Tiare in Bloom

by Célestine Vaite

  Heifara used to help his wife doing the shopping too but everything he’d put in the cart was the wrong thing. “I never buy that brand!” she’d snap, putting whatever he’d picked back on the shelf. She said that she’d tried — millions of times — to tell Heifara that she needed him to spend more time at home. But when Heifara would make an effort, sitting on the couch with his wife to watch TV instead of going out drinking with his copains, she’d say, “Stop touching me! I’m watching a movie! If you think it’s easy looking after two small children all day, you have nothing in the head!”

  Anyway, the wife told Heifara all of this the day he came home from his wonderful surfing holiday. She also criticized his hair (not combed), his breath (foul), his table manners (worse), his dressing style (zéro), his snoring, and the way he listens to her with only one ear . . . She called him selfish and then hit him with the news of the century: “I want a separation. Read my lips. It’s finished. I don’t want to be jam given to pigs anymore.”

  “What am I supposed to do, eh?” young Heifara asks his colleagues. But the older men have nothing to say, not even Pito, the colleague who has been with the same woman the longest. But they’re all thinking the same thing: Is this what my woman thinks about me?

  “How come you didn’t ask your wife to go with you on your holiday?” This question just popped into Pito’s head. He doesn’t know why, especially when he already knows the reason why Heifara went on his holiday alone, and presently the colleagues are giving Pito strange looks, meaning, What? Are you insane? If the wife comes, the holiday isn’t a holiday anymore!

  “My wife coming with me?” Heifara laughs a faint laugh. “Are you insane?” He explains that firstly, his wife would have commanded him to leave his surfboards at home, and secondly, she would have changed the holiday destination to a place like Hawaii because of the shopping. And then Heifara would have had to spend his hard-earned holiday following his wife from one shop to the next, carrying shopping bags filled with cheap conneries.

  “She loves cheap conneries,” Heifara says. “She’s always buying cheap conneries, like plastic baskets, there are plastic baskets all over the house, and they are filled with cheap conneries like plastic fruit. Who keeps plastic fruit in plastic baskets? Plastic apples? Plastic bananas? She loves plastic containers too, but how many plastic containers does someone need, eh? I don’t think hundreds. She’s obsessed with plastic things.”

  The colleagues nod, but it’s time to get back to work. They don’t get paid to listen to complicated stories.

  Half an hour later, Heifara is still talking about his wife to Pito, the colleague nearest to him, but the sad voice is now bitter.

  “And then she said,” Heifara spits, sweating away over a plank of wood, “ ‘Smile! Stop doing that sad face. When I look at you, I want to give you slaps!’ And then I said, ‘What’s there to be happy about? You ruined my life, you salope. You’ve got the house, you’ve got the kids, I’ve got peau de balle et variété! Peanuts!’ And then she said, ‘You should have listened to me when you had the chance to.’ Then I said, ‘I was always there for you, salope, I paid for all those plastic things.’ Then she said, ‘Women don’t care about things! Women want love! They don’t want to be the bread crumbs!’ And then I said, ‘Women don’t care about plastic things?’ And then she said, ‘Ah, for once you’re not deaf!’ So I grabbed all of her stupid fucking plastic things, her stupid fucking plastic bananas, her stupid fucking plastic apples, and I threw them out of the kitchen window, and next thing, she was yelling her head off, ‘Stop! My fruit didn’t do anything to you! Stop!’ And then I said, ‘I thought you said that women don’t care about plastic things?’ She spit in my face, so I grabbed her by the hair and —”

  Pito, worried, looks up.

  “And,” Heifara continues, breathing heavily, “and then she said, ‘Touch me and my father is going to turn you into mincemeat.’ I let go of her hair and went to bed, and the next day this salope said —”

  “Heifara,” Pito, relieved, interrupts. “Concentrate on your work.”

  “I’m concentrating,” Heifara reassures his colleague, and continues, his eyes on the plank he’s cutting. “And then she said that her lawyer informed her that she was entitled to sixty percent of my pay. And then I said, ‘Tell your lawyer to go fuck himself.’ And then she said, ‘If you don’t give me sixty percent of your pay, I’m reporting you to the tribunal.’ And then I said, ‘You salope,’ and then she said, ‘You better mind your words or you can forget about having the children on the weekends.’ And then I said . . .” Heifara’s voice trails off.

