Annabelle Thong

by Imran Hashim

  “Justice pour la Princesse Rouge! Justice for the Red Princess!”

  “Oh my! That’s a catchy one!” I shout to my friends, laughing. My friends laugh and start to chant as well, and before I know it, I find myself hoisted onto the shoulders of two of the march organisers as we head into the final stretch.

  3.05pm

  Mission accomplished!

  We’ve arrived at Place Saint-Michel, the end point for the march, but the crowds haven’t dispersed and people are continuing to mill about and dance to drums, breaking out bottles of wine and six-packs of beer. It’s all very festive and every once in a while, people approach me to shake my hand or take a photo with me, and I thank them for coming, as if the hostess of this giant street party.

  “Wow, you look like a pro,” I hear someone say behind me.

  I turn around and see Thierry leaning against a lamp post, grinning at me.

  “Why am I not surprised to see you here?” I say, genuinely happy to see him. “Are you waiting for an autograph? Because if you are, you need to get in line.”

  Thierry strides over and does the bise.

  “Yes, I can see how popular you’ve become. And congratulations on your first ever demonstration! If I didn’t know any better, I’d have thought you’ve been doing this your whole life.”

  “Thanks, coming from you, that means a lot,” I giggle.

  “Did you enjoy yourself?”

  “I did, actually. It was kind of, I don’t know…empowering.”

  “So who’s the Communist now, huh?” Thierry says, and we burst out laughing till tears roll down our cheeks.

  When I finally regain my composure, I ask him if he would like to join my friends and me for drinks at Frog & Rosbif.

  He looks at me for a moment, as if trying to decide, then says, “Yes, I would be honoured to.”

  The next day, I rush downstairs first thing in the morning to check the papers and, as expected, there’s extensive coverage of the nationwide demonstrations. I quickly scan the photos, but I can’t seem to find myself. I peer at the photos again, more closely this time. Who is that person dressed as the Invisible Woman? Is that me? Did they smudge my face—to protect my identity or something? And then it dawns on me that it’s no smudge, just lots and lots of bandage.

  The reports on the demonstrations, however, are great. According to Libération, 300,000 people across the country took to the streets to “demonstrate against government reforms, and denounce the recent spate of police brutality, of which the latest victim was Singaporean student, Annabelle Thong, now popularly known as the Red Princess.” Wow! I’m “popular”—or, more accurately, I’m “popularly known”! And even the editorial of Le Figaro is calling for the government to go into consultations with the student unions in the light of this massive showdown. Hurray!

  We did it! We really did it! Nicolas just called to tell me that a government spokesman has invited the leaders of the Leftist Coalition for talks to discuss the future of the university reforms! Till then, the reforms would be put on hold. I congratulated Nicolas, and told him that I hoped the unions and the associations would still pursue reforms to improve the quality of university education in France.

  “We will. We want things to get better too, you know. Hey, do you want to be part of the meetings with the Minister?” he asked.

  I tried to see myself in tough negotiations with France’s Minister for Education, making hard-nosed demands—like an Olympic-size swimming pool for the Sorbonne—but my imagination failed me. “No, I think I’ve done enough damage already,” I laughed. “Besides, I’m not going to be here next year.”

  “Why, where are you going?”

  “Home,” I said. It sounded hollow, unreal, so I repeated it again, for the both of us. “I’m going back home to Singapore in three months.”

  I’m lying in bed, tossing and turning, unable to go to sleep.

  Where did the time go? It’s been nine whole months since I arrived in the City of Love—and what do I have to show for it? A date with a kinky dog-lover and a near-relationship with Mr Perfect? Is that all I’m going to take away with me when I pack my bags and leave—that and a lifetime’s worth of regret?

  I feel like I’m so close to living my dream, like it’s within reach if I just apply myself a bit more (I blame VJC for this sort of ethic). But what does “applying myself” mean? Disobeying God in the pursuit of happiness? Will God forgive me? But at the same time, wouldn’t a loving God want me to be happy?

