Frangipani

by Célestine Vaite

  Secrets for the Grave

  There are secrets which can never be told. They are called secrets for the grave. And there are secrets that can be told one day, it’s just a question of waiting for the right moment. They are called secrets, pure and simple.

  With the secrets for the grave, we promise to never reveal them on the head of somebody we love and who is dead, we promise before God, and above all we promise to the person who trusted us with her secret. These kinds of secrets die with us.

  With the secrets pure and simple, we don’t promise anybody to never tell. We just wait for the right time to spill the bucket. Sometimes, though, it happens that secrets come out into the open at the wrong time. This happened to Materena when her mother told her the truth about her dog. Materena’s dog was named Prince and Materena loved him so much. But one sunny morning he ran away. For years Materena was so confused. She kept thinking, What did I do to Prince for him to go and abandon me like that?

  One day she asked her mother that question and Loana said, “Eh, what? Who are you talking about?”

  Materena said, “My dog. Prince?”

  Loana just shrugged and said, “Eh, who knows what goes on inside a dog’s head.” It was years later that her mother told her the truth. It just slipped out of her mouth. Materena had been going on about Prince and all that, how she couldn’t believe he had abandoned her, and Loana said, “Aue! Prince didn’t abandon you . . . stop going on about Prince . . . Richard Lexter sold it to some Chinese people, they wanted to eat your dog.”

  When secrets come out at the wrong time people can be hurt. That’s why Materena is going to reveal a few secrets to her daughter today, because today is the right time.

  Leilani is drinking her chicken soup with ginger that Materena has made just for her. And plus, nobody else is home. Today is a good day to say a few more things to the new woman.

  “Girl?” Materena begins as she sits at the kitchen table facing Leilani. “I have a few things to tell you.”

  “A few things?” asks Leilani. “Like what?”

  “Like secrets.”

  “Secrets about who?”

  “About you.” Then Materena hurries to add, “But these are not secrets for the grave.”

  “Oh, a secret is a secret,” says Leilani, shrugging.

  “Non, Leilani.” Materena proceeds to explain the two types of secret to her daughter: the secrets we take to our grave, and the secrets we can tell.

  Leilani attentively listens, then puts her spoon down, and arching one of her eyebrows, she looks into her mother’s eyes and says, “Go on, then, spill the bucket.”

  Materena takes a deep breath and begins.

  Her first secret is about how she lied that her French father had died in the Second World War defending his country. Materena explains to Leilani that she was just too young that day she asked about her French grandfather to know the truth. That he’d left after military service in Tahiti. That Materena had never met him. Materena expects Leilani to get a bit cranky, but Leilani cackles. “Oh, Mamie, I’ve known the truth for years.” Leilani explains to her mother that it was impossible for her grandfather to have died in the Second World War. She’d done some calculations and concluded that Tom was about eleven years old (the same age as Materena’s mother) when the Second World War broke out.

  And now Materena is really embarrassed. “Ah,” she says. “Ah . . . I didn’t think you were going to do some calculations.”

  “Mamie”—Leilani laughs, enjoying herself—“have you forgotten that I have a scientific mind? People with scientific minds always question things. They never assume.”

  “Ah,” Materena says again.

  “What’s your next secret?” Leilani asks cheekily.

  But first Materena would like her daughter to promise that she won’t get cranky, because it’s quite a big secret. Leilani puts a hand up and promises that she won’t get cranky. So Materena tells her daughter about that pink bicycle Mama Roti had given her for her seventh birthday. But first, let’s have a bit of recapitulation.

  That day Mama Roti couldn’t stop raving how the pink bicycle had cost her the eyes of her head. Mama Roti was so happy her granddaughter loved the bicycle more than she loved the quilt her other grandmother had made working day and night for a whole week. But Materena was not happy at all about that bicycle. In her opinion, you just don’t give vehicles to other people’s children. Materena really believes you should see the parents and ask them if it’s okay with them for you to give their child a vehicle. But even back then Mama Roti never asked Materena what she thought about her ideas. Here she was, clapping her hands at Leilani riding that bicycle, and every time she fell, she yelled, “Watch out for your brand-new bicycle!”

