Annabelle Thong Read online

  Copyright © 2016 by Imran Hashim

  All rights reserved

  Published in Singapore by Epigram Books

  www.epigrambooks.sg

  Cover design by Steven Soh

  Published with the support of

  National Library Board, Singapore

  Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  Name(s): Imran Hashim.

  Title: Annabelle Thong / written by Imran Hashim.

  Description: First Singapore edition.

  Singapore : Epigram Books, [2016]

  Identifier(s): OCN 951995683

  ISBN 978-981-4757-50-8 (paperback)

  ISBN: 978-981-4757-51-5 (ebook)

  Subject(s): LCSH: Romance fiction.

  Classification: DDC S823--dc23

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First Edition

  For Mak and Abah, for letting me be

  Prologue

  9th August 2006

  (In response to Mr Brown’s “I am Singaporean” meme.)

  I SHARE MY first name with Singapore’s world-famous (and only) porn star and my Chinese surname with a piece of lingerie, but I’ve only been on five dates my entire life, none of them sexy. I’ve been in love once when I was 17; he never knew and is now married to my ex-best friend.

  I am already 28.

  I’m a history teacher in a boys’ school, and derive a guilty pleasure when my pimply boys ogle me. They’re the only people in the world who make me feel beautiful. Well, them and insurance agents.

  I’m a loyal subscriber to Vogue and Cosmopolitan, and follow all their advice, unless it contradicts the Pope. Inspired by one of their articles, I shed five kilos of baby fat when I was 25; I am proud to say that I am now no longer fat, just big-boned.

  I want to fall in love again (but requited this time), and get married and have a family. I want to do what the government tells us and have lots of babies, but the men I meet, at work or in church, are either too young, or too old, or too married, and none of them are interested in me anyway.

  I am sick of having to compete with Singaporean Olympic dieters on the one hand and submissive Vietnamese mail order brides on the other. I am tired of being told I am too choosy when there’s nothing for me to choose from. And most of all, I’m fed up with Singaporean men, whose idea of macho is a set of six-pack abs born of liposuction.

  My name is Annabelle Thong. I am Singaporean. And I need to get out of this country.

  So say we all. So say we all.

  Chapter 1

  NATURE IS CALLING loud and clear, but I can’t bring myself to ask Monsieur for permission and so I hold my pee.

  It’s my first day and I’m quivering in my pants, toilet issues notwithstanding. What am I doing here? My French is so bad; how in the world did I think I was going to get away with doing a Master’s degree at the Sorbonne? Sure, there seems to be a sizeable group of foreign students in the course but they’re mostly European, and so multilingual it makes me want to swear (in Hokkien). I steal glances around the room to check out my classmates. They seem cool and relaxed, like they’ve got it all together. Some of them are already making friends, speaking to one another in low voices. Urgh.

  Monsieur Stempin, our Philosophy tutor, clears his throat, causing me to sit up straight and pay attention again. “Bon! I’ve gone through the discussion topics for the semester. We have a bit of time left, so I’d like you to introduce yourselves to the class. You can tell us where you’re from and why you’ve chosen this course. Who wants to start?”

  As a former teacher with five years of teaching experience under her belt, it seems obvious to me that the answer to this question is nobody. Nobody ever wants to start. You have to call on… Oh. Someone has raised a hand. Interesting.

  “Bonjour, my name is Ursula Andersson and I’m from Sweden,” says this blonde, blue-eyed bombshell (how clichéd). “I have a Bachelor’s degree in French Literature from Stockholm University, where I did a thesis on Molière and his political satire. I was working as a journalist before coming here and I hope this course will sharpen my skills in political analysis.”

  “Excellent! And based on my presentation just now, do you have any concerns or questions?”

  Ursula puts the tip of her pen to her pouty lips and pauses as she considers. “I guess my only concern is that my French may be a bit too literary,” then hastens to add, “but I’ll try my best to adjust my register to one more appropriate to political science.”

  “Très bien, Mademoiselle Andersson. Your French is excellent, and I’m sure you won’t have any trouble adapting. Now, how about the young lady over there?” He points to a rather pretty girl of indeterminate origin, with straight, long black hair and beautiful almond-shaped eyes.

