“Why do you think this?”
“Because of my hair, Cousin! Tahitians don’t have dreadlocks!”
Materena is about to comment but here is Mori calling out to Loana, who is on the other side of the road.
“Auntie Loana!” Mori is frantically waving. “Can you come a little? I need to ask you something!”
She crosses the road and after kissing her nephew and her daughter she asks, “What’s going on?”
Materena gets up, and Mori shows his auntie the rock, meaning, please take a seat.
“I’m not sitting on that bloody rock,” Loana says. “And I’m in a hurry, Mori. What is it you want to ask me?”
Mori tells his auntie about his bizarre musical ear.
“Eh, Mori,” Loana says, “you went to mass with your mama every Sunday from the time you were three days old right till when you were fifteen. When you listen to the choir every Sunday, of course you’re going to develop a musical ear!”
Mori goes on about his bizarre gift with the accordion.
“Mori, you’ve been playing that accordion every day for over twenty years. When you do something for that long, of course you’re going to be good at it!”
“Auntie,” Mori pleads, “the story with the accordion is that one day I found an accordion and the next day I was playing it like I’d played an accordion for years!”
Loana laughs. “Not in my memory, you weren’t. The first few months of you playing that thing sounded like a horrible noise. You can’t remember your mama threatening to chuck that accordion in the bin?”
Materena keeps her eyes focused on the concrete floor.
“Well, I think my father is an accordionist,” Mori says.
“Ah, you know, he could be anything.”
“And he’s from Jamaica.”
“Ah, you know, he could be from anywhere.”
“I want to look for him but Mama doesn’t want to tell me his name. She says she doesn’t know it.”
“Maybe it’s true that your mama doesn’t know the name of your father.”
“How can a woman not know the name of the man she’s making a baby with?”
“Mori, dear,” Loana says, “and you? When you take a woman back to your mama’s house or when you go to the woman’s house, do you always know that woman’s name?” Loana is now squinting at Mori.
“That’s the first thing I ask!” Mori looks mortified. “When I see a woman my eyes like, I go to her and I say, ‘Iaorana, my name is Mori and what is your name, beautiful princess?’”
This time Materena can’t stop the laughter and soon Mori is joining her, but Loana doesn’t think Mori’s introduction line is funny. “There’s a reason why your mama refuses to tell you the name of your father. Maybe she doesn’t want an old story disturbed, but she might decide to reveal the whole story on her deathbed. You just have to be patient.”
“Ah, because there’s a story?” Mori asks, surprised.
Loana half smiles. “Mori, my nephew, there’s always a story with conceptions.”
And with that remark, Loana goes on with her mission to the shop, with Materena following. She’d love to talk to Mori for a little bit longer but Pito and Tiare will be home soon. They’ve gone to visit Mama Roti, and Materena promised them a surprise on their return. A surprise like a banana cake — Pito and Tiare’s favorite cake.
And in the Chinese store, right out the back, behind the tower of toilet paper rolls, Loana tells Materena the story of Mori’s conception. It is understood that Materena will be taking that story to her grave.
Here it is . . .
When Reva, Mori’s mama, was seventeen, she was madly in love with a boy, and he was in love with her too. Emmanuel was the boy’s name. He had a Vespa and he always put Pento cream in his frizzy hair to make it straighter and easy to comb.
One night Emmanuel arranged a rendezvous at the Hotel Tahiti with Reva, and Reva walked the three miles there. When she got to the hotel, there was a band playing and there was free punch being served. Reva stood in the corner next to a potted plant, listening to the music, her eyes looking around for Emmanuel and for any relatives she might have to hide from.
A whole hour passed, and Reva started to suspect that her lover had forgotten all about their rendezvous. She helped herself to a glass of punch and scurried back to her post. She waited, drank, and went back for another glass of punch. She waited again and tears started to fall out of her eyes. The music suddenly sounded very sad.