  The second Leilani fell and split her chin open, Materena understood God was giving her a sign, and so she decided to make that bicycle disappear. Later on that night Materena wrapped the bicycle in a bedsheet and hid it on top of a wardrobe in her bedroom at her mother’s house. Her mother said, “My eyes didn’t see what you’ve just put on top of the wardrobe.”

  There, here’s the story about Leilani’s pink bicycle, and Materena waits for a reaction, hoping Leilani won’t get too cranky. She cried for days when Materena told her somebody had stolen her bicycle.

  Right now Leilani is laughing. “Mamie,” she says, “I’ve known the truth for years!” Leilani explains to her mother that the day she saw that big thing wrapped in a bedsheet on top of the wardrobe she knew straightaway it was her bicycle. She could see the shape of the handlebars.

  So she got a chair, climbed on top of it, grabbed her bicycle, and started to ride it in her grandmother’s garden. Loana was weeding that day. When she saw Leilani riding her bicycle she said, “It’s best you don’t tell your mother about that bike.”

  “I rode my bicycle in Mamie Loana’s garden for years,” says Leilani, clearly enjoying watching her mother’s eyes pop out of her head. “You’re not the only person with secrets, you know.” Leilani cackles.

  “What other secrets have you got for me?” Materena asks, shaking her head with disbelief.

  Leilani puts her spoon down and starts to think. “Okay, do you remember how I used to go to school with four slices of banana cake to eat at recreation?”

  Materena nods. Oui, she remembers the two years Leilani went to school with four slices of banana cake to eat at recreation, before lunch at the school canteen. Materena was always making banana cakes. She couldn’t keep up with Leilani’s growing appetite. Then one day Leilani said, “I don’t need four slices of cake anymore. One is enough. I think I’ve stopped growing.”

  “What about those slices of banana cake?” Materena asks. “Don’t you dare tell me you were chucking them in the trash!” Materena is already getting cranky.

  “Me, chuck food in the trash?” Leilani exclaims, also cranky. “Do you know to whom you’re speaking? I would never, ever chuck food in the trash! I gave those slices of cake to a girl who had nothing to eat.”

  “Oh, chérie.” Materena smiles. “Oh . . . that was so nice of you to do that . . .” But what happened to that girl, Materena wonders. How come she stopped eating Materena’s banana cake?

  Materena asks her daughter this.

  “She backstabbed me,” Leilani says. “She told everyone in our classroom I was a show-off, that I wanted to be the teacher’s pet.” Leilani continues about how she confronted that girl and told her, “You stupid idiot. Don’t you know never to bite the hand that feeds you?” From that day on, Leilani stopped feeding that girl.

  “Just like that?” Materena asks. “No second chance?”

  “You know me, Mamie. People are nice to me and I’m nice back. People are mean to me and I’m mean back . . . This soup is delicious! I’m going to have some more.”

  Materena watches her daughter help herself to some more soup and cackles at Leilani’s declaration that she’s feeling so much better now after that delicious soup. The period pain has def
initely eased up.

  As soon as Leilani is at the table, she asks her mother if she could ask her a question. “It’s a bit private, though,” she adds.

  “Well, ask your question and I’ll tell you if I can answer it or not.”

  “I’m just curious . . . I don’t want you to think I’m being disrespectful.”

  What is her question? Materena asks herself. She is now very curious. “Come on, scientific mind.” Materena smiles. “I’m waiting for your interrogation.”

  “Okay.” Leilani puts the spoon down. “How was I conceived?” There. Leilani has asked her question and she can now continue to drink her soup, her eyes on her plate.

  Materena can’t believe Leilani’s question. She’s never asked her mother how she was conceived. Everybody knows that stories of conception belong to the mother and the mother only. The conception of a baby is a very private affair. Well, you have the right to know if you were conceived in a bed, on a rock, on the kitchen table, in the bathroom. But how? None of your business!