  Pito looks up.

  “And then I said nothing. If I don’t see my kids, I die.” Heifara’s lips quiver.

  The young father is about to do his crying cinema, so Pito gives him a quick, affectionate tap on the shoulder and goes back to work. Meanwhile, tears are plopping out of Heifara’s eyes. “And then I said, ‘Please give me one more chance,’ and then she said, ‘Where were you when I needed you? I’ve tried to save our marriage but you didn’t care, and now it’s my turn not to care.’ And then she went on and on about things that I told her years ago when we were just boyfriend and girlfriend . . . But I never told her that I was going to take her to Paris one day. I never told her that I was going to write her name on my surfboard. She’s crazy. I said to her, ‘You’re fucking crazy.’ Next thing, she was yelling her head off, ‘Don’t tell me that I’m crazy!’ I said, ‘Shut up, you salope.’ And —”

  “You know, she’s right,” Pito says.

  “Who?” Heifara asks.

  “Your wife, what’s her name again?”

  “Juanita?”

  “Oui, her, your wife.”

  “What about my wife?”

  “She’s right.”

  “About what?”

  “Do you listen to yourself talk sometimes?” Pito looks at his colleague, thinking, This kid needs a bit of education. “Rule number one: never call a woman salope to her face.”

  “What if she is a salope?” Heifara asks.

  “Rule number two: learn to shut up and listen.”

  “Is this what you do?” Heifara asks, very seriously. “With your wife?”

  Pito has to think about this one. “It depends on the situation.”

  “Do you go on holidays with your wife?”

  “My wife likes nothing I like.” By this Pito means fishing, soccer, reading comics in bed, and drinking at the bar.

  Later, in the truck on his way home, Pito thinks about that holiday he took years ago . . . it must be twelve years ago, because Moana broke his arm the day before . . . Anyway, when he came home, Materena gave him the silent treatment for three days and he didn’t ask her why. He just lived with it. And there was that other time . . . Meanwhile, the seven-year-old opposite Pito is telling his mother that he has to wear red clothes tomorrow at school. “You’re telling me this now?” the tired mother says through clenched teeth.

  “I told you about the red clothes on Sunday, but you were on the telephone with your boyfriend!” The kid doesn’t care there are people listening.

  When Pito hops off the truck, his mind is made up. Yes, he will spend his next holiday, which is in a few months, with his wife. They will go to the cinema and watch a kung fu movie; they will go fishing, share a few drinks at the bar, read Akim comic books in bed, and have sex. Whatever they do, they will have a lot of fun.

  There, it’s decided, and since Pito is very serious about this, he will reveal his wonderful plans to Materena as soon as he gets home. He will commit himself. True commitment — in Pito’s opinion — is not given for peace and quiet and it’s definitely not because there’s something to gain at the end. When commitment is given, words become sacred, they’re not just words.

  For example, when Pito tells Materena he’ll take the garbage out, he isn’t really committing himself, it’s just words so that she’ll get off his back or so he can get into her pants. When he tells Materena
he’ll climb up the breadfruit tree to get her a breadfruit, it isn’t commitment either, it’s just words so she’ll get off his back or so he can get into her pants.

  Pito would be the first to admit he’s told Materena, “Oui, I’m going to do it,” many times but didn’t get around to living up to his promise because, well, because he got satisfied, or he forgot.

  But when Pito says something he really means, you can rely on him one hundred percent. When Pito says he’ll put food on the table, he will. When Pito says he’ll keep his job until retirement in loving memory of his uncle who got him that job, he will. When Pito says he’ll mow his mother’s garden until the day she dies, he will. And when Pito says that he’ll spend his next holiday with his wife, that’s what will happen.

  Pito finds Materena in their daughter’s bedroom staring at the world map taped to the wall. “Ah, you’re feeling better.” Pito’s voice is full of honey, and he’s smiling a big loving smile. “And what country are you looking at, Madame?”