She drank another glass of punch and another, until the need to relieve herself came to her. She went to the toilet but there was a long queue of well-dressed women who looked her up and down, so she ran into the garden and relieved herself behind a tree. Then she burst into tears. A minute later she heard steps, she smelled Pento, and she said, dressing up as quickly as she could, “Emmanuel, is that you?”
The response was a whisper. “Oui, it’s me, chérie.” Reva was so happy her lover had come that she jumped on him, kissed him passionately, and professed her love for him. Within minutes they were on the grass doing the sexy loving with Reva giving herself to her lover with all her heart and soul. After the sexy loving, Reva held on to her lover and tenderly whispered his name in his ear.
A voice said, “I lied. I’m not who you think I am.” Then the man jumped to his feet and ran away.
This is the story of Mori’s conception, and Materena says that the man was Emmanuel for sure but he lied because . . . because . . . Materena searches for a plausible reason. Because . . .
“Emmanuel died on his way to the hotel,” Loana says. “A truck ran his Vespa over.”
The only person not crying at Mori’s farewell concert is his mother. As far as Reva is concerned, God has finally answered her prayers. But for the relatives gathered here today, it will be so strange not seeing Mori play his eternal accordion under the mango tree near the petrol station anymore, even more so for Materena, who lives right behind the petrol station. But she’s very happy Cousin Mori has decided to do something constructive with his life. Playing an accordion under a tree is fine when you’re a kid, but when you’re close to being thirty-five, it can look a bit sad.
Mori’s age isn’t the reason he’s saying good-bye to his daily music and drinking routine, though, he’s never cared about his age. Let’s just say that after he’s spent years harassing his mother to give him the name of his father, she finally cracked under the pressure and told him the whole bizarre story of his conception.
Mori, understandably, cried his eyes out, then he went to the grave of the man who would have been (without a doubt) his father. There he felt an instant connection with Emmanuel Mori Manutahia, abruptly taken away from us. The way Mori explained his tricky situation to the dead man, he was conceived with him in Reva’s mind, body, and soul, and therefore he was his son, no question about it. Mori remained at his father’s grave for a while. He gave him a glimpse into his life and left with the promise to change.
It means that as of today, Mori will no longer be playing his accordion under the mango tree near the petrol station, because a promise to the dead is sacred.
Two Ways to Plant a Seed
At the kitchen table, where many important issues are discussed in Tahitian households, Materena asks her husband to close his eyes for a moment.
Okay, done.
Now, Pito has to pretend that he gets a call from France, from a woman he doesn’t know, and she tells him that she is his daughter. He fathered her during his two-year military service.
How would he feel? Would he be disappointed if his daughter was, let’s say, a professional cleaner? And would he be proud if his daughter had, let’s say, her own radio program? Anyway, what would Pito’s reaction be?
Materena dips her buttered bread in her bowl of coffee, smiles at her husband now giving her the you-and-your-ideas-sometimes look, takes a bite of her bread, and waits for an answer.
“Just imagine,” Materena says.
“And you?
What would you do?”
“I’m going to invite your daughter to come and visit us!” Materena didn’t even have to ponder. “But, I’m asking you.”
“I’m asking you!” Tiare exclaims, waving her piece of bread. The grandparents jump and crack up laughing. They had forgotten that the little one was at the table too.
So, speaking rapidly, Pito tells Materena that it is impossible for him to have fathered a child in France, because he was always very careful. The last thing he wanted was to get a girl pregnant and be stuck in France for life. In fact, so Pito clarifies, he was very paranoid about his precious seeds with both French and Tahitian girls. He was one hundred percent careful.
Materena’s eyes are popping out of her head. Pito careful? She had no idea he knew about this method of contraception. He certainly never applied it with her when they were meeting under a tree, on a quilt, in the dark. They were not even official boyfriend and girlfriend then. She was just this girl he knew, this girl who was crazy about him. Under that tree, on that quilt, and in the dark, Pito got Materena pregnant with Tamatoa.
“You, careful?” Materena cackles. “You’ve never been careful with me.”
