Tiare in Bloom

by Célestine Vaite

  And pop! Tamatoa fills his father’s glass, his mother’s glass, his glass, and pretends to fill his daughter’s glass. Let’s all raise our glasses together, please. Let’s all have a toast. As for the news, here it is: Mesdames et messieurs, let me present to you the new member of the dancing group at Club 707.

  “Eh!” Champagne flies out of Pito’s mouth. “What?”

  Materena’s eyes are also popping out of her head. “Don’t you have to be a raerae to dance there?” she asks.

  Her cousin-in-law Georgette is a dancer at Club 707 and she’s a raerae, she dances her sexy moves three nights a week for an audience made up mostly of women. And lonely old men sitting in the dark.

  “People are going to think you’re a raerae,” Pito says. He wouldn’t like this to happen to him. People mistaking him for a raerae. Can you imagine?

  “Well, I know I’m not a raerae,” Tamatoa laughs. “I know that I love women.” Then, shaking his hips, he shouts, “All I care about is dancing!”

  Third Time Lucky

  The first time Materena went to a nightclub, it was to the Zizou Bar with Cousin Mori. The second time she went to a nightclub, it was to the Kikiriri with Cousin Lily. Tonight, Materena’s third experience in a nightclub will be at the Club 707 to watch her son dance, and she’s asking Pito to come along because Tamatoa is also his son, not counting that Tamatoa has personally invited both his parents.

  “We’re going to have lots of fun, chéri.” Materena has already asked her mother to babysit Tiare, and she has bought herself a very pretty red dress for the special occasion. “Hein, chéri? We’ve never gone to a nightclub together . . . Allez.”

  Okay oui, but Pito is not particularly interested in watching his son disguised as a raerae. Fathers don’t really want to watch their sons doing their show on the dance floor dressed as a woman. In fact, fathers don’t want to watch their son doing their show on the dance floor full stop. They want to watch their son score the winning goal at a soccer match (actually, any goal will do), things like that.

  But it would be nice to go out with his wife — she’s so excited by the whole thing. She’s excited because her son is excited. Dancing is apparently in his blood, he said. Materena is also excited to be a VIP guest and going out — for the first time ever — on the arm of her handsome husband.

  “Ah, all right, then.” How could Pito resist? And he’s glad he is going now; looking at his wife in that red dress with thin straps which sits dangerously just above her knees, and her loose hair carelessly falling on her back, Pito is finding her very spicy and very brown too.

  “You’ve been sunbaking?” he asks.

  “Sunbaking?” Materena giggles, applying a coat of red lipstick.

  “It’s just that you’re really brown,” Pito says.

  “Pito, this is my natural color. I’m a brown woman.” Winking, Materena whispers, “All over.”

  Pito chuckles and grabs his wife on the waist, but she playfully slaps his hands. Her mother is in the kitchen studying the Bible, so no funny business, please.

  Allez, time to go! Good-bye, Mamie, and thanks again. Loana lowers her reading glasses on her nose and wishes the middle-aged couple a pleasant evening, along with one thousand recommendations. “Materena, don’t you dare drive taero, if you ever kill an innocent, I swear to you I’m never going to look at your face again. And you, Pito, don’t do the idiot, men want to dance with your wife, aita pea pea, no problems, remember, it’s you who’s going to go home with my daughter. Hold yourself good, count your drinks, and watch your mouth. There’s a time and a place for talking merde, and it’s not in front of people. And give my grandson my blessings for his new job.” Loana doesn’t know about her grandson dancing dressed as a woman. All she knows is that he’s working behind the bar, which even then she wasn’t too happy about but it’s a job, a place to start.

  “Au revoir, Mamie,” says Materena and gives her mother another kiss and a quick one to Tiare sound asleep, her hand clutching her favorite quilt that used to belong to her father when he was a baby. Then it’s off to Papeete, to Club 707.

  When they arrive, the queue is already long. Pito is annoyed. He hates queues of any kind, even if it consists of a queue made of women wearing their best dresses and looking very appetizing. He glances around, stopping here and there to admire (very quickly) a pair of titis spilling out of a tight outfit. Ah, he’s just spotted another man. Good. Pito would hate to be the only real man in that club. There’s another man over there too, but he’s old and falling apart.

