Tiare in Bloom

by Célestine Vaite

  Luckily there’s a hotel not far away from the club, a famous hotel — renowned as a place where marriages get wrecked. Boîte à merde, women call it: “can of shit.” But it’s good enough for Lily and Materena, who just need somewhere to put their heads down.

  “That would be one room or two?” the wide-awake and smiling hotel receptionist asks politely. In this business, it’s best never to assume anything.

  “Cousin?” Materena’s head is spinning; she’s holding on to her pillow tight and wishing she didn’t have to put her head down.

  “Oui, Cousin,” says Lily, who’s doing the same.

  “Have you ever been with a woman?” Materena already knows the answer, but in these situations it’s best to pretend you’re in the dark.

  “Four.”

  “Four!” Materena didn’t know there were four women. Materena knew there was one woman, since she had caught the two of them in the throes of passion a long time ago (it was an accident), and she thought Lily’s experience with a woman was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, for something different to do. “Four?”

  “Four,” Lily confirms, yawning.

  “If you had to compare between a woman lover and a man lover, who is better?”

  Lily ponders for a while, a long while. Has she gone to sleep? “Cousin?” Materena calls out softly.

  “There’s nothing to compare.” But Lily adds that her women lovers were more affectionate and tender, and they kissed better too, much better. Women put a lot of thought into kissing, Lily insists, it’s not kissing to get to the act in record time, it’s kissing to say words. And when a woman holds you in her arms, you know that she really means it, you can feel it with every single pore of your skin. Making love to a woman is, well, in Lily’s opinion anyway, magic, sensational, utterly romantic, and sweet. She doesn’t make you feel like you’re just a hole. The hole is not the center of the lovemaking between women. There’s no center because everything counts.

  “Everything?”

  “Everything,” Lily confirms. “They notice the little things, and it’s because they pay attention, they don’t have just the hole in their mind.” Here, Lily elaborates, she has a beauty spot on the left lip of her little sister, and none of her men lovers have ever noticed it, but her female lovers have — the four of them. “And you know that I never make love in the dark.”

  “Non, I didn’t know that.”

  “Well, I detest sex in the dark, I want my lover to see the expression on my face.”

  “Hum.” Well, Materena likes sex in the dark. As far as she’s concerned, darkness is a woman’s best friend, especially when she’s had a few children.

  “Anyway,” Lily yawns, “you see my point about men not paying attention?”

  “Oh oui, it’s like with Pito —”

  “He has other qualities.”

  “Like what?”

  “You already know, Cousin, since you’ve been with him for so long . . . How long again?”

  Materena delivers the sentence. “Twenty years.”

  “Twenty years.” Lily’s voice is full of . . . is it admiration? “So many couples don’t even make it past six months, imagine a little twenty years. What’s three hundred and sixty-five days times twenty? Wait, three hundred and sixty-five times ten is three thousand six hundred and fifty, then times this by two . . . my God, you’ve been with Pito for seven thousand and three hundred days! You two have walked a very long path together . . .”

  But Lily doesn’t want to talk about her cousin’s relationship with her husband, how it is nearly a quarter of a century. “I can’t believe the love of my life is a historian,” she rambles on. “As long as he’s wonderful like my father, that’s all I ask, and maybe my historian has a bit of feminine in him, who knows . . .”

  Lily is sound asleep again now. Materena closes her eyes and starts imagining this and that, making love to a woman, making love to a rich Chinese man, making love to both of them at the same time . . . Materena opens her eyes and closes them, and here is her husband making love to a French woman and he’s holding her tight . . .

  Materena opens her eyes and closes them. She’s an old woman, a very old woman, so frail and fragile, and for some reason, her left leg is bandaged. Each step she takes is a torture, but she stoically keeps on walking to the living room, her trembling hands holding, the best she can, a tray with a plate on it.

  “Pito, my husband,” she says with her croaky voice to the old man resting on the sofa, “I made you a chicken soup.”

  The old man looks up, then with his long stick turns the TV off — saves all the trouble getting up — and takes the tray. “Maururu, wife.”