Smirking, Pito tells Materena that maybe he didn’t want to be careful with her, has she ever thought about that, eh?
“What are you telling me? That you got me —” Materena glances at her granddaughter presently ripping tiny pieces of bread and dropping them in her bowl of Milo. Materena mimes the word pregnant and carries on, “under a tree on purpose?”
Pito shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not.”
“Pito —” Materena can’t believe Pito’s almost-confession. It’s like Pito was so afraid of losing her to another man, he got her pregnant to mark his territory. “Pito —” But Pito has got to get ready for work. Still, he gracefully accepts passionate kisses from his wife on his mouth, his cheeks, his head. “Somebody loves me,” he cackles. And to his granddaughter, now collecting her soggy pieces of bread with a spoon, Pito adds, “Parahi bébé.”
She looks up and throws her arms around her grandfather’s neck, with Materena thinking.
Later in the day, Materena visits her mother.
Mother and daughter embrace each other as if they haven’t seen each other for weeks. The last time they were together was only yesterday at the mango tree near the petrol station for Mori’s last concert. Tiare gets her kiss from great-grandmother and hurries out the back to get her watering can. That is the ritual. When she’s here, she waters great-grandmother’s flowers. She knows where her watering can is and she knows where the tap is too. But most of all, Tiare knows which flowers she’s allowed to water.
“How’s the health, Mamie?” Materena asks sweetly.
“Oh, my legs are a bit stiff when I get out of bed in the morning, but other than that all is fine, girl.”
“Ah, better the legs be stiff than something else more serious.”
Cackling, Loana agrees.
“Your garden is so beautiful, Mamie.” Materena is still talking with sugar in her voice.
“Oui, I love my garden, it’s —” She stops to call out to the little one getting carried away with her watering. “Faaoti, Tiare! Go and water the orchids now, my love.”
A bright smile on her face, Tiare looks up and calls out, “I help Grandmère Loana! I’m nice!” And off she hurries to fill her watering can.
“She reminds me so much of you,” Loana says. “So much . . . you were like that at her age, always smiling, always willing to help.”
A silence follows, with Materena eyeing her mother from the corner of her eye and taking big, deep breaths.
“What is it?” Loana asks. “There’s something in your head.”
“Mamie, I need to ask your permission.”
Loana turns to Materena. “My permission!” she laughs. “You haven’t asked my permission for anything for years!” Loana reminds her daughter that she certainly didn’t ask for her permission when she used to sneak out the shutter in the dark to meet her Romeo waiting under a tree. She didn’t ask for her permission when she fell pregnant, got married, et cetera, et cetera. “And now you need my permission?”
Then, in a very serious and worried voice, Loana asks Materena if her permission has something to do with changing religion, or worse, selling land.
“Mamie,” Materena laughs. “Where did you get these crazy ideas from? I’m happy as a Catholic, and I’m not the kind to sell my land.”
“Ah.” Loana sounds very relieved. “Well, you’ve got my permission.”
“I haven’t even told you what it is for yet.”
“It’s not about religion, it’s not about selling land, you’ve got my permission.”
“So it’s okay with you if I go looking for my father?” says Materena, then quickly adding how she’s wanted to do this for years but never had the confidence. “You must see that I’m more confident now, Mamie,” Materena says.
“That is true, and I’m very happy for you. It’s a good thing to be confident when you’re a woman, but —” Loana seems lost for words. It’s like she really wants to say something but doesn’t know how to put the words together.
“Mamie,” says Materena taking her mother’s hand in hers. “I’m going to respect your decision. I understand if you don’t want me to go looking for my father. You’re the one who put food in my stomach and everything, and perhaps you want me to wait until you’re dead, but what if he’s —”
“Don’t expect anything, girl.” There, Loana has spoken. “When you’re young, you think you’re so in love, but then you grow old and realize that it was only a bit of sport.” In Loana’s opinion, Tom Delors is very likely to say, “Loana? Loana who?”