  Pito turns his head the other way and meets the disapproving eyes of a woman walking by. Since Club 707 opened its doors, the island has been divided. The first group believes raeraes are harmless and fun, great at making women feel special — and they are deep too, a bit like philosophers. The other group believes that raeraes are bizarre and unnatural, the shame of their religious country.

  What does Pito think about that? Nothing, don’t ask him. All he cares about is to pass incognito. So he buries his head in between his shoulders and keeps his eyes firmly on his going-to-church shoes.

  At the door Pito hears Materena tell the bouncer (and not with a little voice), “We are guests of our son Tamatoa, he’s dancing tonight. Our names are Materena and Pito Tehana.”

  The bouncer — more Mr. Hulk than him and you would die — checks the situation, calling out over the jazz music to someone in the club, “Materena and Pito Tehana!”

  “Oui! Let them in!”

  Once inside, the VIP guests are ushered to a table near the dance floor by another hulk, who pulls a chair for Madame. Pito pulls his own chair out, but Hulk II stops him in time. Here the VIP guests are kings. They don’t have to pull out their own chairs, and they don’t have to queue at the bar with the soon-to-be-hysterical women either, because here’s a bottle of some fine red wine.

  Hulk II half fills Pito’s glass.

  Pito sniffs the drink as he’s seen it done on TV, then gives it a nod.

  “Monsieur, Madame. Enjoy the wine, and enjoy the show.”

  By the time the show is about to start, there is no more wine in the bottle. Materena is a bit tipsy, and Pito, well, he’s less embarrassed to be here. Just as he’s about to go to the bar, another bottle of wine appears, still with the compliments of the house. Talk about special treatment! It’s like there’s a conspiracy to get Pito and Materena off their faces. Maybe it’s to minimize the shock, because they’re about to see their son wearing a nurse’s uniform.

  The jazz music dies down and is replaced by the pulsing of drums as the lights are dimmed, and a roar of clapping and women yelling fills the club. Startled, Pito turns to look at the hundreds of crazy women. My God, he’s never seen women acting that way. It’s like the Pope is about to make an entrance, or someone equally famous, like . . . well, like Pito’s son.

  Here he is, wearing nothing but a loincloth hiding his private parts, standing still like a coconut tree for the audience to admire his oily, tanned, and fit body. The crowd goes wilder, and Materena is not far behind, frantically clapping her hands.

  “Oro,” a smooth voice comes out of the speakers, “Oro, god of war, is bored . . .”

  The drums come back and the lights are now on Materena’s cousin Georgette, dressed as an Indian princess but wearing high-heel shoes and fake plaits. The crowd goes even wilder as Georgette dances her famous sexy moves, rolling her belly, shaking her shoulders at Oro, god of war, kissing his feet, throwing her body this way, that way. But Oro pushes away the Indian woman, who then crumples on the floor.

  Drums stop.

  “But Oro, god of war, pushes his first wife out of the sky, and he’s still bored.”

  The drums are back, and this time the crowd has the pleasure of watching a cancan dancer complete with fishnet stockings — before she too is pushed off the sky.

  Third wife: Cleopatra. She gets pushed out of the sky.

  Fourth wife: a nymphomaniac nurse. Pushed off the sky.
/>   Fifth wife: a ballerina, same fate.

  That Oro is very hard to please, but Pito wonders if his son is going to do some action, or if he’s going to stand there all night long pushing wives around.

  “Oro looks like he’s on the hunt again,” the suave voice continues. “Oro . . . can you see anyone in the crowd worthy of your attention?” Oro looks around, now flashing his white teeth, and the crowd of drunken women goes ballistic. “Moi! Moi!”

  Pito puts his hands on his ears, he’s about to go deaf, but this is only the beginning. The crowd is about to spin out of control because the god of war will soon be showing them real dancing.

