Tiare in Bloom (29 page)

“Papi, don’t worry, I’m
paranoid
about my seeds now.”

“Be careful,” Pito repeats.

“It’s registered, Papi,” Tamatoa says. “The last thing I want is a girl to come up to me in twenty years and say, ‘
Bonjour,
do you remember my mother?’ One daughter is enough for me. I don’t need more responsibilities.” Then, sighing, he whispers,
“But I really feel sorry for daughters who don’t know their fathers . . . that’s sad.”

And in that very moment Pito knows exactly what he has to do.

M
ama Roti is out of the house, playing bingo with her sister-in-law Rarahu, so Pito (who took a day off today) has decided
to use her telephone for a few hours.

Well, talk about luck! First number on the list, and bingo!

“One second, Monsieur,” the nice woman who answered the telephone said. Then, “Papa! Telephone!”

“Who is it?” A grumpy voice in the background.

“I don’t know, he just asked to speak to you.”

“
Oui?
” The voice is very terse.

“It’s you, Tom Delors?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Me.”

“Me who? And how did you know I was here?”

“I just called the number on the list.”

“What list? Who the fuck are you? How fucking dare you call me on my daughter’s phone?”

“I didn’t know it was your daughter’s phone, I just called the number on the list.”
Purée,
Pito tells himself. No wonder I can’t stand French people. Arrogant pigs.

“What fucking list?” Tom Delors asks again with that tough-guy voice gendarmes in the movies use to intimidate people.

“The fucking list from the fucking telephone books.” That man isn’t intimidating Pito at all.

“What the fuck is this?” Now Tom Delors sounds confused.

“Oh, Papa.” His daughter has had enough, Pito can hear in the background. “Stop swearing!”

“Did you do military service in Tahiti forty-two years ago?” Pito fires away his first question. There’s no need to talk to
this arrogant man any longer if he’s not the Tom that Pito is looking for.

“Who needs to know?”

“Give me your answer first and I’m going to tell you who needs to know, I’m not going to give you any information if you’re
not the Tom Delors I’m looking for. My wife’s story isn’t for the whole population.
Alors?
Did you or did you not do your military service in Tahiti forty-two years ago?”

“Why should I answer your question?”

Pito grinds his teeth. But he can see that man’s point of view. If he ever got a call from someone asking him if he did military
service in France, he’d immediately get on the defensive. He was just a kid back then, not even nineteen years old, and he
did do a lot of
conneries.
Pito is not talking here about the (very careful) sleeping around he did; he’s talking about stealing a car, driving it around
for two days, and abandoning it in the middle of a street when it ran out of petrol. Pito has more stories like that, all
to do with breaking the law.

“Do you know Loana?” There, how about that question. It might be easier for Tom to answer.

“Loana Mahi?”

Bingo.

There are two queues at the Faa’a International Airport, one for the foreigners, and one for the French citizens. Tom Delors,
traveling with daughter Térèse, heads to the French citizens’ line — he in front, barging; she following and struggling with
her two items of hand luggage. At the counter, a friendly Tahitian customs officer stamps the Frenchman’s passport and asks
him what business is bringing him to Tahiti.

“Mine.” Tom wasn’t always this way — abrupt, short, impatient. But forty years as a gendarme putting scums behind bars has
changed him, and turned him into an intense, private individual, suspicious and sometimes unreasonably intolerant. He’s never
had his tongue in his pocket anyway.

“
Bonjour,
Monsieur!” Térèse is just the opposite. Friendly, too friendly, so friendly that anyone she talks to immediately falls under
her spell.

“Are you here on holidays?” the customs officer politely asks, stamping the
jolie mademoiselle
’s passport.

“Familial visit.”

“
Ah oui?
You have family here in Tahiti?”

“My big sister lives here.”

“And she’s pretty like you?”

“I can’t tell you, Monsieur, I’ve never met her, it’s —” But her father is waiting, and the story would take far too long
to tell, so, thanking the customs officer profusely — that’s the only way Térèse thanks people, profusely — she moves on.

“Must you chatter to everyone?” her father complains, heading to pick up his luggage.

“Oh, Papa,” Térèse laughs. “You really regress when you’re nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” Tom corrects. “But my patience has limits.”

