Tiare in Bloom

by Célestine Vaite

  “Your papa is on the telephone!”

  “I’m coming, chéri!”

  “Would you like a coffee, chérie?”

  “Oui, thanks, chéri.”

  Chéri this, chérie that, and Pito is thinking, Why don’t you two live together?

  “Papi?” This is a grown-up independent clever woman speaking, the first future Tahitian woman doctor, but she still sounds like a little girl to her father.

  “Oui.” That is all Pito can physically say for the moment. Merde, what is the matter with him?

  “You’re fine?” says Leilani; then to her boyfriend bringing her a coffee, “Merci, chéri.” She takes a sip. “Papi?”

  “Oui.” That is still all Pito can physically say for the moment.

  “Papi, are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Well, if you need to know,” Pito admits, forcing a chuckle, “your old man is feeling a bit bizarre today.”

  “What do you mean by bizarre?”

  What does Pito mean by bizarre? What’s this bizarre question his daughter is asking? He’s feeling bizarre, that’s all. You can’t explain bizarre. Bizarre means what it means, doesn’t it? It means bizarre.

  “Are you having mood swings?” Leilani asks.

  “Eh?”

  “Are you feeling happy one minute and then sad the next?”

  Pito hesitates for a few seconds. “Today, oui.”

  “Are you also tired a lot these days?” Leilani continues her questions.

  “Today, oui, I’m tired.”

  “Are you losing your hair?” she goes on.

  Pito proudly rubs his mop of mixed black and gray hair. “Non, I’m not losing my hair.”

  “Papi, I’m going to ask you a question, but please, don’t be offended. I’m not speaking as your daughter here, okay? I’m speaking as a medical student . . . Now, are you experiencing a decline in your sex drive?”

  “What?” But! The questions that girl asks! Pito shrieks to himself. He didn’t call his daughter to be interrogated . . . and about that subject! It’s not a subject to talk about with your daughter, not even your friends, not even your doctor! And he only called to say Iaorana. “So all is fine?” he asks.

  “All is fine.” The daughter senses she’s offended her father, so she quickly changes the subject. “And how is my adorable niece?”

  “She’s a numero uno, that one,” Pito chuckles and goes on about Tiare’s new saying. Well, when the mademoiselle gets up (from the sofa, chair, table, the floor), she says, “Parahi,” meaning stay seated. This is the Tahitian way to say good-bye, more Tahitian than the word nana everyone uses.

  Leilani chuckles along. “Soon Tiare will be teaching me to speak Tahitian!”

  “It’s her acquaintances, I tell you, the old women from Mama Teta’s nursing home.”

  “Her great-great-aunties, we can call them like that.”

  “We can,” Pito agrees. “How long is Hotu staying with you?”

  “Ten days.”

  “Ah, that’s good, it’s better than the last time, what was it, only five days?”

  “Papi, you are going through andropause,” Leilani cuts in, speaking fast, without giving her father the chance to protest. “It’s like the female menopause, and it’s because there’s a drop in your hormone levels. It’s normal, millions of men in the world go through this stage —”

  Pito is speechless, so Leilani goes on, and urges her father not to panic. He must remain calm, okay? He must not hurry to do irrational things like leave her mother for a younger woman. It’s normal, she insists, for her father to feel lost and believe that he hasn’t accomplished much in his life, but this is simply not true. He may not earn a lot of money but he’s a wonderful, wonderful person. True, he may have faults. Many faults . . . but who is perfect?

  A younger woman is not the cure, gambling neither, nor breeding fighting roosters, whatever. And it’s no use tormenting himself with the past, all the things he didn’t do and should have done. It’s the past, done, out of the way, swept away. Only tomorrow counts. The other advice Leilani offers her stunned patient is for him to increase his physical activity. This means less sitting on the sofa and maybe some more walking. Serious walking, not promenades. “Walk to work, Papi,” Leilani says, after a big breath.

  “Walk to work?”

  “Oui, and why not? It’s only six miles. Get up earlier and walk instead of catching the truck. We don’t walk enough in Tahiti. We go from A to B but only if it is less than seventy-five feet, when we should really walk at least two miles a day. It’s good for the heart and for the head too. Papi, please promise me that you will do some exercise . . . And try to drink less too.”

