Annabelle Thong

by Imran Hashim

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?! But you should have seen her, Dad! She’s totally lost it.”

  “Don’t worry, Belle. She won’t do anything rash. I know her. She loves herself too much.”

  I laugh and cry at the same time because he’s right.

  “Listen, I want you to stop worrying about your mum. She’s using my credit cards, so I’ll keep track of her movements. In the meanwhile, you concentrate on your exams, you understand? I’ll call you if I need your help. But for now, just take it that no news is good news. Okay?”

  I say okay, and tell him I love him; he chokes a little and says, “I love you too” and hangs up.

  It’s been a week since my nasty encounter with Finger Pervert. I’m not crying as much now, thanks to my friends, who have all rallied around me and tried their best to make sure I’m busy and distracted most of the time. Today we’re hanging out at the library, and when we’re tired of revising for the exams, we retire to one of the cafés at Place de la Sorbonne for a break.

  The others bitch and moan about term papers and evil professors, but I can’t seem to get into it, so I just keep quiet and sip on my coffee.

  “Are you okay, Belle? Keeping your spirits up?” Yannick asks, looking concerned.

  “Yeah, I’m fine, thanks,” I say, but I can’t look him in the eye when I say it. I can feel the gang looking at me as I fidget with the coffee cup.

  “You know, I still feel so angry. With myself, with Patrick. I mean, the bastard. How dare he accuse me of leading him on? Wasn’t it the other way round?”

  “Of course it was. Like I’ve been telling you, he’s a manipulative bastard. It wasn’t your fault. Stop fucking your mind like this,” Didi says.

  “We must make Dudoigt suffer,” Gula intones with serious intent.

  “What do you mean?” Yannick asks.

  “What I mean? Revenge!”

  “Oh.” Yannick looks somewhat alarmed.

  “Well, I can tell you that there are definitely moments when I feel like killing him,” I say.

  “No Belle, you go too far. He don’t deserve to die,” Gula says without any trace of irony. “But suffer, yes. I can ask Uzbek secret service. They are very good at make people suffer. Very professional, no evidences. If you want, I ask for you.”

  “Tone it down, girl,” Didi says to Gula. He turns to me and says, “I really think you should report what he did to Monsieur Blois. Finger Pervert must get his just desserts. And we need to do it soon, chérie. Before the summer holidays begin.”

  “But I told you already, I need proof that he offered me better grades for sex! Right now, it’s his word against mine, and guess whose side the Department will be on?”

  “You want proof? Easy! In Uzbekistan, you just send two men to knock on door after midnight, and then you bring...” She notices the frowns of disapproval around the table. “What? This is called brainstorm!”

  Yannick, who is eyeing Gula’s bodyguards in the distance, suddenly lights up.

  “We can get the evidence! We’ll get Gula’s men to wire you up, you get Dudoigt to make the proposal again, and PAF! Game over for him.”

  We all look at him in wonder.

  “You mean like a sting operation?” I ask.

  Yannick nods his head, grinning toothily. Gula rewards him with a kiss, while Didi bounces up and down in his seat excitedly. “I’ve always wanted to be a Charlie’s Angel!” Didi says.

  I must admit that it’s a good idea. Enough sitting around feeling sorry for myself. It’s time to get even.

  On Sunday morning, I find myself having brunch with Thierry. This is the second time that we’ve met in a week; I think he’s organising these meetups just to check in on me, ever since he found out what happened with Finger Pervert and my mum. He’s a sweet guy, Thierry, once you get past his I’m-a-plumber-with-Big-Ideas nonsense.

  “How’s your mother? Any updates?” he asks as he refills his glass with orange juice.

  “My father told me she checked herself into a hotel near the Champs Elysées, so at least we know where she is. But I’m not going to drop in on her just yet. I think it’s better to give her time to cool down.”

  “Sounds reasonable.”

  I then tell Thierry about the group’s plans to trick Finger Pervert into confessing and capturing it on tape.

  “Wow, sounds like quite an operation. When are you guys planning to do it?”