  I close my eyes and think things through further. It’s not easy, but finally, I come to a decision, one that weighs heavily on my heart.

  Please forgive me, God, but I’m going to have sex with Patrick.

  I knock on the door to Patrick’s office, and my heart jumps when I hear him say, “Come in!”

  He’s not expecting me, so he freezes behind his desk for a moment, but quickly recovers.

  “Annabelle,” he says, a smile slowly curling up from one corner of his lips. “Please, take a seat.”

  He doesn’t stand up, and gestures towards the chair across from him. His tone is friendly, but there’s no kiss, no bise even; my mission is going to be even more daunting than I thought.

  “Thank you.”

  “How are you doing these days? First of all, I must apologise for not being able to visit you at the hospital. I felt really bad about it, but it was impossible. I was just buried under a mountain of work. But how’s your injury? Are you feeling better now?”

  I want to tell him that he should feel bad, and that I’m very disappointed in him, but this is not the best time for it. So I just say, “Yes, I am, thanks.”

  “Good, good. And congratulations on the success of the demonstration against the university reforms. I never realised you were an activist.”

  “Neither did I. I guess the knock on the head did me some good,” I say self-effacingly, and he laughs a little.

  Patrick looks at me—there’s a gleam in his blue eyes—and I can feel the frostiness start to melt away.

  “Patrick, why didn’t you return my calls?” I say this calmly, without any emotional charge.

  “Well, I was angry with you for leading me on. C’est normal, non?”

  “Listen, I’m sorry about the way things ended the last time. I’ve been thinking a lot about us, and there’s something I want to tell you.”

  Patrick leans back into his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head. “Yes, I wasn’t expecting my soirée to end that way. Very unsatisfying.”

  “I understand where you’re coming from, which is why…”

  But he doesn’t let me finish. He shifts in his seat, leans forward and says, “With most girls, I would move on, put the thing behind me. But you, Belle,”—he breaks out in a smile—“there’s something I can’t resist.” He is speaking slowly and deliberately now. “So I’ll make you an offer.”

  I am completely bowled over. Wow, here I am about to sacrifice my virginity to Adonis himself and it turns out that he’s the one paying tribute. This is going way better than I expected!

  He reaches across the table and takes my hands in his. I squeeze them ecstatically, beaming in anticipation of, oh I don’t know, an exclusive relationship, everlasting love, a cemetery plot at Chateau Dudoigt. Blood is swooshing all over my brain and I force myself to concentrate; I want to capture his exact words so I can recycle them in a love poem, or the Powerpoint presentation at our wedding.

  “Sleep with me, and I’ll help you get your degree,” he says in a low voice. “It’s a win-win for the both of us, don’t you think?”

  Did he say, “Stick with me, and I’ll help you get your drinky”? Not much good for the wedding dinner, but at least the sentiment is on the right track.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’ve been nominated to sit on the grading panel for your thesis which, as you know, is worth three modules. I can give you the marks that you need.” He starts to stroke my arms. “If you have sex with me.”
<
br />   My jaws drop as I try to wrap my head around this “offer”. I don’t fully understand what is going on.

  “But…will we be in a relationship?”

  He gives a smug, conceited smile that I swear I’ve never seen before.

  “To be honest, I’m not really into relationships right now. I’m more into just sex. Is that okay?”

  The sounds of Mum pottering around the flat and the smell of coffee wakes me up. I open my eyes, and wince at the recollection of what happened at Patrick’s office yesterday afternoon. After he dropped his bomb, I was too numb to think and very lamely excused myself on the grounds of feeling suddenly sick and somehow found my way home. The rest of the evening is now a bit of a jumbled blur, partly because I saw most of it through tears, and then didn’t see the rest at all (hiding under my duvet). I think I alarmed Mum a little, who tried her level best to find out what had happened when I came home with red eyes, but I fopped her off with a lie about having a fight with my friends and then refusing to give her any details. I know she just wants to be there for me, but how do I share this with her without exposing myself to the harsh light of judgement? How do I open my heart to her when I feel like I can’t even trust it myself any more? How could I have been so stupid?

