Life passes by before we have the chance to understand it.
Make sacrifices that matter.
A man in love mistakes a harelip for a dimple.
Materena hasn’t read that one before, it must be new . . .
Sex is the poor man’s opera.
Materena hasn’t read that one either.Materena, very interested, reads on.
Kisses are like almonds.
For news of the heart, ask the face.
Love makes all hard hearts gentle.
First prize is finding someone to be passionately in love with you for a lifetime.
Ah . . . here’s Leilani.
“Oh,” Leilani says, seeing her mother on the bed, “you’re here.” She ties the towel around her body tighter and walks to her wardrobe.
“I just felt like resting my legs on your bed. That’s okay with you, chérie?” Materena hurries to add that her feet are clean.
“Of course it’s okay, mi casa es tu casa.” Leilani is looking for something to wear tonight in bed, and meanwhile, water from her long wet hair is dripping on the floor. Materena tightens her lips before she starts going on about how hair must be dried in the bathroom and how hair shouldn’t be washed at night.
Leilani has found her attire for tonight, an oversize T-shirt. She slips into it, dries her hair with the towel, drops the towel on the floor, wipes her feet on it.
Materena is looking but she’s not saying anything, although she really wants to. What’s a towel, she thinks, compared to your daughter telling you secrets.
“You’re all right, Mamie?” Leilani asks, walking to her desk.
“I’m fine, girl, no problems, and I’m not here to start a fight.”
“You’re worrying me.”
“Why?”
“You’re usually running around at this time of night.”
“I know, well, tonight I’m on strike.”
“Good for you.” Leilani smiles as she sits at her desk. She grabs her schoolbag from under the desk, takes copybooks, books, and pencil case out, and attacks her homework. She begins to write, and furiously too. Materena has never seen anyone write so fast in her life.
But it’s really unbelievable how fast Leilani can write!
The seconds turn into minutes.
Ten minutes later, “You’re all right, Mamie?”
“I’m fine, chérie.”
Twenty minutes later, “Mamie? Is there anything you want to tell me?”
“Non.”
Patiently Materena waits for Leilani to start a conversation. It’s quite boring lying in the horizontal position, staring at the ceiling and your daughter’s back, waiting. Just as Materena is about to fall asleep, finally Leilani says the magic words.
“Mamie, can you help me?”
“Sure! No problems, tell me everything.” Materena, excited, sits up.
Leilani needs help with the family genealogical tree.
“Ah,” Materena says, disappointed. “I know my ancestors but only from my mother’s side.”
“That’s all right, Mamie.” Leilani passes a thick textbook for her mother to lean on, along with paper and a pen. “Thanks,” she says. “I really appreciate you helping me with my school project.”
Materena starts writing Leilani’s name at the bottom of the page, links it to her own name alongside Pito’s name, up to Loana’s name, to the daughter of Kika Mahi née Raufaki from Rangiroa and of Apoto Mahi from Tahiti . . . on and on.
“Your great grandmother was born with twelve toes,” Materena says.
“Ah really?” Leilani doesn’t sound too interested.
But for Materena this is an interesting detail that she found out about through her godmother, the historian of the family. It’s always more interesting for Materena to know more than just the date of birth and the date of death of her ancestors. Small details make them more real to her.
“You know what her nickname was?” Materena asks.
“Just write it down,” Leilani says.
“Ah oui? So I just write that detail next to her name?”
“Hum.”
Okay then, and so Materena writes her grandmother’s nickname—Twelve Toes. Now, next ancestor.
“Your great great grandmother coughed nonstop.”
“Just write it down.”
“Your great great grandfather was the chief of Faa’a. He signed the Protectorate paper to France before the king of Tahiti. He gave Tahiti to the French people.”
“Really!” Leilani exclaims.
“Eh oui.” It’s not really something Materena is proud of but she understands her ancestor was under a lot of pressure, being a chief. “You want me to write this information?” she asks.
“Absolutely. Write everything.”
