Tiare in Bloom

by Célestine Vaite

  Then there’s the story of another great-auntie, who didn’t know for two months that her only son, who joined the French army during World War Two, had died fighting the Italians in Bir Akeim. For two months the great-auntie imagined her son alive and breathing, a hero of the Egyptian desert, when in fact he had been struck in the first minute of the battle. She had to get the official letter, the one filled with apologetic words, translated since she couldn’t read French. She couldn’t read full stop. Despite the time lapse, the Tahitian soldier was given a proper farewell ceremony. It was a tricky situation — a wake without a body — but Tahitians are well known for not letting anything get in the way of their prayers. The soldier’s family prayed, sang, and called out to his soul to come home, back to his birth land, the fenua.

  And there’s the story of a great-uncle who . . .

  At quarter to twelve Pito is on the phone to the Mamao Hospital’s emergency ward. He explains the situation to the nurse on duty, how his wife went dancing with a friend and said that she’d be home by ten but she’s not home yet. He explains all of this in a neutral voice. There’s no need for the nurse to start thinking he’s panicking.

  “Maybe she’s still dancing,” the nurse snaps, angry. “Your wife wouldn’t be the first woman to go out dancing at night and come home the following morning. What’s her name?”

  “Materena Tehana.”

  “Non, she’s not on our list, call the hotels. Good-bye.”

  Next morning, just as the first church bells are calling out to the faithful, reminding them all that mass is in half an hour, so get ready, Materena walks in the door. Pito, sitting on the sofa, is straight onto her with a thousand questions, but she’s got to get ready for mass, she says, quickly taking her green dress off and heading to the bathroom with a towel around her body.

  “Where did you go last night?” Pito asks, following her.

  “I was with my copine, you’re not going to mass?”

  “You were with your copine all night?”

  “Well oui! And so?”

  “And what did you two do?”

  “It’s not your onions.” Materena closes the bathroom door on her husband and showers in record time while Pito puts on his navy blue suit. Within five minutes, she’s out of the house in her pristine below-the-knees white church dress, running to the church like a good Catholic woman, devoted wife and mother, with husband in tow.

  “Iaorana!” the relatives cheer the couple outside the church. The kissing and the polite words go on for a minute and now Meme Agathe, one of Mama Teta’s clients, can resume her monologue about how singing at mass soothes the soul. Meme Agathe insists that she’s speaking from experience here, as a woman who has felt down in her life many, many times and who felt better as soon as she started singing during mass.

  “Oh oui, my Lord,” she whispers with devotion, “you can drink liters of wine, you can smoke all kinds of cigarettes, you can have love affairs, but nothing beats singing at mass with the elders. When words of love, forgiveness, patience, hope, strength, come out of your mouth, you are certain to experience a spiritual uplift. Light will knock your worries away, inundate your soul, and you will get up, you will feel good from your head to your toes, you will —”

  To everyone’s relief the second bell rings, inviting the faithful to come in right now, right this second, mass is about to start.

  “And you will shut your mouth,” Meme Rarahu snorts.

  Men, women, and children rush in, dipping a finger into the blessed water in the huge clam by the door and crossing themselves with their eyes closed, their heads slightly bent with respect.

  Now Pito can take his usual seat at the back near the door with the men, but Materena unexpectedly takes his hand in hers and leads him to where she sits.

  The Mahi clan have their seats reserved in this beautiful church — it’s an unspoken agreement between this large extended family and the other churchgoers, there’s no need to have their name engraved on the pews. It’s a known fact that the Mahi clan helped build this church, selling tombola tickets, mapes, mangoes, banana cakes, ice to Eskimos.

  This front right part of the church, facing the statue of the Virgin Mary, Understanding Woman, and the huge bouquet of flowers, belongs to the Mahi clan, okay? The left side belongs to the Teutu family, except for the three front pews, which are for the choristers. But the two back parts of the church are for everyone. Right out the back near the door is for people who quietly sneak into the church half an hour after mass has started, or people who must sneak out of the church in the middle of the service for a cigarette. And people like Pito who might feel the need to rest their eyes a little while the priest passionately raves on with his sermon.