  Drums roll louder and louder, and this is what Oro means by real dancing. He means energy, choreographed steps, leaping in the air, jumping on tables, sweat, rhythm, and flirting with the audience. He unzips a woman’s dress and she shrieks with delight, so honored to have been noticed by the god of war. A kiss here, a wink there, a gentle caress, more gymnastics and jumping around.

  Pito had no idea his son was such a dancing machine. He wonders how long Tamatoa will keep up with the dancing, the drums, the hysterical groupies who let him do anything he likes, since they’re taking him for a raerae, a harmless man. Well, Tamatoa will be doing this until Oro finds his next wife. So, who is going to be the lucky goddess tonight?

  “You.” Oro is on his knees before Materena.

  “Moi? Non.” Materena waves her son away. But he insists. “Tamatoa,” Materena says in between clenched teeth. “I drank.”

  “Allez.” Pito nudges his wife to get up.

  The crowd is also demanding that Oro’s sixth wife get up. “Debout! Debout!” they chant. All eyes are now on Materena, dancing shy and hesitant moves. But she’s not Tahitian for nothing. The drums, she knows about that. Rhythm too. It’s in her blood, part of her upbringing, years as a child shaking her waist from left to right to the rhythm of Tahitian songs sung by the great-aunties. Materena’s dancing in a nightclub might be very limited but her dancing in her mother’s and aunties’ kitchens is extensive.

  Very soon, Materena is kicking her comfortable shoes off to the side of the dance floor, closing her eyes, and raising her arms. You haven’t seen anything yet, you people, she thinks. And off she goes, dancing like a woman who’s spent her whole life on the dance floor.

  To say that Pito is captivated is an understatement. He will never let his wife go out alone ever again, he might not be so lucky the third time. Ah oui, as of now, when Materena goes out dancing, he’s going too.

  Roars and clapping thank Materena as she returns to her seat, laughing with her head thrown back. But here’s Pito (to his son’s greatest surprise) getting to his feet.

  “Mademoiselle,” he says, winking and taking Materena’s hand in his, the other around her waist. At that moment the music changes and a crowd of women storms onto the dance floor to Abba’s “Dancing Queen” blaring from the speakers. But not to be discouraged, Pito repeats, “Mademoiselle, are you ready to do the samba?”

  “Madame,” she smiles, and places her other hand on her husband’s shoulder. Around them much younger dancers are madly gesticulating and jumping around in their high heels as the middle-aged couple, their bodies pressed close together, begin to dance.

  Hours later, a very elated middle-aged Tahitian couple in love is walking hand in hand in a dimmed street of Papeete after a night flirting (with each other), dancing (also with each other, plus six songs with their son), and drinking (together). And there’s no taxi in sight.

  Luckily, there’s a hotel not far away. There’s always a hotel when there’s a nightclub in the whereabouts — lovers who have a bit of money never have to do romance in the streets. The hotel is seedy, but they all are in this part of town. Nobody has died in this hotel, though, so that’s good.

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

  Precious Seeds

  If Pito and Materena collapsed on their hotel bed (after a quick romance, walking up the stairs), Tamatoa spent hours and hours romancing. And the girl must have been greatly impressed with her lover’s performance, because she invited him to the restaurant tonight.

  Presently, Mr. Lover Boy is busy dabbing cologne on the back of his neck. His father, drinking at the kitchen table, looks on.

  “You’ve got money?” his mother asks, digging into her purse, since she already knows the answer.

  “She’s paying,” Tamatoa says with a smirk.

  “You told her that you’ve got a kid?” asks Materena.

  “Mamie!” Meaning, Why would I tell her that I’ve got a kid, eh? She doesn’t need to know my life. Tamatoa joins his father at the table, but he’s not drinking. Tamatoa never drinks before a romantic rendezvous. That’s the rule and the regulation, which so far has proved to be a recipe for success.

  “You’re careful with your seeds?” This time it is the father asking questions.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, You’re careful with your seeds. I’m not talking Morse code to you. You’re careful with your seeds?”

  Tamatoa shrugs. He won’t be answering that question.

  “I don’t want a girl knocking at the door, looking for you in nine months,” says Pito. “And she’s like that.” In sign language, Pito shows a swollen belly. “Alors? You’re careful with your seeds?”

