Tiare in Bloom (24 page)

Tamatoa nods; he is very pale and so is Materena.

Later, she asks Pito if he thinks this has happened to her cousin Mori. But all Pito will say is how gendarmes must have nothing
else to do if they have to start the siren because a rotten canoe has been borrowed. What about catching the real criminals
for a change?

Well anyway, this is the story that Materena felt like telling Pito to reassure him and show him what a great father he was.
Pito is reassured a little, but he cares more about the thought that has just popped into his mind.

“Materena?”

“Pito . . . I’m trying to sleep now.” To prove her point, Materena yawns a very tired yawn.

“Was it hard for you without a father around?” Pito respects other people’s desire for sleep, but he’d like to know.

“Oh, I had my uncles and my godfather too.”

“I really think you should look for your father.”

“I’m not ready yet.”

“You’re never going to be ready.”

A long silence.

“Materena?”

Either she’s fast asleep or she doesn’t want to talk about that subject tonight. Pito takes his wife into his arms and starts
to think about two of his cousins, born from unknown fathers. They’ve never felt that they were less than the children who
knew their fathers. It’s not a big thing in Tahiti to have Father Unknown written on your birth certificate; you’re not pushed
aside. Some children know who their father is and others don’t, it’s simple. Sometimes the father is truly unknown, as is
the case with one of the cousins, and other times the father is known but he can’t recognize the child because he’s married,
as is the case with Pito’s other cousin.

Both cousins are fine today, they have husbands, children, jobs — no problems. But it’s also true, Pito thinks, that when
they get together and have a bit too much to drink, they talk about their fathers and how those men abandoned them.

At the post office the next afternoon, Pito has a notebook in his pocket, a pen behind his ear, and six thick telephone books
from France sprawled across the floor.

“D-a,” he mutters, under his breath so that nobody can hear him, as he flicks the thin white pages. “D-a-c . . . D-a-d . .
. D-a-v . . . D-e-b . . . Delors!”

H
ow strange, thinks Materena, that she dreamed about her father last night. Actually, it was this morning, because when Materena
opened her eyes, it was light. In the dream, she was about nine years old and standing by the rail on a ferry, holding the
hand of a very tall man. Perhaps she was nine in the dream because she was nine when she first read her birth certificate
with the phrase Father Unknown written on it.

Materena, presently ironing one of her darling husband’s good shirts he wears at mass and other important events like baptisms,
thinks back to that day she read her birth certificate for the first time. She remembers telling her mother, “You don’t know
who my father is?”

Loana got cranky. “Eh! What? Do you think I’d open my legs for men I don’t know? Of course I know the man who planted you
inside me.”

“Who is he?” Materena asked.

But all her mother was prepared to reveal was the man’s nationality. “He’s French, that’s all you need to know for the moment.”

Why should Materena dream about her father this morning? She’s never dreamed about him before, although she’s thought about
him, quite a lot. What could this mean, Materena asks herself, lovingly hanging up the crisply ironed shirt. Is it a sign?

In the dream, her father was wearing a long coat and he looked really sad. “Eh, Papa, eh,” Materena whispers, tears in her
eyes. “I hope you’re fine.” She starts thinking that she should really search for her father as soon as possible. If she waits
any longer, he might be dead by the time she finds him.
Eh hia
. . . the regrets will haunt her until
she
dies. Materena visualizes herself at her father’s grave. She’s on her knees, reading the writing on the cross.
Tom Delors . . . Born . . . Died.
Materena unplugs the iron and chases the negative image out of her head. It’s not wise, negative thoughts; they might come
true. Materena hurries to picture her father playing golf.

Later, on the way to the Chinese store to get a few bits and pieces, Materena stops as usual by the mango tree next to the
petrol station for a quick hello to Cousin Mori with his eternal accordion (presently resting on the ground; Mori must be
having a musical break).

“
Iaorana,
Cousin.”

The cousins proceed to kiss each other on the cheeks, and Materena immediately senses that something is bothering Cousin Mori
today. He looks a bit bizarre. “Cousin? You’re fine?”

Mori shakes his dreadlocks. “Can we talk a little?” He gets up and shows the rock he’s been sitting on, meaning, please take
a seat. Materena sits on the rock, and Mori sits on the concrete, his legs crossed, facing his cousin.

“I want to find my father,” he says at last.

“Really!” Materena exclaims, thinking, What’s going on in the universe today?

With a sad voice, Mori explains that his life would have been different today had he known his father. He wouldn’t be a good-for-nothing
for a start.

“Mori . . .” Materena takes her cousin’s hand to squeeze it a little. “You’re not a good-for-nothing. You’re my nicest cousin,
and you’re always helping people out. That doesn’t sound like being a good-for-nothing to me.”

“
Maururu,
Cousin. I can always count on you to say nice words about me.”

“I’m only saying the truth, Cousin.”

“I really want to find my father,” Mori continues, “but Mama refuses to tell me his name and you can’t look for somebody who
hasn’t got a name.”

Materena confirms the fact.

“When I ask Mama for the name of my father, she tells me, ‘Ah, leave me alone with this old story. I don’t know the name of
your father’ and ‘Your father is me.’” Mori looks into Materena’s eyes. “Cousin, you know how I’m very good with playing the
accordion?”

“You’re wonderful with that accordion, Mori, you play like a professional.”

Mori giggles and does his I’m-shy expression. “I don’t mean to show off to you but you know about my musical ear —”

“You have a wonderful musical ear,” Materena agrees. “You only have to hear a song once to play it right. Pito used to say
how he wished he had a musical ear like yours.”

“
Ah oui.
” Mori nods several times. “You can still play without a musical ear but it’s better to have a musical ear and —” Mori pauses
for a moment. “You know I’ve never had music lessons. No one has ever taught me to play the accordion. One day I found the
accordion and the next day I was playing like I’d had an accordion for years. You don’t think it’s bizarre?”

“
Oui,
” Materena admits. “It is a little bit bizarre.”

“It’s bizarre because I was born with a musical ear.”

“
Oui,
it could be.”

“And I was born an accordionist.”

Materena looks at Mori, then at his accordion, and says nothing.

“I was born an accordionist,” continues Mori, “because my father, he is an accordionist, and I think he’s from Jamaica.”

“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.