  The old woman bends down for a little kiss on the cheek, grimacing a little because her back hurts, but she wants her kiss so much that she persists. Her dear husband is too busy slurping away at his soup to notice.

  Materena opens her eyes and closes them.

  This time it is pitch-black. Good, she needs her beauty sleep. Mass is tomorrow.

  Man in a Suit Walking in the Rain

  According to Heifara, when a woman tells her man that it’s finished without even giving him the chance to redeem himself and win her back, there’s another man on the horizon.

  “Apparently,” Heifara repeats to Pito.

  “Oui,” Pito admits, “apparently, but it’s not always true. Sometimes, it’s just too late.”

  “But a man has got to know.” And that is why, Heifara explains, he’s hired a detective.

  “A detective? Why? You don’t have relatives who can spy on your wife?”

  “I don’t want the relatives to be involved, because you know how it is with the relatives, they twist everything, they add information, they delete, they exaggerate . . . detectives are better, they tell you the truth, they give you evidence.” Heifara continues on about how he could have hired two of his cousins who don’t work but the problem is that Juanita knows Heifara’s family, from the uncles to the aunties, the first cousins, the second cousins, et cetera. When it comes to family Juanita has the memory of an elephant. She remembers likes, dislikes, birthdays, birthmarks — everything.

  If she were to notice Heifara’s cousins following her around, she’d immediately recognize them, even if they were disguised, and suspect them of spying on her under her ex-husband’s instructions. Next thing, she’d be on the telephone yelling at Heifara, calling him bizzaroid, and threatening to send a few of her relatives his way . . . It would come to be a big family mess. So it’s best to send the detective into the field.

  “And he’s got a lot of business in Tahiti, your detective?” Pito asks out of pure curiosity.

  “Oh oui.” Then, lowering his voice a notch, Heifara goes on. “Do you know that the rate of infidelity in Tahiti is something like sixty percent?”

  “Sixty percent?” Pito has always known about infidelity (three of his uncles were caught in the act), but he didn’t know the rate to be so high. He thought it was something like thirty percent.

  “Sixty percent,” Heifara confirms gloomily. “And do you know which one is more likely to be unfaithful?”

  “The husband?” Pito is not talking from experience but from what he’s heard in the family.

  “Non, the wife.”

  “The wife!” Non, Pito doesn’t believe it. He simply can’t imagine his aunties being unfaithful. His aunties are saints! They raised the children, cleaned the house, washed the clothes, cooked, went to church. Then they raised the grandchildren, cleaned the house, washed the clothes, cooked, and went to church.

  But Heifara insists that sixty percent of wives are unfaithful because, according to his detective anyway, wives often feel unfulfilled. They are the wife, the mother, the cook, the cleaner, and the day comes when they explode. They go looking somewhere else, pack their bags, or show you the door.

  Two days later . . .

  Pito knows for certain that if Materena ever shows him the door, he will not be living with his mother. One nigh
t with her nearly drove him mad, he can’t believe he lived with that insane woman for eighteen years. Perhaps it’s just something you do when you’re young — you put up with your mother and her strange ways because you don’t know any better. But a man of a certain age, like Pito, who’s forty-two, knows that the grass is greener on the other side.

  Not that he actually packed his bags to move back in with his mother last night; non, he just took himself and a couple of beers. Mama Roti was quite shocked to see him at her door. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “My wife is giving me the shits, I’m sleeping here tonight,” he replied.

  Mama Roti wasn’t pleased at all. “Aue,” she said, “it doesn’t mean you can come and annoy me. I have my habits. Sort your problems out with your wife. I told you to do something special for Materena.”

  Pito ignored his mother’s remark and stepped into the house. By eight o’clock he was ready to flee, but he stayed because . . . well, he didn’t know where else to go. He thought about staying with one of his brothers, but then there’s the problem with the wives. Then he thought about staying with Ati, but Ati is on a mission to find himself a suitable wife, the last thing he needs right now is a mate landing on him. Then Pito thought about staying at a hotel, but he had no money, and payday is not for three days. And so he endured his insane mother.

