ones who are the biggest perverts.” And then he winks at me, which throws me off a bit. What’s that about? What did he mean? Is he trying to tell me he’s a big pervert? Because I’ve had my share of…

  I jump when a hand (paw?) unexpectedly taps me on the shoulder. Wheeling round to confront my assailant, I glare straight into Sonia the Singaporean’s steely eyes.

  “Bonjour! Comment ça va?” she says, as she blows me air kisses.

  “Sonia! How are you? My my, fancy seeing you here!” I say, trying to tuck my hair behind my ears, only to realise that I can’t do that with the new “hairstyle”.

  “I know, I’m as shocked as you are,” she says with a forced laugh. “It’s disgusting isn’t it? Some of these people should seriously get help,” she whispers as she pulls her gloves up. “I’m just here to catch that Annabel Chong movie. I sort of know Grace, you see. Actually, my mum knows her mum. I’m dying to see what went wrong.”

  “Oh, I’ll be watching that film too.”

  She suddenly looks over my shoulder and smiles. “Ah, I see you’ve come with your boyfriend. Very smart of you,” she says approvingly. “Too many strange types around. Well, I better go find my husband. Au revoir!”

  She turns on her heels and disappears into the crowd before I can say another word. I turn back to Thierry, who is looking at me with a quizzical expression.

  “Sorry about that,” I say a bit sheepishly.

  “About what?”

  “Oh, about being mistaken for my boyfriend. I don’t know what in the world gave her that idea.”

  “That’s okay. I don’t mind,” he says.

  We start to make our way into the cinema.

  “But—why is that so improbable anyway?”

  “Mmm? Why is what so improbable?” I ask, scanning the crowd distractedly.

  “The part about me being your boyfriend.”

  The question takes me by surprise. I turn to look at Thierry to see if he is playing the fool, but he has a serious expression on his face.

  “Well, to begin with, you look like you live in the woods. Like, literally.”

  “Okay, if you want to be shallow and judge people by appearances, sure,” he conce
des. “What else?”

  “It’s not about being shallow, Thierry, it’s about basic grooming. I mean, how do I know gremlins don’t live in that beard of yours?”

  “I assure you they don’t. What else?”

  “Well, there’s the whole communist thing that’s just way out there…”

  “Oh, you mean the fight for equality for all mankind. So that’s just rubbish to you?”

  “That’s not what I said! I just feel that communism is a utopian dream, totally disconnected from human motivations and therefore doomed to fail. It has lived its course, it has died its natural death, and people who hang on to this failed social experiment are just being delusional…”

  “Delusional? And the capitalist dream of ever increasing exploitation of the world’s limited resources and the weakest and the poor, for more and more useless stuff—you’re telling me we’re not headed for a catastrophe with that?”

  I don’t understand why Thierry is being so annoying. We stare each other down for a brief moment, and just then, the cinema hall opens, and we both march in and wait for the film to start in silence.

  The first film we watch is Thierry’s choice. A British production called Preaching to the Perverted, it’s a comedy drama about the S&M scene in London, where a Conservative MP hires a young assistant to expose (so to speak) Tanya Cheex, the Mistress of the House of Thwax for her immoral and deviant activities. I’m a bit disappointed because it isn’t as funny as I thought it would be. Thankfully though, the sex scenes aren’t hardcore and doesn’t make me too queasy.

  Our second movie, Sex: The Annabel Chong Story, is more satisfying, if only for parochial reasons. Foreigners look at and think of Singapore only rarely, and so I always relish seeing the city and its people reflected through their eyes. I like the interviews in the film, especially those with Annabel’s mother (poor Auntie!). But the director’s narrative is a textbook cliché—a free-spirited girl who can’t fit into a rigid, conformist society flees to America and finds her true calling as Wonder Whore—as if Singapore compels those who are different to desperate extremes, as if the simple act of breathing American air inevitably leads to personal empowerment, no matter how misguided.

  As for the sex scenes, they are often so revolting that I have to turn away. During her infamous record-breaking orgy, they show bald men, fat men, men with hairy backs (and a number of fat bald men with hairy backs) using her, abusing her… Well, when you have no standards, it’s not that difficult to chalk up 251 notches on your belt. I mean, there’s about as much glory in that as assaulting yourself with 251 different-sized cucumbers, isn’t there?

  After the movie, Thierry and I decide to have a cup of coffee at Le Départ Saint-Michel. Naturally, we discuss the movie we’ve just watched and I make a remark about how cruel and selfish Annabel was to have brought such shame to her family. For some reason, Thierry takes exception to this and calls me bourgeois, which I have learnt is the biggest insult you can throw at a Sorbonne student.

  “It’s got nothing to do with being bourgeois or not,” I say, starting to feel hot under the collar. “It’s called having moral values. Are you trying to condone what she did, and not just to herself but to her poor mother?”

  “I’m not condoning her actions,” he says, shaking his head as if I were twisting his words. “What I’m saying is that she exists as an individual in her own right, and this individual has gone through some really traumatic experiences. She was gang raped when she was still a teen. Maybe she never fully recovered from that. Where’s your sympathy for her as a fellow woman?”

  I almost choke with disbelief; Miss Chong looked like she knew full well what she was doing.

  “Well, it’s just like you to defend the indefensible. I’m sorry, but moral relativism is for cowards,” I shoot back. It’s a low blow, but he has got me so riled up, I’m not pulling any more punches.

  He doesn’t rise to the bait, though. He just crosses his arms, looking terribly intense and says, “Non, tu as tort. It’s not moral relativism. It’s class warfare.”