  “Leilani, it’s not the mouth that goes to the spoon,” Materena says. “It’s the spoon that goes to the mouth . . . and no slurping noise, please.”

  “I knew you’d be cranky.”

  “I’m not cranky! I’m just reminding you of the proper way to drink soups.”

  “It’s fine if you don’t feel comfortable telling me about my conception,” Leilani says, making sure the spoon goes to the mouth and not the other way around. “I don’t mind. Maybe it’s too wild to be told.” She chuckles.

  “Leilani, the hormones have already started kicking, or what?”

  “Oh, Mamie! You’re the one always talking about the hormones!”

  Materena shakes her head and laughs.

  “Mamie, was I an accident?”

  Materena stops laughing.

  Was Leilani an accident? Well, most babies are accidents, aren’t they? Materena asks herself. The only person Materena knows who fell pregnant because she decided to was Madame Colette. Twice Madame Colette said to her husband, “Jules, I’m ovulating, I’ll see you in bed.” But all the other women Materena knows (cousins, aunties, and herself) fell pregnant because they didn’t think. Materena’s three children were accidents. The first accident took place under a tree, the second in bed, and the third on the kitchen table. But the moment Materena discovered her children’s existence, she welcomed them into her womb and into her life as if she had planned them.

  “Mamie, it’s fine if you can’t tell me if I was an accident or not.”

  “You were not an accident,” Materena says firmly.

  “Was I a planned baby?” Leilani sounds like she doesn’t believe this.

  “You’re here today, non? Doesn’t this mean anything to you?”

  “Oh.” Leilani shrugs. “It’s just that I always thought I was an accident.” She now wants to keep talking about secrets—the ones she won’t be taking to her grave.

  “Don’t tell me you have secrets to take to the grave,” says Materena.

  “Mamie, every woman in the world has secrets to take to the grave.” Leilani says this with her very serious woman voice.

  And now Materena is worried. Leilani is far too young to have secrets for the grave entrusted to her. Secrets for the grave usually come when you’re much older, when you’ve earned the trust of people, when you’ve proved that simple secrets are safe with you, when you can live with the responsibility that comes with keeping secrets for the grave.

  Because it is a huge responsibility, a heavy weight on the conscience. You’ve got to know how to switch off so that the secrets for the grave don’t haunt you.

  At fourteen years old Materena had no secrets for the grave to her name. She had to wait until she was twenty-nine to start collecting secrets for the grave, and she would have gladly waited twenty more years.

  “How many secrets for the grave have you got so far?” Materena, even more worried, asks Leilani.

  “Oh, about four.”

  “And who are they about?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Are they about me?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “That means they’re about me.” Materena would give everything to be able to read Leilani’s mind. “Are they about me?” But once again, Leilani refuses to divulge anything.

  “Come on, girl,” Materena pleads, smiling. “You know me. I’m very good at keeping secrets. I’ve got about two hundred and fifty secrets in my head . . . Come on, just tell me one.”

  “Who told everybody that I got my period?”

  “Eh?” Materena didn’t expect that question. Plus, it’s not true at all that she told everyone. “Everyone?” she asks. “Who do you take me for? The coconut radio? I only told two people.”

  “Didn’t I specifically ask you to keep the news of my period secret?”

  “I only told two people!” Materena really can’t understand why her daughter is making such a fuss.

  “It doesn’t matter if you’ve only told my secret to two people, Mamie.” This time Leilani is cranky. “What is important is that you didn’t respect my secret.”

  Materena is about to defend herself, to explain that when your daughter has her period for the first time, you, the mother, are allowed to share your joy, your emotions, the news with the family . . . But she doesn’t want to get into an argument with Leilani about this. What Materena wants is for her daughter to reveal one of her secrets for the grave. The one that is about her.

  But there’s no way Leilani is spilling the bucket.