  Here we go again, Pito thinks. It’s very easy for Leilani and Hotu to ask drinkers to drink less. Those two are allergic to alcohol. Normal people aren’t that lucky.

  “I’m not asking you to stop completely,” the daughter goes on, “but try to drink less, that’s all. Drink two glasses of water for each glass of beer . . . Papi?”

  “Hmm.”

  “You can’t die before I have children.”

  And Pito, a hand on his heart, smiles.

  I’m going to start my exercising program. Pito is not being Monsieur Monday here, so many people make new resolutions to start on Monday, but the problem is that when Monday comes, the new resolution evaporates until the following Monday. But Pito is being serious.

  Monday I’m going to walk to work, I’m going to be in shape! I’m going to lose my gut. Pito chants his new hymn over and over again. He gulps two glasses of water, punches a fist of victory, and rewards himself with a few sips of his beer, which by now is warm. That’s the problem when you don’t drink your beer in one go, it goes warm, especially on a hot day like today.

  He starts to jump around, one foot up on the sofa . . . now the other, alternate, keep jumping . . . breathe, well, try to . . .

  Purée, it’s hot today, sweat is rolling profusely down Pito’s temples. He sits on the sofa to recover a little, take a few proper breaths, and stop the panting.

  The front door swings opens. It is Tamatoa, covered in sweat and red in the face, his bag slung over his shoulder.

  “Eh?” Pito is pleasantly surprised. “I thought you said that you were coming home on Tuesday.”

  “Her husband is a gendarme, I’m not playing with a gendarme’s wife, non merci. As soon as I found out, I ran home.” Then, noticing his father panting, he asks, “What’s with you?”

  Pito spreads his arms across the sofa. “Your sister says I have to start exercising, I’m trying, copain, I’m trying. I’m walking to work on Monday.”

  “Walking?” Tamatoa grins. His father has never called him mate. “Running is better.”

  “For young people, oui, but for us old men —” Pito shrugs and cackles.

  “You’re not old, Papi.” Tamatoa sits next to his father. “I can run with you . . . if you want.”

  Pito considers the offer. “I’m not going to shame you? I’m warning you, I don’t run like the wind.”

  “Eh,” Tamatoa says, giving his father a man’s tap on the leg. “As long as you don’t crawl, c’est le principal.”

  A Chance from the Sky

  There are many things a father can learn when running with his son. Well, first, he learns how to run: how to pace himself, breathe right, how to hold his arms up so that they don’t dangle and take up energy. But most important, he learns to trust his son.

  Pito really thought that Tamatoa was going to dump him halfway through the run, seeing that Tamatoa could run twice as fast, if not three times. But Tamatoa remained by his father’s side, circling him and all the while giving him words of encouragement like, “Just imagine you’re representing Tahiti at the Olympic Games!” Pito had to stop a few times to laugh and catch his breath.

  Still, he had not expected Tamatoa to run home with him later in the day after work as Tamatoa had promised him to. When Pito saw his son at the gate, he thought, “Ei
shh!” He had hoped to catch the truck and stop it about three hundred feet away from home, and then run. But deep down, Pito was really proud Tamatoa had lived up to his promise. Maybe his son is turning at last into someone you can rely on.

  So that is why, a week later, Pito is proposing to his beautiful wife lying by his side to go camping for a night.

  Materena ponders for a while before accepting the unusual invitation. I’ve never been camping in all my life, she thinks. Well, why not try something new?

  Materena doesn’t even bother asking Pito information regarding the camping equipment, doesn’t fire one thousand questions about where he is going to get the tent et cetera. She just kisses him on the mouth, saying how romantic it will be, and how she can already visualize the three of them sitting around a campfire, with Pito telling stories to their granddaughter and . . .

  Pito hurries to mention that the little one will be staying at home with her father.

  “Eh?” Materena stops kissing Pito. “Leave Tiare with Tamatoa?” Her smiling face drops. “Pito, are you serious?” She goes on about her son’s inability to look after himself, let alone a child. “He can’t even cook rice!”