Write, write, that’s easy to say, Materena thinks. She much prefers to talk. “You don’t want to write?” she asks. “And I’ll just tell you the stories? All that I know?” Materena explains that she uses her hands enough during the day.
“Mamie,” Leilani pleads, “just write slowly . . . I’ve got to finish my chemistry homework.”
Aue, Materena thinks, it’s like I’m Leilani’s secretary, but it’s good to help your kids with their school projects. So, applying herself by writing and reading out loud what she’s writing, Materena resumes her task.
There was an ancestor who had a red beard.
Materena looks up. No reaction from Leilani.
An ancestor was who a Filipino sailor.
No reaction.
An ancestor who used to be a slave before she escaped and came to Tahiti. She was black, sixteen years old, and her name was Josephina.
“Josephina . . . what a beautiful name,” Leilani says. “What a brave girl.”
Then there were Leilani Lexter and Leilani Bodie from Hawaii, whom Leilani already knows about, an English ancestor by the name of Williams—he’s the last ancestor on the list, and Materena’s hand hurts.
“Finished! I’m not complaining, but my hand really hurts.”
Materena gets up and gives her work to Leilani, who thanks her for all her help.
“Oh, for nothing,” Materena says, kissing the top of her daughter’s head. “Can I do anything else for you?”
“Non, it’s okay.”
All right, then . . . Materena might go and do some ironing, but first she’s going to read more of Leilani’s words of wisdom.
Forty muscles are needed to frown, only fifteen to smile.
Love is like the measles, we all have to go through it.
I have seen only you, I have admired only you, I desire only you.
“You know,” Materena says, “when I was your age, I used to sneak out of the shutter in the middle of the night to go meet your father.” Materena can’t believe her ears. What on Earth made her confess this? It just spilled out of her mouth! Well, it’s out, and Leilani might as well know today.
“Sneak out of the shutter!” Leilani shrieks, turning to her mother with a smirk on her face. “In the middle of the night!” She turns her chair around. “But I thought you and Papi met on Sundays, after Mass.”
“After Mass? Who told you that?”
“Mama Roti.”
Ah, that Mama Roti, thinks Materena. She’s number one for inventing stories.
“So?” Leilani asks. “Where did you two naughties meet?”
Materena tells Leilani where and adds that Pito brought a quilt along and laid the quilt underneath the frangipani tree behind the bank. Leilani is getting very interested in the story. She particularly wants to know what her parents did on that quilt.
“Well,” Materena says, “we talked, we did chitchat about the family, fishing, the weather.”
“And what else did you do?”
“Well, we kissed . . .” Materena can feel the top of her head burning.
“And what else did you do?”
“We caressed . . . and there was the moon and the stars and the gentle breeze and the sweet perfume of the frangip
ani flowers and —”
Leilani bursts out laughing and Materena doesn’t need to say more. It’s clear what happened after the chitchat and the kisses and the caresses under the frangipani tree.
Sexy loving, that’s what happened! Sexy loving always happens when there’s chitchat, kisses, and caresses under the frangipani tree.
“Do your homework,” Materena says, quietly leaving the room.
And now, in the kitchen drinking lemonade, Materena thinks about how she used to tell her mother everything: I saw a woman pick up a matchstick on the ground and she put it in her pocket. I saw an old woman with tattooed tears underneath her eyes, a girl and a boy kiss under a frangipani tree, a young man run with a bouquet of flowers, a woman walk with high-heeled shoes, holding a pack of taro.
And Loana would say, depending on the information: Oh, that’s not good, that’s so beautiful, that’s disgusting, that’s funny, that wasn’t for your ears, you want me to wash your mouth with soap?
Materena also informed her mother of news regarding herself: my tooth hurts, my belly hurts, I feel constipated, I’ve got nits, my bum is itchy . . .
But by the time Materena was sixteen years old she was telling her mother nothing because . . . because there was a boy on the horizon, of course!