  She burned the stew (and blamed Pito), then she talked during the whole movie. For some reason Mama Roti felt Pito needed to know what was about to happen: “The police are going to find him . . . His wife is going to die.” Whenever Pito exclaimed, “Mama!” Mama Roti said, “I’ve seen this movie before.” And on top of the annoying movie commentary, Mama snores! Pito could hear her from his bedroom, the bedroom he once shared with his three brothers. He finally succeeded in falling asleep at about midnight, only to be woken up at three a.m. by the sound of clanging coming from the kitchen. Pito got up to see what was going on.

  “I can’t sleep,” huffed Mama Roti, rearranging the pots and pans in her kitchen cupboards. “It’s like this when you get old, the world is turned upside down.” Pito went back to bed, and when he got up this morning, for some reason his knees were hurting him. And his mother said, “It’s because you don’t want to kneel.”

  Ah, non, there’s no way Pito could live with his mother again! And as for living with Materena, it is going to be worse, Pito knows. When Pito came back from his mother’s house, Materena didn’t look too enchanted. She looked straight into Pito’s eyes and said, “You’re back? Already?”

  So there’s only one thing for him to do: visit a real-estate agent.

  Pito has never rented a house in his life, but he’s feeling very confident. His younger son is renting in Bora-Bora. He has a bungalow by the sea, which he shares with his fiancée. Moana could have had a proper house, and could own it too, with compliments of his rich father- and mother-in-law, but he wants to get his house with his own money.

  Ah, if Pito were Moana, he would have accepted the generous offer. Vahine’s parents are only trying to thank their son-in-law for having taken their problem daughter off their hands.

  As for Leilani, that champion, she used to rent too (with six people, two sleeping under the stairs), but three weeks ago she moved. Now she has a maid’s chamber, a tiny bedroom (but big enough for Leilani) above the apartment of an old couple. Leilani looks after them, she cleans their apartment, does their shopping, and cooks for them, and in return they take care of her accommodation, including the electricity bill. In Pito’s opinion that is a lot of work for one tiny bedroom, not counting that Leilani also works in a bookshop, but Leilani seemed very pleased with the arrangement when she told her father about it.

  “They are such a lovely couple,” she said. “They still fight about little things like leaving the fridge door open for too long, they’re so cute, they remind me of you and Mamie.” Leilani went on about how sometimes that old couple prompted her to visualize her parents old and still together, fighting over little things like they’d been doing for years. Pito didn’t have the heart to tell his daughter to stop visualizing, because the way things were going . . .

  Anyway, back to Pito’s first-ever visit to a real-estate agent, for which he is dressed in his wedding-and-funeral suit. And his shiny black shoes (also wedding-and-funeral). First impressions count, even Pito knows this, and what an impression Pito is making as he walks down the street in Papeete!

  A Tahitian man who wears such a suit on a Sunday is a Catholic going to mass. A Tahitian man who wears such a suit on a Saturday is a Protestant going to le temple. But when such a suit is worn on a weekday, there’s a funeral on. Or it could just be a very important Tahitian man strolling back to his office to make important phone calls, sitting at his very important desk.

  Let’s just say, in all honesty, that a Tahitian man wearing a suit is bound to attract eyes. This happens to Pito. Some eyes are sad. They are saying, Eh, eh, my condolences. Some eyes are filled with admiration. They are saying, Ouh, you must earn a lot of money!

  The eyes that look up at the man bursting into the real-estate office are filled with respect. “Monsieur, bonjour,” the pretty twenty-something French girl says. “May I help you?”

  “I’m looking for a house.” This voice belongs to a confident businessman.

  “Well, you’ve come to the right place.” Smiling, the receptionist picks up her phone, dials an extension, delivers the magical line — someone is here to see you — and, still smiling, asks Pito if he’d like a coffee.

  “Ah oui, merci.” This is the first time, in his entire life, that a receptionist has asked Pito if he’d like a coffee.

  “Sugar? Milk?”