  Materena, with pursed lips and dangerous cranky eyes, shrugs her shoulders and leaves the room, flicking her hair in her husband’s face on her way.

  “I was thinking of spending my next holiday with you, chérie!” Pito calls out, following his wife out of the room.

  “Non merci!” And the door slams shut.

  Pito stands by the door, stunned. Bloody women! It doesn’t matter what we do, it’s always the wrong thing. Angry now, Pito opens the door and heads to the kitchen. Materena is at the kitchen table, munching on a piece of bread.

  “If I understand,” Pito says with a cold voice, “you don’t want me to spend my next holidays with you.”

  Materena swallows her piece of bread and shrugs. “You know, Pito, I used to wish that you spent your holidays with us, with the kids and me . . . Actually, I used to wish for a lot of things.” She brushes the bread crumbs into her hand. “Now, I wish for nothing.”

  Silent Treatment

  This has never happened before in their life as a couple — a five-day silent treatment. Three days is the furthest Materena has ever gone before she cracked and made some remark about the weather, giving Pito the chance to redeem himself for whatever he did or didn’t do.

  Those other times, Pito never got sad when his wife gave him the silent treatment, because he could do whatever he wanted and she wouldn’t say a word about it. He could lie on the sofa like a statue for hours and Materena would act like he didn’t exist. Still, by the third day Pito was always glad when it was over. It’s not much fun when your wife doesn’t speak to you.

  But five days! Five days — and for what? Pito is so confused. And lately Materena has been doing a lot of sighing, not the annoyed sighing she does with the eye rolling when she’s . . . well, annoyed. Non. Her sighing is deep and long like Pito’s mother used to do — a lot, in between yelling — when Pito was a child. His mother would sigh deep and long sighs, one after another, and yell, “When the heart sighs . . . it means it doesn’t have what it desires!”

  Pito even asked Materena this morning why she was so cranky at him, and she gave him a long look, the look that says, If I have to explain everything to you . . .

  Puzzled, Pito left for work not feeling one hundred percent, and while waiting for the truck, he noticed Loma on the other side of the road, waving a big friendly wave to him. Pito thought it was very strange, Loma waving at him like that, so he didn’t wave back. Then she called out, “You’re still on the horizon? I thought Materena replaced you with a rich Chinese man!” Then she laughed her head off as if it were a joke.

  Luckily Pito is used to big-mouth Loma spurting out stupid remarks, otherwise he would have gotten black ideas and started to hassle Loma for information about that Chinese man. Still, Pito’s face must have had a crushed expression, because later on in the truck two women looked at him with pity.

  As soon as Pito got to work, he put on his normal work face — the kind that reveals absolutely nothing. He never takes his trouble to work, unlike some people he knows. As far as Pito is concerned, whatever happens at home (good or bad, especially bad) is nobody’s onions.

  Safely positioned behind the cutting machine, Pito throws himself into his work, ignoring Heifara’s miseries; each to their own miseries s’il vous plaît.

  Now, later in the day, Pito is in the reception office to use the telephone.

  “And hurry up, okay?” Josephine the receptionist says. The reception telephone is for brief messages only, not long family legends. Pito reassures Josephine. He never talks on the telephone for more than thirty seconds anyway. He’s not a telephone man.

  “Who are you calling?” Josephine asks out of curiosity, since Pito has never used the reception telephone before.

  “My wife.” That’s all Pito is going to say. Josephine doesn’t need to know that he’s calling his wife to see if she’d like him to get her something at the market. Like taro . . . or a big juicy watermelon.

  “Ah.” Josephine goes back to her typing. “Everything is all right?”

  “Oui, of course.” Pito is firm about this.

  “Ah . . . that’s good.” Josephine adds that she’s relieved to see that Materena is still her wonderful self. She hasn’t let fame go to her head (and she’s kept her husband, who doesn’t earn much money and who’s not very intelligent, which Josephine doesn’t say).

  But, she tells Pito, Materena must have a lot of men admirers now, eh?

  “Eh?” Josephine asks again.

  “She’s always had men admirers.” Pito forces a chuckle. “It’s not just from today.”