  “I am call Gula. I come from Uzbekistan! I get a scholarship from my government. My father is Minister of Education. My mother is housewife. I come to the Sorbonne because I like to study international relationships.” She pauses and scans the room with an assertive, steady gaze. “Any questions?” Everyone shakes their head in silence and shuffles their papers, including M. Stempin.

  “Bien…and you,” he says, regaining his professor’s composure, “please tell us about yourself.” He is speaking to a tall, nervous-looking blond guy with Harry Potter glasses.

  “Bonjour. My name is Yannick Catteau, and I’m from Holland. I just graduated from Utrecht University, and my goal is to do a PhD here after my Master’s.”

  “Très bien. Did you say you’re from Holland? You sound like a native French speaker.”

  Yannick explains that his father is French, thus resolving the mystery. We move on to a French girl, Sophie, and then Urban, a German anarchist-type figure with so many piercings on his face, he looks like he’s going for a Star Trek convention. He’s doing research into the “social ecology of French inner cities and their dehumanising effects on third-generation immigrants” and spent the whole of last year living in the Parisian banlieue, the inner cities, which explains his impeccable (by my standards) French.

  The pressure is on! M. Stempin is now just mechanically going down the row and I’m next. Oh God, I need something impressive to say, but what? Come on Belle, say something smart, say something smart…

  “Bonjour everyone!” I trill, hoping that friendliness will compensate for incompetence. “My name is Annabelle. I come from Singapore. Talk to me later to know more. I need to go to toilet. That’s all. Thanks everybody!”

  OH MY GOD. I am so ridiculous.

  My mum had warned me about going to Paris for further studies. Well, maybe not so much warned as tried to prevent me from leaving Singapore. Back in March when I first announced to my parents I had been accepted to do a Master’s at the Sorbonne, Dad was suitably impressed and encouraging, but Mum couldn’t understand why I was going to France, much less to study politics. Her initial argument was that “France doesn’t have any famous politicians like Lee Kuan Yew”, and, in a leap of logic, tried to convince me to do an MBA in Singapore instead. “Look at Crystal,” she said, pointing to my sister. “She studied business and has so many nice banker friends now.”

  But I was not to be deterred, and gave her all the reasons why it was imperative for me to go to France:

  a) I had never lived away from home and this would be an enriching experience that would help my personal development into a fully functional adult.

  b) After five years of French lessons, I had only been to France once on a short holiday, and this was the best way for me to finally become fluent in the language.

  c) It
would be good for my teaching career.

  (I didn’t tell her the real reason of course, i.e. that I was hoping to find the love of my life in the City of Lights, as I didn’t want to reveal myself as a desperate old-maid figure and therefore a failure.)

  All of this was pure nonsense to her and she mounted a relentless psychological campaign to undermine my resolve for weeks until I finally found her Achilles heel:

  d) The Sorbonne is a brand-name university, quite like Oxford and Harvard, and would allow me to meet members of the international elite. (I believe my actual words to my mother were “other members of the international elite” and she suddenly saw the light.)

  But she still had reservations about my ability to cope, reservations that I swept aside in my excitement to go. I believed in myself, and this morning, as I set foot in the university for the first time, I couldn’t help but feel rather special. Vindicated. I mean, there I was, walking through the Sorbonne’s hallowed corridors, following in the footsteps of St Francis Xavier, Jean-Paul Sartre, Simone de Beauvoir, and Pierre and Marie Curie! (To be fair, I must include Pol Pot in this list but have resolved to be nothing like him.) So if the university has decided to bring me into its fold, surely it must mean that I can do this?

  The next item on my schedule is a briefing held by the International Relations sub-department. With the guide of a map, I make my way towards Room 4 along Corridor F, noticing as I go along how suitably ancient and musty it is inside the building. Out of curiosity, I pop my head into a lecture theatre and see lots of wood and old paintings of bare-breasted women, which can only confirm the Sorbonne’s position as an exalted seat of European learning.