  “Tomorrow,” I reply.

  “You don’t sound very excited.”

  “I find it hard to get excited about anything these days.”

  “Well, good luck. I hope you get him.” He pauses, then folds his arms across his chest. “I never liked him, you know. Didn’t like him when you told me about him, didn’t like him when I met him.”

  “Really? What didn’t you like about him?” I ask.

  “He’s a douchebag. You’re special, Belle. And any man who can’t see that is an idiot.”

  His words make me blush, and I’m a little embarrassed to look him in the eye after that. He’s a really sweet guy, Thierry. Have I said that?

  8.15am

  I go to my wardrobe for what is probably the second-most challenging task for today—picking The Outfit for the sting operation. There is a very fine balance to be struck here. The Outfit must be sexy enough to drive Finger Pervert insane with lust and yet not so skimpy that the mini-microphone I’ll be wearing has nowhere to hide. I hope I find something in here.

  8.50am

  The place looks like the sweatshop of an overwhelmed Chinese seamstress, with clothes lying all over the floor and furniture. I’ve tried on tops, bottoms and underwear in various combinations but have yet to hit the jackpot. Didi has inspired me with his Charlie’s Angels comment, so I’m aiming for a Lucy Liu kind of look. But when I study myself in the mirror, I’m devastated to see Murder She Wrote instead. Urgh. The granny-skirt will have to go. Come to think of it, I really should be wearing slacks, in case I need to break into an athletic sprint at some point (you never know with these sting operations). And the collared blouse must go too.

  I wonder what I’ve done to my Tati camisole?

  9.10am

  The Outfit has finally been assembled:

  a) Wonder Bra with lift-and-push action

  b) Beige Tati camisole screaming “sexy trash”

  c) Maroon corduroy jacket for my “equipment”

  d) Black skinny jeans with slimming properties

  e) Black heels (for high-kicking action if necessary)

  Okay, I have to hop into the shower or I’ll be late and ruin everything.

  10.30am

  I arrive at the library a little bit out of breath, look for Gula and seat myself next to her. There is complete silence in the library, so Gula whispers something to me in a hushed but urgent tone.

  “What are you doing?”

  “What? What do you mean?” I whisper back.

  “Why you dress like you go for Russian Escort Career Fair?”

  I glare at Gula and shush her noisily. She really has no sense of occasion.

  11.40am

  It seems Gula isn’t the only one with no sense of occasion. It must be an Uzbek thing because her men are fitting me up with the wiretap in a McDonald’s toilet. McDonald’s! Toilet! Why do they not have a vehicle disguised as a delivery van with touchscreen computers and satellite-transmission-thingies inside like other intelligence agencies, where I can be properly fixed up? What kind of outfit are these people running? I already had some misgivings last week, when they didn’t think to give our mission a security code name. Imagine that! A mission with no name! Everyone knows that security code names are important for, well, security reasons. I insisted that we had one, and everyone wisely agreed.

  11.50am

  Our little party has set up camp in a corner booth of the McDonald’s, where they will be following my progress. I test my microphone one last time by speaking into the lapel of my jacket. Shafkat, the tall guy wi
th big hands and even bigger sunglasses (who does he think he is, Karl Lagerfeld?) laughs at me indulgently.

  “No need speak down,” he says, still smiling. “This microphone very powerful. Very sensitive. Best technology from Russia.”

  Furkat is manning the recording machine and gives me the thumbs-up to signal that he hears me loud and clear. There’s nothing left to do but give Gula, Didi and Yannick each a hug. I then straighten my jacket, put on my coat, take a deep breath and step out onto the street.

  Operation Digit Guillotine is underway.

  11.58am

  I’m now in the corridor leading to Finger Pervert’s office. My stomach tightens like a fist clenching hard; this will be the first time that I’ll be speaking to FP since The Great Trauma. I am reminded of the other me, the one who hung around nervously in this corridor, the naïve fool who was in love. The memory rekindles my rage, and this time round, I don’t dither, I don’t falter. I am a woman on a mission.

