“But you haven’t been at your church for years and years,” Materena protests. “Pito, think a little, it’s —”
“It’s what? You’re going to tell me that your church is better than my church?”
“Do you know who the priest is there at least?”
“Father Fabrice. He baptized me.”
“And he’s still there?”
“But oui!”
The mama sitting at the desk outside the priest’s office is the same woman who used to give Pito cranky looks during his one-week stint as a choirboy — when he was a child and the mama wasn’t a mama. She advises Pito and Materena that Father Fabrice passed away.
“Eh-eh,” Materena says, firing a cranky look at Pito, meaning, Your priest is dead and you didn’t know about it! Do you realize how embarrassing it is for me to be asking to speak to a priest who’s dead? “I’m so sorry.”
“Oh, don’t be sorry,” the mama says, also firing a cranky look at Pito, a look that says, You would have known the sad news earlier had you made the effort to visit your church now and then. “He died twelve years ago,” she sighs, gazing at the child happily gurgling in her grandfather’s arms. “He passed away peacefully in his sleep.”
“Who replaced him?” Pito asks, a bit sad about the news. He liked Father Fabrice, but there’s no point crying now, the priest has been dead for a long time.
“Father Martin replaced Father Fabrice,” the mama advises Pito.
“Well, can we see Father Martin?”
“Father Martin is no longer with us.”
“He died too?” Pito asks.
“Non, he didn’t die,” the mama snaps, as if to say, You would have known the wonderful news earlier had you made the effort to make an appearance here where you belong. “He went back to France three years ago to look after his father.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful,” Materena manages to utter.
“Who replaced Father Martin?” Pito asks.
“Father Fabien.”
“Can we see Father Fabien?”
“Non, Father Fabien —”
“All right,” Pito interrupts. He’s starting to get fiu of this. “Who’s the priest here these days?”
“Father Sebastian.”
“Okay, can we see Father Sebastian?”
“S’il te plaît,” Materena adds with a smile, stamping discreetly on Pito’s foot.
Father Sebastian, who has a long red beard and a smashed nose, is at present checking his diary and whistling an upbeat disco tune. Materena glances at Pito and widens her eyes. She’s saying, This is your priest? He doesn’t look like a priest at all, he looks more like someone who just got out of prison!
The priest frowns and says, “I’m afraid the earliest I can do it is in six weeks.”
“Six weeks!” Materena shrieks softly. “Father,” she pleads with her begging voice, “we were hoping for next week, we can’t wait six weeks because —”
“Unfortunately, you’ll have to,” Father Sebastian shrugs.
“We want this child baptized on Sunday.” There, Pito has said his piece.
“This Sunday?” The priest scoffs as if he has just heard the most ridiculous request in his entire career as a priest.
“Et alors,” Pito snaps, “we’re bringing you another Catholic and you’re going to put sticks in the wheels?”
Pito ignores his wife’s hand on his knee, begging him to please be quiet and to let her do the talking, she has more experience dealing with priests than he has. “You baptize this child on Sunday or I’m going to the Protestants.”
Materena’s hand is now pinching Pito’s knee, commanding him to shut up before he ruins everything. You don’t bluff with priests. This is not a game of cards!
“I understand how busy you are, Father.” This is Materena’s attempt to pacify the priest. “We can wait a little, but we’d really appreciate from the bottom of our hearts if —”
“Are you threatening me?” The priest is not listening to Materena. His eyes are fixed on Pito.
“Eh,” Pito fires back, “I’m telling you things as they are.”
Who does he think he is? Pito tells himself. A king or something? He’s just a priest. It’s his job to baptize babies, marry people, and bury the dead. Pito has never raised his voice to a priest before — but then again, he’s never had a one-on-one meeting with a priest. He’s always left the one-on-one discussion up to Materena, but he’s here today and so he will speak what’s on his mind.
“What’s the problem with getting this baby baptized on Sunday?” he asks. “What do you need to do?”
“I need to consult with the godparents.” The priest’s voice is cold. Still speaking with a cold voice, he adds that he’s not trying to put sticks in anyone’s wheels at all but he simply cannot baptize a child without consulting the godparents first.