  “Materena,” Pito says, sitting next to his wife. “I feel bizarre —”

  “Shush,” someone behind says.

  Pito turns to see who’s just told him to be quiet and meets the smiling eyes of Mama Teta, who puts a finger on her mouth and winks. He looks to his left and meets the very serious eyes of his mother-in-law. On his right, the big eyes of Mama George are saying, “What are you looking at me for?”

  Sighing, Pito looks down at his shoes.

  “Shush.”

  Pito half turns but changes his mind, he’s not in the mood to look at eyes again.

  Instead, he stares trancelike at his immaculate white shoes, his fingers, Jesus Christ half naked and nailed to the cross with blood dribbling down his temples.

  He remembers the Easter he understood that Jesus Christ had risen from the dead, oh, the celebration in the neighborhood. “Jesus Christ is resurrected! He’s risen from the dead!” And the aunties kissed each other like crazy, crying their eyes out with joy. But Pito thought, It’s not possible, when you’re dead, you’re dead, you can’t be alive again.

  He asked his mother for some explanation. She said, “Jesus Christ is resurrected full stop, there’s nothing to explain!”

  The four musicians start jamming; it means the priest is on his way. When music was first introduced at mass, some of the old people complained. “Eh, what’s this? Music in the church? What are we? Savages?” But the young people loved it. “Yeah! Music! I’m going to church!” Anyway, for the record, since musicians have been part of mass, the church has been attracting more followers.

  It is now time to stand up to welcome Father Patrice, along with his helpers, and ten old women attack the first line of the welcoming song. “E te varua maitai . . . aroha mai ia tatou e . . . O Lord, have pity on us.” Eyes closed, and a hand on their heart, these respectable elders who have loved once, twice, sometimes three times, are begging the Lord for mercy.

  But all Pito can think about is how his wife didn’t sleep in their marital bed last night. And the song singing in his ears is — for some strange reason — Je suis cocu mais content! I’m cuckolded but happy! He glances over to his wife, singing away her faith with her hands clutched in prayer, a serene and peaceful expression on her face, looking every bit the picture of a devout Christian woman who lives her life by the rules of the Bible.

  Pito narrows his suspicious eyes and turns his attention back to Jesus. He’s certainly not expecting Materena to be taking Communion today, she didn’t have time to confess her sins from last night, and she’s not the kind to sin but still go on eating the body of Christ so that people don’t ask themselves questions.

  Many people do that, Pito knows. He himself has done this several times in his life, but his sins were little compared to big sins like stealing or sleeping around. Actually, there was always only one sin: drinking more than the priest.

  Pito expects a lot of people to be shocked when, instead of joining the Communion line, Materena will remained seated, her head bowed in shame. But here she is, springing to her feet, a big, bright smile on her face, and joining the Communion line with great enthusiasm. Pito should be relieved. Instead, he’s even more suspicious.

  This is why, as soon as Pito and Materena are home from mass, he
wants to jump on her.

  “I need to do the test,” he says, his feverish hand fumbling to unzip Materena’s white armor.

  “The test?” Materena snaps, slapping her husband’s hand. “What test are you talking about?”

  “Well, the test!” Pito forces a laugh. “The test a husband does on his wife when she goes out to a nightclub and comes home in the morning!”

  Pito first heard about it many years ago in a bar somewhere in Paris, when he was doing military service. Apparently, a man shouldn’t trust a woman’s eyes, as the eyes of a woman can easily lie (women are born comedians, the stranger told Pito), but the test, he-he, it always speaks the truth. Basically, the man gets on top of his wife . . .

  “Pito!” There’s no way Materena is doing that test. Looking at her husband with sad and wounded eyes, she asks, “That’s all I am for you? A hole?”

  “A hole?” Pito asks, shocked to hear his wife talk about herself like that. A hole? He’s heard of that expression many times before, but it has always come out of men’s mouths and always referring to women of bad reputation. “Ah,” they’d say, “time goes fast with her in bed, but she’s just a hole.”