  With the practised perfection of Datuk Michelle Yeoh on the 22nd take, I swish my unswishable hair and say, “Okay boys, I’m going in.”

  12.40pm

  I’m back at McDonald’s where trays of Happy Meals are surrounded by sad people. Gula has an arm around my shoulders, and Didi is dabbing at my face with serviettes. Operation Digit Guillotine has not been a success, through no fault of Russian technology.

  I thought I had a fighting chance of nailing Patrick when I walked into his office and saw his startled look slowly transform into one of appreciation as I unbuttoned my coat and seated myself.

  “Tiens, tiens. To what do I owe this pleasure of seeing you, Mademoiselle Thong?” He used the polite vous, which was unusual, but his tone was playful.

  “Oh Patrick, come on. Why so formal all of a sudden?” I said, keeping the tone light. “We always tutoie each other.”

  “If you wish. What can I do for you?” And that was when I felt his leg brush against mine under the table. Horny bastard.

  “Well, I’ve been thinking about what you said the last time. You know, your proposal. I’d like to take it up.” I used an index finger to suggestively trace a vein down his exposed forearm. He pushed his knee in between mine, but folded his arms against his chest.

  “And what proposal is that?” he asked.

  Wait. That wasn’t what he was supposed to say. That wasn’t what I came for.

  “You know, your proposal that if I sleep with you, you’ll help me pass the exams.” My leg frantically sought his crotch, hoping that its master will do my bidding if I pat it right. He gave me access. He let me play with him for a while before he made his next move.

  “And why would I suggest that, Mademoiselle Thong? That would be very unprofessional,” he said, suddenly pulling his chair back, crossing his legs and smirking. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You did! You made me that offer, remember?” As if I needed to jog his memory. I felt the anger rising.

  He tapped an index finger on his chin and looked at the ceiling as if trying to recall.

  “No, I’m afraid I really don’t.” He gave me a sick, knowing smile. “And I’d like that to be put on record.”

  It was Game Over for me and we both knew it. Patrick—2, Annabelle—0. I got up suddenly, causing the chair to topple over. All the anger I was reining in came crashing in a giant wave, and it was all I could do to restrain myself from lunging at his neck.

  “Go to hell, you bastard!”

  I picked up my coat and ran off in tears.

  I’m about to go in for my second exam, an oral with M. Butty. He’s obnoxious enough in class, but as an examiner, I hear he can be a real stinker. He was very, very mean to some students yesterday. For example, he said he didn’t know how Sarah got accepted into the course in the first place, and cut Gula short and sent her away for not speaking “proper French”.

  I need to ace this module. I really do. Last week, I did the exam for the module on French politics under the 5th Republic, and it wasn’t great. Fortunately, I had the foresight to go through my list of Exams Do’s and Don’ts. I didn’t want another “bad-chicken episode” (although judging by the number of times I went to the toilet, it was more like a mini-series) and cleaned out my fridge, thus narrowly escaping poisoning by yoghurt this time.

  I also remembered feeling peckish during the written papers last semester, and being jealous of my classmates who had come prepared with snacks and drinks—sandwiches, apples, chocolate bars, crisps, crackers, canned drinks, even flasks of coffee, which they sipped on thoughtfully as they plotted their essays. It was like this giant picnic, and all I had brought were pens, which I chewed on nonetheless in a very dissatisfied fashion. So this time, I was sure to bring ample provisions, and by the time I was done laying them all out on my table, it looked as if I was ready to open a small café.

  The problem was, after the first hour of intense concentration and internal debate as to whether or not the Front National was on the road to irrelevance, I started to dig into my treats and found I couldn’t stop. You know how addictive those damned Japanese crackers with the peanuts can be! And then I had a fondant au chocolat and spent 10 minutes trying to get it off my T-shirt. And so on and so forth. I was a one-woman Hungry Ghost Festival, and by the time I came back to my senses, two hours had passed. God, what is wrong with me? What is wrong with me?!