  At the end of the IR briefing, we introduce ourselves again, but I’m better prepared this time and do a decent job. Yet, when the subject coordinator, M. Blois, asks if anybody will be taking French lessons, everybody looks at me. Did I overdo the exotic accent? It’s supposed to make me look alluring, not stupid! M. Blois also asks me what kind of primary sources I intend to acquire for my thesis research. Primary sources? I thought I was going to be reading books for my dissertation! So I say, erm, I haven’t really thought about it yet... And it seems that my dissertation should be about 100 pages long. Isn’t that for the PhD? What the hell am I going to be nattering on about for 100 pages?

  When M. Blois announces a short tea break, I heave a sigh. Maybe Mum was right and I’ve made a mistake. I thought I could do this, but it’s obvious now that I can’t. How am I supposed to learn everything in French when I can’t even understand half of what my teachers are saying? They speak so fast! I mean, I can’t even understand instructions and have to resort to asking my classmates questions like: “When does he want us to sign up for tutorials?” and “Is it my bad French or did he say we have to do five assignments for his class?” Why, oh why did University Admissions ever let me in?

  “Salut, ça va?” A voice snaps me out of my head. “Is everything okay?” It’s one of my classmates, an Arab guy by the looks of it. I do my best to look surprised by his question.

  “Me? Of course I’m okay. Why shouldn’t I be?” I give him a big, earnest, toothy smile, realising how manic I must seem yet totally unable to control myself. “I’m great. Great, great. And you? Are you okay?”

  He raises an eyebrow at me and then starts to laugh. “Yes, I am actually.” He holds out a languid hand for me to shake. “I’m Zaid, but people call me Didi.”

  I give him a quick head-to-toe glance. Hmm…good-looking guy, and impeccably dressed—Burberry with a dash of Prada. Ooh! Maybe he’s part of the Sorbonne’s international elite! The son of some Middle Eastern despot, no doubt. How exciting.

  “Je m’appelle Annabelle,” I say, making sure to pronounce my name the French way. “I come from Singapore. And you?”

  “Oh je suis français,” he says breezily. “My family lives in Marseille.”

  I’m not quite ready to give up on the idea of hobnobbing with Arabian royalty, so I clarify the question. “But where do you come from? Originally?”

  “I’m originally from France. I was born here. But if you insist on knowing, my grandfather fought for the French in the Algerian War, the Algerians killed his brothers in revenge, he escaped to France hopping on his one remaining leg and voilà, here I am.”

  Oh dear, how awkward. I can’t believe I made someone I’ve just met dig up his family tragedy. He must think I’m so rude!

  “What a success story!” I chirp merrily, wracking my brains for more pleasant topics of conversation. “That’s nice… So, it’s really nice to be here, isn’t it? In this nice university?” I need to look up more French synonyms for “nice” but I thought congratulating ourselves on being in this “super university” would have been overkill.

  Before I can embarrass myself further, someone else joins us, much to the relief of the both of us. This guy is in his early thirties, with longish brown hair, blue eyes and sexy, just-got-out-of-bed overnight stubble. In fact, he’s gorgeous.

  “Bonjour, vous allez bien?” he says. “I just got here, did I miss much?”

  “No, not really,” I say. “Monsieur Blois just explained what the programme would be like.” Then, in an attempt to flash a bit of personality, I add in a stage whisper, “It was quite boring. I couldn’t stop imagining him in his pyjamas and a big hat. You know, like the wizard in Harry Potter.” I squint my eyes for dramatic effect.

  The Gorgeous One looks suitably amused. “I would have gone with Marx,” he says.

  I look at him, puzzled. “Richard Marx? But he doesn’t have a… (what’s the word for beard?)…moustache,” I say, stroking my chin.

  “I think he means Karl,” Didi says.

  An image of Karl Marx comes to me and to tell the truth, Blois does look more like him than Dumbledore (or Richard Marx for that matter). I can feel my face redden. Annabelle! What were you thinking?! You’re no longer in Ricevale Secondary School, you’re in the Sorbonne for God’s sake! Get with the programme!