  What else can you expect from someone who writes things in a diary?

  Below the Knees

  These days, when Materena talks to her daughter she’s got to lift her head because Leilani’s grown by at least two inches since her fifteenth birthday, that girl! It means Leilani’s dresses, although still fine at the top, are far too short and need to be taken down. This is what Materena is planning to do today.

  Materena carefully lays out Leilani’s dresses (seven in total: five brown, one yellow, one white) on her bed. Now all Materena needs to begin is the mannequin.

  “Leilani! I need you!”

  “In a minute,” Leilani calls. “I’m changing a lightbulb in my bedroom!”

  “Make sure the light is switched off!”

  “Oui, I know!”

  All right, here’s the mannequin now. With a long, resigned sigh, Leilani slips into one of her too-short dresses. This particular dress, brown with thick straps, a zipper at the back and pockets at the front, is way above Leilani’s knees. Kneeling, and with one expert hand, Materena undoes the stitches at the bottom of the dress, lets the dress fall down below Leilani’s knees, and marks the dress’s new length with a pin.

  “Everybody is going to know my dresses have been taken down,” Leilani says.

  “And so?” Materena doesn’t see what the problem is. “At least you’ve got something to put on your body.”

  “Why do you keep buying brown dresses?”

  “Because they’re easy to wash.”

  Okay, next dress.

  Still sighing, Leilani slips into another dress, this one white with thick straps, a zipper at the back, and pockets at the front. It doesn’t need to be taken down too much. An inch should suffice.

  “I look like a nun in this dress,” Leilani points out.

  “Ah non, not at all,” says Materena. “You’re very pretty in this dress, you look respectable.”

  Okay, next dress.

  “Why can’t I get a new dress?” Leilani asks, slipping into another brown dress with a zipper at the back but no pockets at the front.

  “Leilani . . . you know about our finances.” Ouh, Materena is having a bit of trouble undoing these stitches. She’s going to need the scissors. “I’m still paying your encyclopedia off . . . and I’m also paying for that window your big brother broke at school, and plus, your little brother wants an electric mixer. All of this costs money.”

&n
bsp; Okay, next dress.

  “Vahine got a new dress because she got ten out of twenty on the history test,” Leilani says as she slips into another brown dress with thick straps but with huge yellow buttons at the front. “I got nineteen out of twenty . . .” Leilani’s voice trails off. Materena lifts her eyes to look at her daughter for a second and shakes her head. She knows very well what Leilani is trying to say.

  Now, it’s not as if Leilani’s excellent schoolwork is never rewarded. Materena often treats her daughter to an ice cream when they’re in town or she buys the kids a family-size container of ice cream. There’s always a reward. And yes, Materena was very proud when Leilani got nineteen out of twenty on her history test. It’s not everybody who knows that Louis XIV, alias Roi Soleil, was vain. He liked to admire himself in the mirror, and everywhere he went a servant followed him with a pot in case the king of France had to relieve himself. The teacher wrote Fantastique! on Leilani’s test sheet.

  “Yesterday my math teacher told me I had a brain for mathematics,” continues Leilani.

  “I already know you’ve got a brain for mathematics,” Materena says. “Your teacher told me at the last parents’ interview. He said, ‘Your daughter has got a brain for mathematics.’” Materena won’t go into what else the teacher said. The only sentence she understood from that man was, “Your daughter has got a brain for mathematics.”

  “Yesterday, my French teacher told me I was very gifted with compositions.”

  “I already know this. Your teacher told me.”

  “My science teacher told me it’s a pleasure to teach me.”

  “This was yesterday too?” Materena asks, suspecting that Leilani is starting to invent. At the last parents and teachers’ interview, Madame Bellard complained to Materena about Leilani being a very challenging student to teach. According to Madame Bellard, Leilani is a typical scientist. She questions and questions and questions until everything makes sense, everything is proven. “I’m not a professor,” Madame Bellard told Materena. “We are not at university here. This is a high school and I’m just a high school teacher.”