  So I had two hours left, not only to organise my ideas into two sections and two sub-sections, but also to write the whole thing out, which was nowhere near enough. Despite the sugar rush, I was able to come up with a decent plan, but was so panicked about not having enough time that my French melted off my sweaty palms, not unlike the M&Ms I was relishing just moments before. I found myself repeating stupid phrases like, “this shows that…’’ and “this leads to…’’ ad nauseam, simply because I didn’t know how else to link my bloody sentences.

  When Bony Face announced that time was up, I was still scribbling my last sub-section; by then I couldn’t care less if I was writing in Creole, I just knew I had to finish the freaking essay. He went round to the others to collect the papers till I was the only one left, and even then he had to fight me for my exam script and prise it out of my hands.

  “Maybe you should have had lunch before coming to the exam hall,” he said drily as he eyed the heap of plastic wrappers on the table.

  “I did!” I wailed, but it was too late to cry over spilled fondant.

  I need to do better for this module. When it’s my turn, I enter the classroom, seat myself in front of M. Butty and study his face for some clues as to how this is going to go down.

  “Bonjour Mademoiselle Thong.” Butty doesn’t have that wicked gleam in his eye today. He just looks extremely bored, which is not that much better.

  “Bonjour Monsieur,” I reply courteously.

  Without further ado, he quizzes me on contemporary Southeast Asian politics, which goes quite smoothly. But he then starts to ask me about books which are on the supplementary reading list. Who the hell reads anything on the supplementary reading list?!

  “When did Tonnies write his book on culture and society?” he asks, setting his trap casually, as if to catch me unawares.

  I say, “Early 19th century?”

  He says, “No, late 19th century. How about Renan—when did he write his book?”

  “Early 19th century?” I repeat. Somebody must have written something in the early 19th century, right?

  “No, 1882. That’s the second time you missed a date by nearly a century, and it’s making me quite upset,” he says, starting to sound agitated.

  “Oh... I’m sorry, but dates aren’t exactly my forte,” I say. Not to mention supplementary reading lists.

  “Oh yes, I can see that.”

  “But at least I have the ideas right?” I smile, trying to look as cute as I possibly can. His mood is shifting and my strategy now is to earn some points through comic relief, my only ammunition left, seeing as how knowledge has dese
rted me.

  This seems to work and he starts to ask me things like why I came to France. I latch on to this new line of questioning like a lifeline and start to kiss butty big time, you know, the typical France-is-the-country-of-romance-and-gastronomy-and-your-language-is-so-beautiful spiel which seems to please him, and so I’m hoping that will translate into an extra point or two in my final grade.

  When I walk out of the classroom, I don’t have a good sense of how it went. My instinct is to dwell on the negatives, but I manage to remind myself of Rule No. 8 of Exams Do’s and Don’ts, i.e. must not destroy self until all exams are over. I must be strong, put all this behind me, and soldier on. I have just one more paper to go (French), and then… well, and then more slogging for the thesis. I hate my life.

  The French paper was probably the best I’ve done for these exams. It was kind of challenging, but manageable, so yay, I guess. There was a listening comprehension section where we had to listen to a news report, and it was all about how young French graduates these days simply couldn’t find jobs, complete with interviews and stories of frustration and despair. This gives you a sense of how bad a funk the French economy is in, but I thought making a bunch of students listen to it for the final exam just before they graduated was cruel beyond belief.

  I’m filing my notes away when the telephone rings. Maybe it’s Thierry calling to find out how the paper went.

  “Allo,” I say.

  “Belle? Is that you? Belle you have to come and get me… You have to come now and take me away from this horrible place!”

  “Mum? Where are you? What happened?”

  “I’m at the police station. Police Prefecture… I’m in police custody… How could they?” she sobs incoherently.

  “Police custody?! What happened? Are you okay?”

  “Touch on! I tried to…those horrible touch on people! I am talking to my daughter you horrible man! Belle!”

  Suddenly, a gruff man’s voice comes on the phone. “Mademoiselle Thong? C’est la préfecture de police. Your mother’s time on the phone is up. I suggest you come to the Police Prefecture as soon as possible.”