  “A hole?” Pito asks again.

  “Oui, a hole . . . do you think a woman just wants a tetanus shot?”

  “Materena.” Pito is still shocked. “You’re not a hole. You’re the mother of my children. You’re my wife.”

  “Your wife?” Materena laughs, showing her husband her throat.

  When a woman shows a man her throat this way, laughing like she’s mocking him, it means tu peux toujours courir: “In your dreams!”

  Two Nights Ago on the Dance Floor

  All right then, you people in the Kikiriri nightclub, make way for the two pretty cousines, s’il vous plaît. Materena and Lily look stunning in colorful pareu dresses (not too short, not too long) with thin straps, their hair loosely falling on their backs, a Tiare flower behind the ear (the left one, meaning, I’m already taken).

  There were meant to be three pretty cousines bursting into the nightclub, but Rita — tonight’s designated driver, having stopped drinking in her quest of falling pregnant — pulled out at the last minute. She’d rather stay home with her man, watch TV, do normal things couples do, have a rest from the intense two weeks they’ve just had making their baby.

  So anyway, that is why there are only two cousines tonight.

  Materena is wearing brand-new high-heel shoes, which Lily has kindly lent her. “You’re not going out in those old shoes,” Lily said when she saw Materena’s comfortable sandals. “Not if you’re coming with me.” Materena certainly feels very privileged. Lily never lends her shoes. In fact, Lily never lends anything.

  The tiny dance floor is packed with couples languidly swaying to the sexy rhythm of the Tahitian band’s version of “Guantanamera.” Some couples, sitting at tables in the dark, have already proceeded to the kissing stage. Other couples, also sitting at tables but not in the dark, are staring into the whites of each other’s eyes — the bored way — in between furtive glances to the lucky couples.

  Enfin . . . to the bar!

  “You are driving, Materena,” Lily says to make sure the new designated driver hasn’t forgotten.

  “You’re not going to drink too much, I hope,” Materena replies. “I don’t want to have to carry you to the car.”

  “Eh, maybe I’m not going home with you?” Lily chuckles.

  “Lily —”

  Grinning, Lily turns to her cousin. “And if I meet Prince Charming tonight?”

  “I thought you said your Prince Charming isn’t going to be at the nightclub?”

  “Oh, maybe he’s here tonight, he was so bored at home.”

  At the bar, a fifty-something Chinese man immediately offers to buy these pretty mesdemoiselles a drink.

  “Mesdames,” Materena rectifies, digging for her purse in her bag. As far as she’s concerned, she’s paying for her drinks, okay? When a man pays for a woman’s drink, she can expect expectations. Non merci! But Lily is already handing the barman a five-thousand-franc note, and before Materena can tell him what she’d like to drink (a soda, please), she has a gin and tonic in her hands.

  Standing and drinking their gin and tonics, the cousins watch the love movies unfolding on the dance floor. A few couples are kissing shyly, while others are shoving tongues down each other’s throat. Feverish hands are going up and down on backs, married hands entwining with single hands. All is permitted at this nightclub.

  On the podium, the musicians are achieving their sole objective, which is to get the dance floor packed to the maximum. They are five overweight Tahitian men, but everyone knows that when there’s music in the story, Tahitian women will be charmed no matter what the musicians look like.

  “Cousin,” Lily confesses in Materena’s ear, “my Prince Charming is a historian.”

  “Ah bon? How do you know?”

  “I went to a clairvoyant two weeks ago, and she told me that the man of my life is a historian. She saw my man in her crystal ball. There were a lot of books around him.” Lily is talking about books thicker than the Bible here, not magazines.

  “Ah bon?” And Materena bursts out laughing.

  “Why are you laughing?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “You’re drunk already? With one drink!”

  Materena looks into her glass. Oups, it’s empty. She better refill it. Two more gin and tonics, please! Another slow dance, more watching couples kiss on the dance floor, this is getting very boring for Materena.