  “And she still cooks for you?”

  “Oui.”

  “That’s nice.” Josephine smiles. “You are very lucky. Another wife would have told you to cook your own food now that she’s a star and she can have any man cook her any dish she likes and kiss her feet at the same time.” Josephine pauses to ponder a little. “I hope you appreciate Materena.”

  “I appreciate.” And with that statement Pito dials home.

  “Tell Materena I said bonjour,” adds Josephine.

  Nodding, Pito waits for Materena to pick up the phone, which she does after the third ring. “Iaorana!” Materena sings with her good-mood voice, making Pito feel very relieved.

  “Materena,” Pito whispers sweetly into the telephone, his back turned to the big-ears receptionist. “I’m calling you to see if you —” Pito stops; something is bizarre here. Materena is still talking. “I’m not at the house at the moment, or maybe I’m just outside watering the plants, or maybe I’m at the Chinese store, but I’m not going to be too long. Leave a message after the beep. And don’t forget to tell me your telephone number!”

  Beep. Pito hangs up.

  “What happened?” the receptionist asks.

  “It was a machine.”

  “Why didn’t you leave a message?” Josephine does her big eyes, shaking her head with disapproval. She also has an answering machine, she tells Pito, and she detests it when people hang up instead of leaving a message, as if leaving a message were like asking for the moon. Josephine continues on and on about how many of her relatives have told her off for getting an answering machine but any Tahitian with the right mind knows that when it comes to telephones, you must be selective, otherwise nothing would ever get done. It shouldn’t be that way, really, Josephine explains to Pito, standing still like a statue at the door. Ah, oui alors, people who have telephones shouldn’t have to answer their telephone praying it is someone they want to talk to and not a cousin who needs ears for hours, eh?

  “. . . Eh?” Josephine demands.

  “Oui,” he agrees, escaping through the door.

  After work, Pito decides to visit his brother Frank, and here’s the Range Rover parked in front of the house, so he’s home. Good. Sister-in-law Vaiana is on the veranda drinking a martini with her copines. She’s wearing a gigantic pandanus hat and waving one hand around to show off her rings, while the other hand is delicately placed on her chest
as if to say, “I couldn’t believe it . . . they were actually talking about moi!”

  Pito knows where to find his brother, but when you visit Frank Tehana, you must first report to Madame, otherwise she complains, whining for days and days about his family’s lack of respect.

  “He’s in his tomato plantation,” Vaiana coldly advises her brother-in-law. She used to adore Pito and call him sweet names, “my little cabbage, my little treasure,” until one night after a few drinks, she tried to jump on Pito for a bit of beefsteak and he pushed her away. She’s never forgiven him.

  Pito sneaks in between the row of banana trees and finds his brother comfortable on a mat smoking paka, a family-size packet of chips and a big bottle of Coca-Cola nearby.

  “Pito!” An embrace, friendly taps on the back, and a paka cigarette. Frank knows how to greet family. Anyone, actually.

  “Your wife still thinks you’re growing tomatoes?” Pito asks, lighting up.

  “I don’t talk about my plantation with Vaiana.”

  “Ah. Otherwise, all is fine?”

  “All is fine, little brother, and you? All is fine?”

  “All is fine,” Pito says.

  End of conversation. The brothers smoke away. They’ve never been big-mouths, these two. As children, Frank, the eldest of the tribe, and Pito, the youngest, talked to each other with hands, eyebrows, eyes, and grunts, and they always understood each other.

  “Come eat.”

  “Go and get me a glass of water, ha’aviti, quick, I’m thirsty.”

  “Shhh, not a word to Mamie about my plants, otherwise I’m going to give you one black-buttered eye.”

  Despite the limited parau-parau, Pito has always felt very close to Frank. Pito felt the same with his other two brothers, Tama and Viri, too. But then the sisters-in-law arrived and everything changed. If Pito wants to talk to Tama he can, but only at the gate of Tama’s wife’s house — she doesn’t like visitors. If Pito wants to talk to Viri he can, but only on Viri’s wife’s telephone — she doesn’t like visitors. At least with Frank, all Pito has to do is report to Madame.