  Coffee is on its way, but first things first — an introduction to Robert Matron, head of the sales department, a short, fat man with the biggest grin Pito has ever seen, you would think he’s just won the tombola or something.

  “This way, Monsieur.” A hand goes out to the very important client’s back to steer him in the right direction. “Excusez-moi, my desk is a mess! Take a seat, please. So —” The head of the sales department hurries to shuffle papers away and rubs his hands together. “What kind of house are we looking for?”

  “A small one.”

  “Ah-ha, and with a pool maybe? For hot days?”

  “Okay.” Pito can sure visualize himself relaxing by his pool.

  “A house by the sea or a house in the mountains?”

  “By the sea.” Oui, a house with a pool by the sea. Imagine that! He hopes the rent isn’t too much, though.

  “I do have a bungalow on my books but —”

  “Ah oui, a bungalow!” Pito exclaims. “I want a bungalow! Oui, give me a bungalow!”

  The head of the sales department grins from ear to ear as he reaches for a black folder on his desk, opens it to a picture of a bungalow by the sea. “Isn’t she cute?” He raves about the building materials used to build this little treasure (hardwood, which won’t rot away), the luscious garden (the purple bougainvillea vine is, like, fifty years old), the grass (green, well looked after), and . . . let’s save the best for last: a pontoon!

  “I’m sure,” the head of the sales department winks, “that you will put your pontoon to good use. I can already see your speedboat anchored to it —”

  “How much is it?” Pito goes straight to the most important question. He doesn’t want to get all excited and find out he can’t afford the rent because it’s more than his salary.

  “The price is negotiable.” Robert Matron’s voice lowers a few notches. “We’re talking twenty percent if not thirty off the market value —” Then, adopting a sad expression, he whispers, “There’s a death in the family, you understand.”

  “Somebody died in the bungalow!” The bungalow has suddenly changed in Pito’s eyes.

  Robert Matron makes frantic small movements with his hands. “Non, non, absolutely not, I guarantee you!” He wipes a pearl of sweat from his forehead, repositions himself in hi
s rolling chair, having just remembered that the quickest way to lose a sale in Tahiti is to mention the word death. He’d thought this modern businessman to be over such ludicrous superstitions . . . but once a Tahitian, always a Tahitian. “Nobody died in that bungalow, in fact, nobody died, it was just a figure of speech, what I meant to say is —”

  “How much?” Pito doesn’t have all day.

  “Thirty.” The head of the sales department leans back in his chair.

  “Thirty.” Things are still not clear to Pito. “Thirty a week? Thirty a month?”

  “Pardon?” The head of the sales department doesn’t seem to be following his client’s thinking.

  “Thirty thousand francs a week or a month?” Pito repeats.

  “Thirty thousand?” The head of sales now looks very lost. “Excusez-moi, but I’m talking about millions . . . thirty million.”

  “Thirty million! Where do you want me to get thirty million francs from? I can only pay ten thousand francs a week maximum.”

  The grin vanishes as the head of the sales department gets up. “Monsieur, there has been a misunderstanding.” And to the receptionist bringing the very important client his coffee, he adds, “Monsieur was just leaving.”

  But Pito isn’t leaving yet. As far as he’s concerned, he’ll leave when he’s ready, okay? And pass me that coffee. “Where are your houses for rent?” he asks, taking a sip.

  “For rent?” the receptionist says, eyeing Monsieur Matron from the corner of her shocked eyes. “I thought —”

  “That’s right, Bernadette.” Poor Bernadette gets the evil eye from the boss. “You thought.”

  “So?” Pito tells the stunned receptionist. “Where are your houses for rent?”

  She points to a notice board at the far corner of the front office, almost hidden behind a gigantic fake plant. “There, Monsieur.”

  All right, Pito is going to have a look. He looks and he looks, he sees one ugly house after another, they’re all the same. A concrete box plonked down on a small block of land. A clean box, too clean . . . but houses for rent must all be like that. People move in and out, as he plans to do — six weeks maximum — just enough to make his wife miss him and realize that he’s worth keeping.