  I mumble something unintelligible and give a weak smile. Holding out my hand to the Gorgeous One, I say, “My name is Annabelle, I come from Singapore. And you?”

  He shakes my hand and flashes a boyish smile. “I’m Patrick.”

  “Hello, Patrick. Excuse me, but I think I’ll go get myself some coffee,” I say, and slink away, never to come back.

  It’s been a long and traumatising first day of school, and I can’t wait to get home. I walk briskly to the Saint Michel Metro station, where I take a direct train back to Château Rouge, in the 18th arrondissement of Paris. As the Line 4 train rumbles northwards, the whiteness of its carriages seeps away, and by the time we pull up at Château Rouge, the general complexion of my fellow commuters has darkened by a shade or five. I live in what Parisians call a “quartier populaire” or “popular neighbourhood”, but one must not be deceived by this backhanded compliment. For Parisian high society, “popular” equals “the masses” equals “working-class” equals “not-so-appealing-after-all”. Essentially, it’s not the preferred locale of the Parisian elite, who are not “popular” and, honestly, don’t want to be. But beggars can’t be choosers, and I have decided that I will not have any of this elitist nonsense as I cannot afford it. No, I’m determined to grow by pushing my comfort zone, soak in the “ambience” and love my neighbourhood with a vengeance. At least I’m not living in the banlieue!

  I take the escalator out of the station and into the September afternoon sunshine. It’s a short seven-minute walk to my building, and en route, I pass by halal eateries (mostly kebab-type shops and an Indo-Pakistani chicken restaurant), 24-hour grocery shops, trinket shops and one Chinese fast food restaurant, useful for pork-craving emergencies.

  As I reach my building, I notice a group of teenage black girls marching down the road and one of them, a veritable Queen Latifah before her time, goes up to this geeky Arab boy (a classmate?) and starts slapping him around. The boy starts to cry, and kicks at her ineffectually, while Queen Lati
fah’s Nubian entourage try to restrain Her Majesty. All this takes place smack in the middle of a small cross junction; an adult passer-by tries to mediate, a security car doing its rounds has stopped, but the officer doesn’t step out and just shouts at them from inside the car. There are lots of shouting and hip-hop R&B hand gestures from the kids, and on any other day I’d be interested to see what happens, but right now I’m just too drained, and press the security code on the right side of the door to enter the building.

  It’s an old building, with rickety stairs, but I like to think of it as more historical than ancient. I live on the sixth floor—seventh floor in Singapore because here in Paris, the first floor is Level 0. I reach the staircase landing, look up the stairwell, and sigh. Right now, I’d give my left leg for an elevator. I start to climb.

  Thankfully, my studio apartment does not look as “historical” as the building it’s in. It’s small—21 square metres—but cosy. You can tell it’s been recently renovated—everything looks quite new, except for the sofa bed, whose cover looks like it’s an original design by a colour-blind engineer. I like the fact that the kitchen is in a corner, as opposed to being part of the main room like in many other studios that I’ve seen. And the toilet and shower are in the same space, which is a relief because the French tend to like toilets that are separate, usually with no tap to wash your hands at, so you’re forced to exit the toilet to wash your hands, touching stuff along the way. I’ve been told that homes of rich people do have a washbasin in the toilet as well—which might leave one to conclude that, unlike liberty, fraternity and equality, the French do not consider hygiene to be a universal human right. The apartment also has a nice big French window. You can’t quite see the Eiffel Tower from it—you’d have to live in an un-“populaire” neighbourhood like the 16th arrondissement for that—but being on a high floor I do get a view of the grey zinc rooftops of Paris, which has its own sweet charm.

  I must say that I’m quite proud of my little pad, especially since I had to go through hell to find it. Looking for a rental apartment in Paris at the beginning of the school year was no joke. It seemed like every other person in Paris was looking for a place. Whenever there was an apartment viewing, the queue was so long it would snake out of the building, even for flats without showers. Yes, there are flats without showers. In Paris. I wish I was rehashing some sort of cruel joke, some crazy urban legend, but I’m not. I know for a fact that such apartments exist because I queued up to look at one, partly out of curiosity, but mostly out of desperation.