She brushes her shoulder against his, he brushes his shoulder against hers, she elbows him, he elbows her back, and Tom cracks
up laughing — loudly, as he always does. Heads turn to this unusual couple; the tall buffed-up intimidating-looking man with
the broken nose who must be — what? — in his fifties? And the tall expensive-looking blonde, maybe twenty or twenty-two. For
the record, he is sixty-two and she is thirty.

He has two pieces of luggage, she has four, he is staying for six days, she is staying for three months. He’s here to briefly
meet his other daughter, she’s here to connect with her only sister. He retired two months ago, she hasn’t had a holiday for
almost ten years. Mind you, she’s been planning a three-month holiday for the past four years; she has simply changed the
destination from Corsica to Tahiti.

Térèse glances at her father’s golf clubs and sighs with disapproval. She’s already done this checking in at the Charles de
Gaulle Airport. She still firmly believes that her father should have left his golf clubs behind. He’s not in Tahiti to play
golf. He’s here to meet his daughter.

“Papa,” Térèse says, “you’re not here to —”

“They have the best golf course in Tahiti!” Tom immediately guesses what his critical daughter is criticizing. “One game,
just one game.”

They walk through the door, he pushing the luggage trolley, she lovingly brushing hair off her father’s forehead. Hundreds
of people are ready to greet their loved ones (a few are already crying); two mamas, clutching onto flower wreaths, are anxiously
waiting . . . Tom and Térèse detour to the right to avoid this mass of human emotion. She’s the first to notice the Tahitian
man with the white flower pinned to his shirt.

“Oh, this must be Pito,” she says, waving.

Pito hurries towards them, closely followed by Ati, the best friend and, for today anyway, the designated chauffeur. Hands
are shaken, introductions are made, the young, pretty woman gets her kisses (two only are required in Tahiti, not four, as
they do in France — “Oops, sorry,” laughs Térèse). But welcome to Tahiti, and please accept these flower wreaths, and how
are you, how was your flight et cetera, et cetera . . . The car is there, not far away, follow us.

Father-in-law and son-in-law lead the procession, not speaking a word but throwing the occasional furtive glance at each other
and smiling half smiles. It must be stressed here that Pito has never had to deal with a father-in-law before, so he really
doesn’t know the protocol. He didn’t have to ask that man for his daughter’s hand. He didn’t have to pass the father’s test.

For now, all Pito can do is be polite. Tom is feeling the same. Polite and calm, it is definitely not the time to get aggravated
because the car is parked so far away and that damn trolley has squeaky wheels.

Behind, though, a lively conversation is unfolding with questions and answers flying backwards and forwards between the inquisitive,
smiling Frenchwoman and the Tahitian man who’s made it his lifetime mission to despise French people (those wicked
popa’a,
those invaders, thieves, arrogant pricks, et cetera). But for the moment, Ati, gallantly carrying Térèse’s hand luggage,
smiles his
uh-huh
half-sexy smile that he does when in the company of a woman he likes. With each step he takes in her company, each word she
says, he feels drawn to her for no other reasons than pure chemistry. And the fact that she’s Materena’s sister, perhaps,
too.

The drive to the Hotel Maeva Beach, where Tom and Térèse are staying for a week, goes in a flash. Two miles, it is short.

“
Bon,
” Tom says with his serious voice, rubbing his hands. “
Merci . . . alors,
see you for lunch,
oui?
”

“Will you be coming too?” Térèse asks Ati.

“
Euh
. . .” Ati hasn’t been invited.

A smile. “I’m inviting you.”

Pito is taking his wife to the restaurant for lunch at the Hotel Maeva Beach, and Materena didn’t even ask the reason behind
this unexpected invitation to eat. When Pito made the announcement, “
Chérie,
I’m inviting you to the restaurant,” Materena exclaimed, “
Eeeh!
That’s so nice,
chéri.
”

Wearing a beautiful dress, makeup, and new shoes, and with flowers in her impeccable
chignon,
Materena confidently reverses her car. Pito looks on, wondering if he’s done the right thing interfering like this. Perhaps
he should tell Materena the news now; that way she’ll have some time to get herself prepared in her head.