  “Oui!” Tamatoa snaps, jumping to his feet. “Oui, I’m careful, okay?”

  “Eh,” Pito snaps back. “You make kids, you look after them, this house is not a garderie.” Commanding his son to sit, he adds that he loves his granddaughter, Tiare, adores her, she’s a ray of sunshine and everything, but it doesn’t mean he wants a repeat. “You get me?” Pito asks. “You get another girl pregnant, the baby is your affair, understand?”

  Materena decides to cut in. “I really think you should tell her about bébé. What is that girl’s name?”

  “She’s just a girl!” Tamatoa is clearly exasperated now. “We’re going to eat and then we’re going to have a bit of fun, that’s all.”

  “But you’re going to talk at the restaurant,” Materena insists. “People always talk at the restaurant, they don’t just eat.” She puts a hand on her son’s hand as if to say, Look, I’m not trying to tell you how to live your life, but listen to my opinion, I’m speaking with all honesty, my son. “This girl might get cranky if she finds out about Tiare in two weeks, and not tonight.”

  “Who said I’m still going to be with her in two weeks?” Tamatoa gets up.

  “But what if — ”

  “She’s married.” There, that does the trick. It shuts both his parents up. “She has a wedding band on her finger, she has a rope around her neck, she’s a bored housewife, and there’s no restaurant. I’m going to her house and it’s not to talk.”

  “Ah,” Pito says, hugely relieved. A bored married woman looking for a bit of fun is safer than an unattached woman searching for a husband, the father of her future children. “Well, have a good night.”

  “Merci, Papi.”

  Father and son give each other a firm handshake.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow morning,” Tamatoa sings, stepping out of the house. “Early.”

  Tamatoa does come home in the morning, early — but three days later.

  “She has a blind husband or what?” Pito, at the kitchen table, buttering his granddaughter’s bread, asks.

  “What are you doing up so early?” Tamatoa looks like he can’t believe his father is up at five forty-five. “You fell out of bed?”

  “Some of us have to get Tiare breakfast and go to work five days a week,” Pito snorts. “You’re going to say Iaorana to your daughter? It’s not like she’s invisible.”

  Tamatoa smiles at his daughter, who is dipping her buttered jam bread into her Milo, and plants a quick kiss on the little one’s forehead. He’s come home to get some clothes, he says, and will be
away for another five days. “Don’t worry,” he hurries to answer his father’s questioning look. “I know my duties, she’s going to drive me to work.” And to make things clearer, Tamatoa explains the situation, which is quite simple really. The husband is away with the children for a week.

  “And bébé?” Pito asks. “She’s in your plan too? I didn’t pay for your plane ticket for you to play Romeo.”

  “Eh hia.” Tamatoa dismisses his father with the back of his hand, drinks a glass of water at the sink, and heads to his bedroom to pack.

  “Stay at the table, chérie,” Pito tells Tiare as he gets up. “I’ll come back.”

  In his son’s bedroom now, with the door closed, “Tamatoa,” Pito begins, speaking with his let’s-be-allies voice, “I just want to open your eyes a little.”

  “What?” Tamatoa, shoving clothes in a bag, is immediately on the defensive. “You’re not going to tell me about the plane ticket again, are you? I’m going to pay you back.”

  “I asked for my money?” says Pito, his voice rising up.

  “I’m still going to pay you back.”

  “Spend a bit more time with your daughter, it’s for you.”

  “I’m just doing what you used to do.” Walking past his stunned father, Tamatoa elaborates. “You were never at the house.”

  He opens the door. He’s gone. And Pito, standing still like a coconut tree, pale and mute, hears his son tell his daughter, in a father’s voice, mind you, “Don’t put your elbows on the table, it’s not polite.”

  Later that night, in the dark, in the bedroom on this humid night, with gentle rain splattering on the tin roof . . .

  “Materena?”

  “Oui.”

  “Was I a good father?”

  “What do you mean was? You’re still a father, a good father.”

  “I was hardly at the house like I am now.”

  “True, but the kids still knew who you were.”