Loana didn’t ask Materena why she’d stopped telling her everything until the day before Materena gave birth to her first child. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a boyfriend?” Loana said. “You used to tell me everything. I would have told you about contraception. But now it’s too late, you’re about to give birth.” When the mothers don’t know what’s going on, they can’t help.
Materena walks back to Leilani’s bedroom.
“You’ve got something else to confess?” Leilani asks, cackling.
“Non, it’s not about that,” Materena says. “It’s about —”
“It’s amazing how no one saw you walk to your nocturnal rendezvous. Did you wear a pillowcase over your head?”
“Non, I just ran fast.”
“You ran fast, eh?”
“Leilani . . . ,” Materena begins seriously, “I just want you to know that you can tell me anything, okay? Don’t ever be afraid to tell me what you need, okay? I’m not going to ask you any questions. With whom, where, etc., okay?” Materena is a bit uncomfortable saying what she really means, but she’s sure Leilani understands. She wishes Leilani would stop laughing. “Leilani! Stop laughing!”
“I just can’t imagine you and Papi doing . . .” She can’t say the word. “And are you still doing . . .” She still can’t say that word.
“Aue!” Materena exclaims. “Do your homework.”
And off she goes to iron. She switches the radio on to keep her company, tuning it to Radio Tefana to listen to Ati’s love-songs program.
One Son Leaves, Another Son Arrives
Tamatoa is leaving next week, three months ahead of his scheduled departure date, and Materena is panicking—so much to do in such a short time!
Buy gifts to help her eldest son remember his island (coconut soaps, cans of corned beef, postcards, a bottle of blessed water). Organize a photo album of the family for Tamatoa to flick through whenever he feels homesick. A new suitcase! Pito’s suitcase from military-service days was lent to a relative and never came back. Materena’s suitcase from her hospital days giving birth is rusted and doesn’t shut. Install the telephone, that’s what you do when one of your children is on the other side of the planet.
After much running around, draining the emergency account, and borrowing a bit of money from her mother, Materena has everything under control. All she needs now is for her son to grant her a few minutes of his time in between training commitments and drinking with his mates.
“I need you. I have to tell you about the rules.”
Tamatoa has just come home from training.
“Not now,” he says.
“Now?” Materena says as Tamatoa walks out of the shower.
“I’ve got to get dressed first.”
“Now?” Materena says as Tamatoa walks out of his bedroom. His hair is oiled and he reeks of perfume.
“Later,” he says as he flees the house.
“What’s with the perfume?” Materena calls out. “What time are you coming home? What are you going to eat tonight?”
Tamatoa doesn’t come home that night, or the next day, or the day after. Materena starts to get really worried. People don’t disappear for four days before they’re about to do something they’ve always wanted to do in their life: catch a plane. Pito tells Materena not to worry, because it’s the tradition to go out drinking with your copains before you leave for military service. You drink, you say good-bye, you have fun.
Materena is still worried. “I’m calling the gendarmes,” she tells Pito, who is sitting in front of the TV, and she starts dialing.
Pito jumps to his feet and snatches the phone from Materena. “Relax, woman!”
Materena snatches the phone back from Pito. “I don’t care what you think about the gendarmes! I’m calling the gendarmes!”
Pito pulls the cord out of its socket. “Tamatoa is just out drinking with his copains!”
“Oh, that’s what you say.” Materena plugs the cord back in. “It doesn’t mean I have to believe you. What if my son is in danger? What if he’s somewhere bleeding to death? Get out of my way, Pito. Get out of my way, I’m going to hit you with that telephone! It’s my telephone, give me my telephone back! Pito, you titoi, you —”
“Are you two going to stop?” This is Leilani speaking. “He’s with Vahine.” Leilani explains how Vahine came to school this morning to give her medical certificate to the office and told her that . . . well . . . that all is great with Tamatoa.
“And her parents?” asks Materena. “They don’t mind?”
“They’re at a conference in Hawaii. Vahine’s grandmother is looking after Vahine.”
