Tiare in Bloom (25 page)

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.

A
t 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.

O
kay, 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.

She’s terrified. Terrified, petrified, ready to start crying, wishing she could have shared her anxiety with Pito, but it’s
best he knows nothing. Five more minutes to go — deep breath, Materena, and breathe slowly. Relax, it’s only a phone call.
But now she’s thinking that perhaps she should have hired that detective she’s heard about from one of her listeners, to get
a bit of information about Tom Delors first: what he does for a job and everything, if he’s mean, if he has children.

Two more minutes . . . come on, Materena, pull yourself to-gether, no more procrastinating. Tiare is with her great-grandmother
Loana and it’s not often you have the whole house to yourself for a few hours.

Thirty seconds . . . one second, you’re on, Materena! Good luck, girl!

And Materena grabs the phone and starts to dial, yelling in her head, “
En avant!
”

A woman picks up the telephone after the first ring. “
Allo oui?
” She sounds very excited that somebody is calling her.

Materena, who had expected the phone to ring at least three times is caught totally unprepared. After the
euh
and the
ah
embarrassed people do, Materena finally manages to spill her introduction line. “Good evening, Madame, my name is Materena
and I’m calling from Tahiti and —”

“Tahiti!” The woman doesn’t let Materena finish. “I’ve been to Tahiti, dear. It was a long time ago, now . . . let me think.
I was seventeen years old . . . I’m eighty-six years old now.” The woman, whom Materena didn’t expect to be so old, goes on
about her holidays in Tahiti, traveling with her parents. She loved every minute, every second of her Tahitian adventure.
She remembers the red hibiscus hedges, chickens in trees, young girls walking, some holding breadsticks, others babies; barefoot
children, women gathered outside the shop to talk and laugh. She remembers meeting so many people and how friendly they were!
Always smiling.

“Do people still smile as much in Tahiti?” the woman asks.

“
Oui,
Madame, when they’re happy.”

“Oh that’s very good.” And off the old woman goes again, reminiscing about the only holiday she’s ever had in her life. She
got married not long after her expedition to Tahiti, she explains. She became a wife, and then she became a mother . . . there
was the war of course, and then she became a grandmother, and now she’s a great-grandmother. She’s lived in the same town,
the same street, and the same house for over sixty-five years.

Now she’d like Materena to tell her something.

“I’m listening, Madame,” says Materena.

First of all the old woman reminds Materena of the custom back then for people leaving Tahiti to throw a flower wreath in
the sea. “Is this still a custom?” she asks.

Materena confirms that it is, when the people leave on a ship. “And what did your wreath do?”