  “So what if he can’t cook rice, it’s not the end of the world.”

  “Pito . . . what if Tamatoa leaves bébé at the house and goes out dancing . . . and then something happens —”

  “He’s not going to do that! Trust him.”

  “Pito!” Materena is now cranky. She gets out of bed and declares that he can go camping if he wants to but she’s not going.

  “Materena —”

  “My answer is non.” Materena is adamant about this. “You go camping, I’m staying right where I am, we can have romance here, we don’t need to go camping, and plus, I don’t like camping.”

  “How do you know?” Pito asks. “You’ve never been camping in your whole life.”

  “I know. I saw it in a movie once, and it doesn’t look comfortable.”

  “We can stay in a pension if it’s more comfortable for you.”

  “Non, I prefer my own house.” With this firm statement, Materena fluffs her pillow, she’s going to sleep.

  “Materena, listen to me, okay? Listen.”

  “I’m listening.”

  And so Pito fires away. He doesn’t care if he never gets to go camping with Materena, he says, because, true, you don’t need to go camping to have romance. You can have romance in the marital bed. You can have romance in the kitchen, bathroom, anywhere, because it’s all in the mind.

  The real reason behind his idea to go away for one whole day and a whole night is to give their son a chance to be with his daughter, alone.

  “I —”

  “Materena, let me talk, I haven’t finished.” As he was saying, he’d like to give Tamatoa the chance to be with his daughter, alone, the chance to see what he can do. Pito didn’t get his chance to realize what he was capable of until two years ago, when his granddaughter came into his life and Materena gave him her trust. It was very difficult for Pito to adapt to his new role as a grandfather, guardian, and godfather, but he learned quickly and everybody survived.

  The way Pito sees his situation, he was never given the chance to prove himself, women always took over. For example, when Pito was a young boy, his mother would always serve him his dinner so that he wouldn’t spill rice everywhere — but maybe she should have let him serve himself, she should have let him spill a few grains of rice on the floor.

  Then later, Materena would always get out of bed for a crying baby — but maybe she should have pretended to be fast asleep. Pito would have eventually gotten up because the sound of a crying baby would have gotten on his nerves. But non, the years passed and Pito stayed a little boy in his head.

  Well, says Pito, this is not going to happen to his son, non, no way — but Tamatoa is sure to be making the same mistakes as his father did if something isn’t done about it now.

  “You women,” says Pito, “you do your complaining because men don’t help with the children, and at the same time, you don’t give us men the chance to see that looking after children isn’t voodoo! You make us believe that children need magic, special touch, and everything, because they’re so delicate, they’re like porcelain dolls. All of this is conneries. Wake up, you women!”

  What women should do, well, according to Pito anyway, is to go away for a whole weekend now and then. Go, leave the children with their father, disappear, but don’t tell the father what to do, what not to do. Just walk out of the house and close the door. Like Materena did with Pito, like Lily is doing with Ati.

  Materena had no idea Pito felt that way. She takes his hand in hers and squeezes it tight. “All right, then,” she says. “We can go camping.”

  “This weekend?” Tamatoa, sweating from his dance rehearsal, doesn’t look too happy about this. But at least Pito is pleased that it isn’t looking after Tiare that is making his son unhappy, it is the fact that he’s expected to do it this weekend. Pito had expected to have to give his son a long sermon on fatherhood.

  “I can’t, Papi, not this Saturday.”

  “Why? What’s happening this Saturday?”

  “I’m meeting this girl.”

  “You like her?”

  Tamatoa shrugs. “She has a sexy belly button.”

  “She can’t wait until next Saturday, her and her belly button?” Before Tamatoa gives his father his answer, Pito tells him that his mother had to wait for more than twenty-five years to have a romantic night with her husband. Surely, whoever that girl is, seven more days isn’t going to kill her.

  Tamatoa chuckles. “You’re right, Papi.”

  Pito is so tempted to go ahead and give his son a sermon on fatherhood, like how it doesn’t mean leaving a child at home on her own, it doesn’t mean not feeding her for a whole day and a whole night . . . But sometimes a father must trust his son.