  She scans the nightclub, remembering not to make eye contact with the men. When a woman makes eye contact with a man and he raises his eyebrows or makes a slight movement with his head towards the dance floor, she is obliged to accept his invitation to dance. Well, non, she’s not really obliged, but she’d better be diplomatic with her refusal. She can’t, for example, shake her head, meaning thanks but no thanks, because if the man has issues, he’ll come straight to her. He might then start abusing her, tell her that the reason she didn’t accept his polite invitation to dance is because she doesn’t like Tahitian men, or she’s a snob; worse, a slut.

  Lily has reminded Materena about these rules in the car on their way to the club. Plus, there’s always a cousin to tell a nightclub story about how a real ugly titoi or a real old titoi insulted her because she refused to dance with him. So, the best way to refuse an invitation to dance is to pretend you didn’t see the man raise his eyebrows, you didn’t see him make a slight head movement towards the dance floor, or you could just rush to the toilets like it’s an emergency. Better yet, simply avoid eye contact at all costs, which is exactly what Materena is doing.

  In the meantime, here’s another gin and tonic, with Lily’s compliments, and Materena is beginning to feel the effect. Oh, she’s been drunk before, but never with a live band of musicians playing a love song, a beautiful love song about how wonderful it is to wake up next to your loved one and how mornings are truly made for kisses . . . Materena is feeling all funny and missing Pito. Not the Pito she’s been so angry with for nearly two weeks because of his comment about her father not wanting to meet her, not the Pito who’s been an insensitive merde for twenty-five years. It’s not that Pito Materena misses, non. It’s the Pito in between. The Pito she loved.

  The love song ends, the couples are still holding each other, waiting for the next song, hopefully another slow one, but the musicians attack a frantic tamure. It’s time for proper dancing. Couples detach from each other, but it doesn’t mean the flirting and the teasing are over. Tamure dancing is very suggestive, an opportunity for women to show their partner the degree of their sensuality.

  Beautiful cousins Materena and Lily rush to the dance floor, and . . . ah, they are certainly numero uno on the dance floor tonight, dancing close to each other, laughing with their heads thrown back, showing off their throats, hair falling in their eyes.

  When the song finishes, they kick thei
r shoes off, hurry to the bar for another drink, and dance some more — tamure, reggae, fox-trot, valse . . . Slow dance? No problems, the cousins can dance that dance too, and dancing slowly, their bodies pressed together, Materena’s hand around her cousin’s waist, Lily’s hand on Materena’s shoulder, they dance, smile, close their eyes, unfazed at being the center of attention.

  Men smirk, women smack their men on the face. Men whistle, women smack their men on the face. Men stare in disbelief, women smack their men on the face. Meanwhile, Materena and Lily continue to please themselves in between dancing, drinking, and celebrating the night. They’ve come here to have fun, and that is exactly what they are doing.

  Hours later, the cousins are exhausted, exhilarated, and the designated driver — way too drunk to drive now — falls on a seat near the dance floor to breathe a little. Cousin Lily, drunk too but still bursting with energy, keeps on dancing.

  The band attacks “Les Femmes d’Amérique,” an upbeat song about how American women are the prettiest but to have them you must have dollars, whereas in Tahiti, we have them for nothing. Vive Tahiti! The island of love! Tahitian women on the dance floor clap their hands with delight.

  Materena, still slouched on her seat, is thinking, Who wrote this stupid song? She quickly rises to her feet at the sight of her cousin barging towards the stage, pushing dancers out of her way. Next, Lily is grabbing the microphone from the fat singer. The music instantly stops as two Mr. Muscle bouncers hurry to get that mad woman off the stage.

  “Who wrote this stupid song?” she’s yelling. “I demand to know! Women are not free, anywhere in the world! Women are —”

  Lily gets carried off the stage before she can finish her passionate feminist speech, straight to the door, where Materena is waiting.

  “We sleep in the car,” Materena says, taking her cousin by the hand.

  “Ah non!” Lily protests aloud. “I’m not seventeen anymore. I don’t sleep in cars, I sleep at the hotel, merci.”