  I glare at him and realise he’s beyond reach, and that I am in effect preaching to the perverted. I finish the rest of my coffee in one gulp and hastily call for the bill.

  Chapter 8

  THE PHONE RINGS, waking me up from a deep sleep. I am barely able to open my eyes but I glance anyway at my alarm clock. It’s 5.30am. Is this a belated (not to mention lame) April Fool’s joke? I fall out of bed with my eyes closed, pick up the receiver and croak “Wello” down the phone.

  “Hello, Belle… Oh I’m glad you’re in.” It’s Mum, of course. I wish someone would sit her down and explain to her the concept of time zones; God knows I’ve tried. “I need to talk to you, darling.” She never calls me darling. “It’s about your father. He is pushing me over the edge with his nonsense, and enough is enough! First he cheats on me, then he accuses me of not being a good wife. Tell me, is this what I deserve?”

  “Mum, I’m sleeping…”

  She doesn’t hear, or more probably chooses to ignore me. “Do you know what he said to me yesterday? He said that I didn’t pay enough attention to him. He said I wasn’t taking care of him.” She pauses, no doubt expecting me to protest on her behalf, but when it doesn’t come, she continues as if she’s just breaking for air. “Then what have I been doing these last 29 years? Huh? For 29 years I raised his daughters, kept his home, made him look good in front of his bumpkin relatives—and he says I don’t take care of him?!”

  “He’s just trying to tell you how he feels…and he didn’t cheat on you. Didn’t he explain to you the misunderstanding?”

  “Don’t be naïve, darling,” she says, barely concealing her irritation. “And you should listen to the way he talks to me these days. Who does he think he is, huh?! Humphrey Bogart? I bet you that Meifen woman is behind all this. Just wait till I get my nails into that China whore!”

  Mum never threatens to use physical violence (too vulgar for her taste) so I take this as a sign that she has officially gone beserk.

  Fully awake now, I swallow hard. “Mum, why don’t you cool down a bit. Maybe you should think about what he said, whether or not it comes from that China woman,” I say, trying to save my ass and sound reasonable at the same time. “We should always try to see things from the other person’s point of view, right?” This just provokes another round of venomous invective and we go round in circles like that for another hour. Finally, I ask her if Crystal can help to mediate.

  “How can she? I’m not talking to her,” she says as if it’s the most natural thing on earth.

  “Why not? Don’t be silly, Mum,” I say, exasperated. “You can’t just isolate yourself like that from everyone.” But I know she can. “Please…tell me you’ll talk to them and reason things out.”

  “The only people who understand me are my friends. And you, of course. Well, I have to go now. Thanks for listening, darling. You’ve always been my favourite. Bye!”

  So now, not only am I her favourite, but have always been; another example of history being strategically airbrushed to map out new battle lines.

  Divide and rule.

  God, that woman is good.

  I can’t go back to sleep, so I make myself a cup of coffee, sit by the window and look at Paris as it stirs awake. Some of the trees on the street, bare just two weeks ago, have already begun to sprout fragile new leaves. Spring may be coming soon, but the winter of discontent continues to gnaw at the bones of this nation. Each day brings fresh news of flare-ups in the urban ghettos, and now it seems the malaise is spreading to the working classes as well.

  I generally don’t pay attention to industrial action, but when the Metro announced yesterday that it was going on a major strike, it almost gave me a minor stroke. The transport unions in France are not to be trifled with, and have been known to bring governments and entire cities to their knees. The Metro, in a bid to win over public opinion, has assured the public of a “minimum service”, which means that
some trains will still run.

  But later on my way to school, I discover that “minimum service” doesn’t mean that all Metro stations are open. Château Rouge, the one closest to my home, is closed so I find myself walking all the way to the Gare du Nord to take my train. It’s rush hour and the strike has made the congestion 10 times worse than usual. I wait on the platform at Gare du Nord for at least 25 minutes before the train finally pulls up, but it’s already jam-packed with people’s faces pressed against the doors. When they spring open (the doors, that is), people inside have to struggle, push and shove to alight because nobody wants to give way by stepping out onto the platform, for fear of not being able to get back on. At the moment people can start boarding the train, the crowd surges forward; EVERYBODY on that platform wants in. Bodies are crushed, backsides are clenched, bags are separated from their owners. People who are still outside panic: they push, they beg, they bully.

  Interesting conversations take place at the doors of the Metro.

  “I’m sorry but there’s no more space. Honestly, no space.”

  “Let me just get my foot in right there.” Push, shove, grunt. “There we go, I knew I could fit.”

  Somebody on the inside says gleefully to people on the outside, “Don’t worry, there’ll be another one!”

  A woman inside the train, crushed like everyone else, screams in desperation, “Close the doors! Close the doors, for the love of God!”

  The conductor tries to close the doors. It doesn’t work. He tries again. The doors are jammed. He announces, “Somebody in the first or second carriage is blocking the door.” A man, his arms pinned down to his side by 10 other bodies, asks, “Which carriage are we in?” as if he’s in a position to do something. The conductor is getting impatient and says sternly over the system, “Either you stop blocking the door, whovever you are, or I get everybody off the train!” But Parisians have an ingrained disdain for public displays of authority, and the crowd goes “Oooh” in mock fear. Finally, the doors close and we move off. As for me, I have my cheek pressed against the back of one man’s shoulder and my nose in another man’s beard. I have no choice; it’s either the beard or an armpit. Talk about being stuck between a rock and a hairy place.