And she should definitely know that her father is a pack of nerves before meeting him. Rude too, a swearer, abrupt . . . a
retired gendarme, so what do you expect? But Pito is not complaining that his father-in-law used to be a gendarme. It’s a
useful job, putting scums behind bars. Maybe Tom could talk to his grandson Tamatoa about that.

Tom declined Pito’s invitation to stay at the house because, well, because he doesn’t like to stay at people’s houses, and
he insisted that the meeting takes place on neutral ground. But Tom, keeping his identity secret, did go to that bookshop
in Paris where his granddaughter works, bought a book she recommended (“highly, Monsieur”), and bought a plane ticket for
Tahiti hours later. This shows that he cares a bit,
non?
And the sister is very nice. Ati is already crazy about her.

Materena stops her car at the petrol station to wave to Cousin Loma walking to the Chinese store. “
Iaorana,
Cousin!” Materena calls out, smiling.

“
Iaorana,
Cousin!” Loma calls back, so happy that Materena is waving at her in such a friendly manner. “Where are you two off to?”

“Pito has invited me to the restaurant!”

“Ah, that’s nice.”

Okay, since the news has been delivered, Materena can go on with her driving. Cousin Loma will make sure to pass the news
about Pito’s sweet invitation to the restaurant to the family. Materena doesn’t mind the whole population knowing this.

They are now at the hotel, and Materena parks her car, whistling a happy tune. She switches the engine off and turns to her
husband, sitting quiet. He looks a bit sick. “Are you all right?”

“
Oui,
” Pito is quick to reassure Materena.

“You’ve got enough money to pay?”

“
Oui,
don’t worry about that.” Pito gets out of the car, a forced smile on his lips.

“What is it?” Materena is not being fooled by her husband’s fake smile. “Listen, if you don’t want to eat at the restaurant,
it’s fine with me.” She knows all about Pito’s ridiculous fear that the chef will spit or cough on his food.

Pito gives Materena a long look and takes her into his arms. Right there in the parking lot, in front of people driving and
walking by.

“Pito —” Materena cackles, “you’re a bit bizarre today.”

Pito gently pulls away and, taking Materena’s hand, he starts to walk.

“Eh, that’s Ati’s car,” Materena says, noticing the black Suzuki with the number plate ATI. “He never rests!” Materena automatically
assumes that he’s romancing with a girl in her hotel room.

They walk into the lobby.

“You reserved the table?” Materena asks just to make sure. Pito doesn’t have experience eating in restaurants. “Lots of people
eat here, and if you don’t reserve the table, it’s not guaranteed that —”

“There’s somebody here who wants to meet you.” Here, Pito spilled the beans.

“Somebody?” Materena asks, casually slowing her steps. “Who?”

“Actually, there are two people who want to meet you.”

“Two? Who? I know them?”

“I can’t say that you know them, but you’ve heard about them, I mean one of them.”

Materena stops and faces Pito. “Who are they?”

“It’s your father.”

Materena turns pale. “Pito, don’t make fun of my head.”

“And your sister.”

“What?” Materena puts her hands to her mouth. “Pito, this is not funny.” Her eyes fill with tears.

“They arrived this morning.”

“Pito, I’m warning you, if this is a joke —”

“They’re with Ati, he likes your sister, and they’re waiting for you at the restaurant.”

And with this, Materena, bawling her eyes out, runs towards the restaurant.

Very slowly and pushing disturbing thoughts out of his mind, Pito chews the piece of steak
grillé
in his mouth, concentrating on the wonderful flavors, the spicy sauce, the tenderness of the meat. He chews on while trying
hard, extremely hard, let’s be honest here, to chase away images of the chef coughing on this very piece of steak.

Twice he attempts to swallow the steak, which is by now, he can picture it, a gray blob of unflavored thing, but it just won’t
go down. Ah, there, done, Pito forced it down his throat.

Next piece of steak . . . and the nightmare continues. Again, Pito pushes disturbing thoughts out of his mind, chewing for
longer than necessary.

Nobody at the table seems to be noticing Pito’s show. Words are flying nonstop between Ati and Térèse, Materena and Térèse,
Tom and Materena, Tom and Térèse . . . words, laughter, just your ordinary family enjoying food and one another’s company.
Now and then, a hand reaches to the other for a touch, a magic touch, a loving squeeze. And under the table, Materena’s foot
is lovingly rubbing her husband’s.