  And now, Saturday morning, close to seven thirty, the grandparents are saying their good-byes, glad to see that Tiare is taking the good-byes so well, but then again, she’s very interested in what her father is mixing in the bowl.

  “E aha te ra?”

  “Pancake.”

  “Pancake? E aha te ra?”

  “It’s good.”

  “It’s good? Mona, mona?”

  Tamatoa smiles. “She speaks Tahitian a lot.” He turns to his daughter. “Oui, it’s mona, mona.”

  Ah, it’s good to see, and Materena reminds her son to make sure he turns off the gas bottle at night because . . .

  “Allez, Mama,” Pito interrupts, “let’s go before we miss the ferry.”

  The car, loaded with camping equipment which Pito borrowed from Ati, is ready to go on a little adventure all the way to Moorea, one hour by ferry from Tahiti.

  “Eh hia,” Materena sighs, turning the engine on, “I hope that —”

  “Everything is going to be all right.” Pito interrupts Materena before she winds herself up with worries. But it seems that it is a woman’s second nature to worry, because that’s all Materena does. About this, about that, if Tamatoa will remember to close the gas bottle, if Tamatoa will remember that Tiare doesn’t like her rice soggy, if this, if that. The worrying pours out of Materena’s mouth nonstop driving to Papeete, during the ferry ride, standing at the rails and holding on to Pito tight like she’s scared he’ll fall into the deep blue sea or something.

  Materena only starts to relax at Temae Beach, the chosen camping site, the only beach without a TABOO sign nailed to a tree. She even manages to laugh her head off helping Pito set up the tent.

  “I’m so relaxed!” she says as they go for a walk, picking up shells and funny-shaped rocks, and later on as they frolic in the sea.

  Materena also feels very relaxed after the passionate sexy loving in the tent (her first ever sexy loving experience in a tent, and how wonderful it was except perhaps a bit hard on the back) as they get the fire ready, barbecue their breadfruit, and heat up their corned beef to cele
brate their first Saturday away as a couple.

  Night falls, stars appear, and there, right in front of the lovers, far away in the distance, is the magnificent island of Tahiti, all lit up like a Christmas tree. Thousands of lights, this way, that way, up high in the mountains, on the shore. It makes you think about things . . .

  Like those expensive calls to France leading nowhere. So far, Materena has called twenty-one people of her list of fifty-two phone numbers, and nobody knows Tom Delors who did military service in Tahiti. But one woman did point out to Materena that the name Delors was very common in France.

  “I’m so relaxed!” Materena forces the exclamation.

  “Me too!” Pito doesn’t sound too convincing either.

  If a stranger were to walk past and glance at this couple sitting by the fire, he would think it odd that they look so gloomy on such a romantic night. Why the funeral face? It’s bizarre. The stranger would probably put this down to a lover’s spat, but then he would tell himself that it couldn’t be, since these two people sitting by the fire don’t look angry. They just look . . . sad, really. A bit flat. An amicable separation, maybe? The last night before the end . . . Ah oui, how tragic.

  “I’m worried.” There, Materena has decided to speak the truth.

  “Okay, me too.”

  Just then, a shooting star flashes by, heading towards the ocean, traveling very fast, giving people who believe that a shooting star is a chance from the sky merely two to four seconds to come up with a wish from their heart. People are often caught unprepared and panic, coming up with a wish only after the shooting star has disappeared. In this case, the wish doesn’t count, since you’ve got to make it there and then, on the spot. Since Materena and Pito have been wishing nearly all day, they have no trouble coming up with a wish within one second.

  Meanwhile, back in Faa’a, a young father is putting his daughter to bed, realizing how little she is, how fragile she looks, defenseless. At the door, his new friends look on.

  “Tamatoa, mon bijou,” Brigitte says with her much-practiced femme-fatale voice, “you’re the man — you make sure your daughter grows up safe. The world is a dangerous place.” This raerae extraordinaire knows what she’s talking about. Born a boy, the last child of the family, and raised as a girl by the mother, Brigitte has seen all kinds of colors as a woman.