  I poke my head out from under the duvet. Mum is sitting at the kitchen table, spreading some jam on her morning croissant. She sees that I’m up.

  “Good morning, Belle,” she says. “How are you feeling this morning?”

  “Okay,” I say.

  “You can’t fool me, you know. I’m your mother.”

  “Mum, I said I’m fine, okay? Can you drop it, please?”

  “Well, if you insist. Go brush your teeth and join me for breakfast. I’ll make you some eggs.”

  “I’m not hungry.” I put the duvet back over my head and close my eyes.

  “Now don’t be silly, Belle. Whatever it is you’re upset about, starving yourself isn’t going to make you feel better. Now, go brush your teeth and come eat something.”

  I don’t want to, but I drag myself out of bed anyway. As I mechanically munch through breakfast, not tasting a thing, my mind wrestles with the same questions over and over again, in a continuous inescapable loop. How could I not know that Patrick didn’t have the same feelings for me? Did I read him wrongly? But he was so sweet to me when we went out on dates. And if we went on dates, that could only mean that he was open to having a relationship. And then he changed his mind… What did I do wrong? Should I have given in to his sexual advances earlier? When would have been too early? And when did it become too late? Because it’s too late now. I blew it. I screwed up.

  I feel my Mum’s hand on my arm. “Belle, why are you crying?”

  “No, I’m not,” I say, quickly wiping away my tears. “I’m fine.”

  “Why won’t you tell me what’s wrong?”

  “I don’t think you’ll understand, Mum.”

  “Right. I don’t understand hurt and heartache.” She pulls back her hand and sits up straight. “Will you clear up when you’re done? I think I’ll go to the market now.”

  I know I’ve hurt her feelings, but feel incapable of doing anything about it. I just stare into my coffee mug, willing myself not to cry, at least not while she’s around. When Mum leaves the apartment 10 minutes later, I sink back into bed and feel overwhelmed by my loss and failure once again. What can I do now? How can I change Patrick’s mind? How can I make him love me?

  I pick up the phone and dial Didi’s number.

  “Allo,” comes his sing-song greeting.

  “Salut Didi, are you free to talk?” I say, sobbing

  “Hey, what’s wrong, chérie?”

  I tell Didi the whole story, from my initial decision to give in to Patrick’s sexual demands to his offer of grades for sex.

  “Quoi?! Non, ce n’est pas possible! How could he do something like that?” Didi says, outraged. “So what are you going to do now?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what to do. He said he just wanted sex. You know, all those times we kissed, I…I thought it meant something. I thought he really liked me and I don’t know what I did that made him stop liking me.”

  “Listen chérie, you didn’t do anything wrong. Nothing! You hear me? Any straight guy would be lucky to get a girl like you. It sounds to me like the Finger Pervert has been playing you all this while, the bastard. He’s been toying with you, and it’s a good thing it’s over now.”

  “Then why didn’t I see it, Didi? Why was I so blind? I feel like such a loser.” I’m whispering now.

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Belle. It’s not your fault. It wasn’t just you. He fooled all of us, including me, and I’ve met loads of perverts in my lifetime.” This makes me laugh despite myself, and I pass the back of my hand across my wet cheeks.

  “You should lodge a formal complaint against the Finger Pervert. About the sex-for-grades offer,” Didi says.

  “Really? What good would that do? It’s my word against his, and besides, he’s a civil servant,” I say. If there’s one thing that I have learnt about French society since I got here, it is that civil servants rule. Presidents come and go, reforms are debated and defeated, but civil servants will continue to do what they want, to whom they want, and most of all, for as long as they want. The iron rice bowl? In France it’s made of titanium. “Even if the school believes me, and that’s a big if, what will they do? Send him a warning letter? Tell him not to do it again? He deserves to be fired, but you know that won’t happen.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “Because that’s the way the system works. You’re French, you should know!”