“But Vahine’s parents are always away at conferences!” Materena exclaims.
“Ah, my boy is with a girl,” cackles Pito, smiling away. He’s all happy. It’s like somebody has just told him that he’s won the tombola.
Although Materena is very relieved to know her son is not in danger, it doesn’t mean she’s happy. What about the suitcase? When is Tamatoa going to pack it? And what is going to happen to Vahine when Tamatoa leaves? Materena knows how hard it is when the boy you love leaves on military service. Just thinking about it makes her even crankier with Pito.
Tamatoa comes home the morning before departure day and doesn’t even tell his mother where he’s been. He just comes home wearing the same clothes he wore when he disappeared four days ago, he comes home as if nothing was amiss. He kisses his younger brother, busy marinating chicken thighs, and he kisses his mother, also in the kitchen, helping out the cook.
Tamatoa looks at the bowls filled with food on the kitchen table. “What’s with all the food?” he asks.
“But it’s for your farewell party!” says Materena. “Your brother has been busy for two days for you.”
“My brother, eh,” Tamatoa says, giving him a little punch on the arm. “I hope you’re going to cook my favorite dish, chicken curry.”
“Of course I will,” says Moana, grating coconut.
Materena looks at her youngest son and she is so touched by all the cooking he’s doing for his brother. She sure hopes Tamatoa doesn’t forget to thank him properly later on. In the meantime, Materena would like Tamatoa to confess his whereabouts. “Where have you been?” she asks.
“Somewhere.”
“You must like skinny girls now.”
“Eh? What are you going on about?”
“Is she your girlfriend or just a body for your pleasure?”
“Mamie . . . it’s not like in your days, okay?”
“Aue,” Materena sighs. “Sit down and eat while I tell you about the rules.”
“The rules? What are you going on about?”
“The rules when you’
re a visitor! That’s what I’m going on about, you big silly!” Materena doesn’t want to tell Tamatoa about the rules on the telephone or in a letter.
“In a minute,” Tamatoa says.
“In a minute” turns into many hours later . . .
The house is packed with relatives who have come for the farewell ritual, but right this moment, Materena has her son all to herself in his bedroom. The relatives are busy eating, anyway. It’s not every day they get to eat Indonesian, Tahitian, and French dishes all at once. Materena hopes the relatives aren’t going to eat everything. She hasn’t eaten yet, and nor has Tamatoa.
Presently, he’s crying silent tears, and just looking at him is breaking Materena’s heart, but she’s not going to tell her son not to cry, that he’s a man. Crying is good for the soul, just as laughing is. You’ve got to release. If only Tamatoa also cried when he was not drunk.
Anyway, here are the rules that must be followed when you are on foreign soil and your family is on the other side of the planet.
First rule: no fighting with the locals, you don’t want to upset the wrong family. What if it’s the Mafia? And plus, it’s not nice to fight.
Second rule: no rendezvous in a girl’s bedroom, even if she tells you that her parents are fine with her having boys in their house. It’s more likely that the girl’s parents don’t know anything about it, and all you’re going to get is a gun pointed at your head, a thick piece of wood smashed across your back, or something equally horrible.
Third rule: never arrive with empty hands at a dinner even if your friend told you that his mother hates it when guests arrive with something. The reality is that hosts love surprises, and it doesn’t have to be something to eat. Flowers are great. Perfumed soaps too. Show your gratitude for the invitation. The only people hosts never expect anything from, over and over again, are the relatives.
Tamatoa nods, meaning that he’s registering the information, and Materena is very happy.
Fourth rule (still about being a guest at dinner): leave a bit of food on your plate to show the host you’re too full to have another serving. If there’s nothing left on your plate and the host can’t serve you more food because there’s no more food in the cooking pot, she’s going to be very embarrassed. She’s going to assume you’re still hungry. Eat the food even if you don’t like the taste of it, you don’t know what it is, you’ve never eaten such a dish in your whole life and it looks bizarre.
Frangipani Page 15