“He wasn’t careful with you, Mamie,” Materena says lightly. “It’s almost like he didn’t mind you falling pregnant because you were so special for him.”
“Special,” Loana repeats, cackling. “Girl, you’re here today because your mother never asked your father to stop!” And sighing, Loana starts talking about that French man who was so funny, and so full of life, and how she really wishes she had met him elsewhere than at the Zizou Bar.
Meeting someone in a bar sounds so bad — not serious, not joli to hear. When you tell people, “Oh, we met in a bar,” they automatically think, In a bar! No wonder she has a child with Father Unknown written on her birth certificate! What was she doing in a bar? You don’t meet husbands in bars!
But where else was Loana Mahi supposed to meet Tom Delors? He didn’t go to church, he didn’t know anyone she knew, she didn’t know anyone he knew, the bar was the only place for the French boy and the Tahitian girl to bump into each other.
Well anyway, it’s the past, and if Materena wants to search for her father, she can, her mother is giving her permission. But it’s best Materena expects nothing and tells nobody about her search (not even her husband) just in case Tom isn’t interested to know his daughter. The last thing Loana wants is for Materena’s story to turn into politics. There are enough stories about arrogant French people going around the neighborhood, Tahiti, French Polynesia . . . the whole world.
“Don’t expect anything, girl,” Loana repeats, to make sure this advice is imprinted into her daughter’s head. “If your father wants to know you, it’s wonderful. If he doesn’t, well, I’m warning you now . . . you will be hurt.” Sighing, Loana adds, “You know my story with my father, how much I suffered.”
Oh oui, Materena knows. She knows the whole story about her grandfather, Apoto, leaving his pregnant wife, Kika, and five-year-old daughter for another woman (who couldn’t cook), but not before advising the whole village that the child in his wife’s belly wasn’t his, the Chinese man had planted it.
When the child came into the world with her father’s face, still it wasn’t a proof for Apoto. As far as he was concerned, he only had one daughter, and he stole her from Kika (using the law) not long after his desertion, to raise her with his infertile teacher mistress. As for that newborn
baby girl, he spat — she was Kika’s, keep her. Which was exactly what Kika did.
When Kika died — in Tahiti, far from her own island — Loana was fourteen years old. Shy, speaking acceptable French (but very little compared with her sister), lost without her mother. And Apoto still didn’t acknowledge that child who had come from his seeds, leaving it up to his relatives to take over instead.
The child became a cleaner, then a single mother of two, drifting from relative to relative, from lover to lover, long resigned to not ever being good enough for her father — the owner of a petrol station, the offspring of a chief, a man with hectares of land to his name.
But on his deathbed, Apoto requested to speak to her. “Loana,” he moaned, “Loana, my child. Forgive me.”
She did. In that instant, there was no hesitation. “I forgive you, Papa,” she cried, fervently kissing his hand. “Go on, die in peace.”
Without that child who loved him so much, Apoto Mahi would be choking in weeds today.
From Tahiti to France
Okay, Materena is ready to call. She’s got her list of fifty-two numbers from the telephone books at the post office, and she’s decided her system: she’s going to start by dialing the very last number and work her way up. There, it’s decided.
She’s ready, emotionally, that is. The way Materena sees the situation, she has nothing to lose. If her father says, “Of course I want to meet you,” then wonderful. If her father says, “So what if you’re my daughter?” then he can choke on weeds.
It is about eight o’clock in the morning, meaning it’s about eight o’clock at night over there, but Materena might just wait for another half hour in case people are still eating. She sits on the floor and waits, rehearsing her introduction line in her head over and over again, taking deep breaths, her hands shaking. “Good evening, Monsieur,” she will say (if he’s a man; Madame if she’s a woman), “my name is Materena and I’m calling from Tahiti. I’m looking for Tom Delors who did his military service in Tahiti forty-two years ago —” The rest of the introduction line will depend on how the person on the other end responds.
Tiare in Bloom Page 19