  “But if the system is wrong, we need to change it. That, ma chérie, is what citizenry is all about. And I say that because I’m French.” Didi pauses, and finally says, “Don’t you worry. Dudoigt is going to pay for what he’s done. But we’ll need to do it right. Let things cool down first, then we’ll talk about it some more, okay?”

  “Okay… Didi?”

  “Oui, chérie?”

  “Is it always going to be this hard?”

  “Only if you fall for the jerks. You deserve better, Belle. And trust me, you’ll find better.”

  Chapter 10

  THE STITCHES CAME off this morning. At Mum’s suggestion, I get myself a haircut, this time from someone who doesn’t look like an undercover hitman. It turns out all right—it’s short and summery—kind of like Miranda’s from Sex and the City after she stopped acting butch. When I get home, Mum gives it her stamp of approval. We chat as she prepares lunch, and I bring up the subject of her imminent return to Singapore, which turns out to be not so imminent after all.

  “Oh don’t worry about me going back, dear. I’m going to stay a bit longer here. Paris is such a lovely place, and the bread here is so fresh.”

  Since when did the Arab bakery downstairs become a top-notch tourist draw?

  “And that way I get to keep you company. You’ll be so lonely otherwise.” She looks up from dicing chicken cubes and smiles generously, as if to say, “No need to thank me.” She is evidently living in a world of her own. Our honeymoon period is long over, and sharing the small studio with her is grating on my nerves.

  “But what about Dad?” I squeak.

  “What about that man?” she says, as if throwing the gauntlet. “I don’t need him. And it looks like he doesn’t need me either, so a separation’s for the best.”

  Now I’m alarmed. This is the first time I’ve heard her mention the s-word.

  “Mum, you know he’s been trying to call you. You’re the one who refuses to talk to him. Why are you behaving like this?”

  She pretends to concentrate on cutting the chicken, which is in grave danger of becoming minced meat. I let her take it out on the chicken a bit more, and then ask, “So how much longer are you planning to stay here?”

  “I don’t know… A few more weeks, a month,” she says, putting the knife down. “Why? Am I not
welcome here?”

  “Of course you’re welcome. It’s just that…” I pause, unsure if it’s wise to continue.

  “Just that what?” she says as she turns on the tap to wash her hands.

  “This place is really small, and I don’t think it’s meant for two people living here long-term. We can hardly move without bumping into each other. It’s uncomfortable for the both of us, and you’ve been here three weeks already, so I think it’s time for you to go home and stop running away from Dad.”

  She looks stunned and lets the tap run over her still hands. Perhaps nobody’s ever spoken this way to her before. There’s a pause, then she wipes her hand on a towel and suddenly cries, “Lord, oh Lord! What have I done to deserve such ungrateful children?!” She doesn’t look at me and says to the microwave oven, “I see I’ve overstayed my welcome. I’ll pack my bags and go somewhere else.”

  And she really starts to pack her stuff into her giant suitcase. I begin to backpedal, saying that I didn’t mean it that way, and that she’s welcome to stay for as long as she wants, but once that woman gets something into her head, it’s impossible to get it out. It’s like dropping a coin into a ceramic piggy bank—you’d have to break her before she’ll let you take anything back.

  In half an hour, she’s all dressed and starts dragging her suitcase down the stairs, and even refuses to let me help her.

  “Mum! What are you doing? Will you stop it?! Come back and we’ll talk this over.” But she pretends I’m not there, and flags down a taxi. The driver helps her put the luggage in the boot, she gets in without a word, slams the door, and is off without so much as a backward glance.

  I’m beside myself with anger, guilt and anxiety. Where is she going? What is she going to do? I call Dad to tell him that Mum has run away from home. I tell him about the fight but decide not to mention the s-word—no point making things worse than they already are.

  “So now I’m worried that she’ll do something stupid. Dad, what should I do?” I sob miserably into the phone.