“The godparents are right in front of your eyes.” Pito has just decided this. He glances at Materena, who’s nodding in agreement.
“You’re the godparents?” The priest himself sounds very shocked. “I thought you were the parents.”
“We’re the grandparents,” Materena says softly.
“And the godparents.” Pito is still firm on this.
“Where are the parents?” the priest asks.
Ah, now the parents, Pito says in his head. What is the next question going to be? Where are the great-grandparents?
Materena hurries to inform the priest of the delicate situation. The baby’s mother is in New Caledonia and the father is in France.
“Hum.” The priest doesn’t seem too impressed. “And they will be coming back?” he asks. “I presume soon, and together?”
“I’m not sure about the baby’s mother,” Materena softly says, worried now that the information she’s just given the priest might jeopardize her granddaughter’s baptism. “But our son is —”
“What is this salad?” the priest exclaims.
“What salad?” Pito snaps. “Where is the salad in the story?” He glances at his wife, dabbing her wet eyes. And plus, that con has made my wife cry! “What salad?” Pito asks again, ready to yell his head off at the priest for having made his wife cry.
But his granddaughter starts to cry too now, so, gently tapping the baby on the bottom, Pito, speaking softly (well, close enough) tells the priest that there’s no salad in the story. Some children have parents and other children have grandparents. That’s life. There’s nothing to judge.
“And have you been godparents before?” the priest asks, ignoring Pito’s let’s-not-be-judgmental speech.
“Three times,” Materena smiles.
“And you, Monsieur?”
Ah, Pito would love to be able to tell that priest, “What do you mean have been? I’m still a godfather. When you’re a godparent it’s until you die.” But unfortunately, Pito has never been a godfather. Nobody has ever asked him to be one. Now Pito feels like he’s losing face. Merde.
Pito can already predict the priest’s next question: Oh, you’ve never been a godfather, and why not? Next question: Oh, nobody has ever asked you, and how come that is? And how would Pito know this, eh? How would he know why nobody has ever asked him to be a godfather? It’s like he has DON’T ASK ME TO BE A GODFATHER tattooed on his forehead?
Not being a godfather has never bothered Pito (being a father was more than enough, thank you, even if he didn’t do much), but today he wishes he had one godfather experience at least, if only to put this priest in his place.
“Monsieur?” The priest would like his answer. Here he is grinning, smelling victory in the air, and Pito could pop him in the head right now.
“I’ve raised three children.”
The priest shrugs. “You still haven’t answered my question.”
“None of my kids has ever been to prison.” As far as Pito is concerned, if the priest can’t understand why this is such a big thing for a Tahitian father to say, then he shouldn’t be a priest. Not in Tahiti anyway.
Unexpectedly, the priest smiles his first genuine smile, and getting the necessary papers from his top drawer, he advises Pito that he’s very much looking forward to Pito’s journey as a godfather.
“I can be the godfather?” Pito asks, just to make sure he understood properly.
“Indeed you can.”
“This Sunday?”
The priest gives Pito the oh-you’re-pushy-aren’t-you look.
Pito looks back with his well-you-know-it-is-the-squeaky-wheel-that-gets-things-done look. He’s lived in Tahiti all his life. He knows the ritual.
“This Sunday,” the priest confirms, chuckling.
Despite the very (very, VERY) short notice, the Tehana tribe have managed to pull magic tricks out of their pandanus hats. Today is no ordinary baptism, though. It isn’t, for example, the baptism of a niece’s ninth child. It is the baptism of Pito’s FIRST grandchild; what’s more, with Pito as the GODFATHER!
Oui, you can say that the last twenty-four hours have been very hectic in the Tehana quartier, women running all over the place like chickens without a head. This is a great day, with the pride of at last having a ceremony for Pito in their church. All of the other ceremonies related to Pito and his tribe took place in Faa’a but now, for once, the Mahi tribe will be the guests. They will be the ones feeling a bit embarrassed having second servings and relieving themselves on other people’s toilets.
So there is a flurry of cooking, cleaning, and making the house pretty, because with that many guests expected, all bathrooms in the quartier will be visited. The only thing they didn’t have to worry about is the cake.
And here they are, two large Tahitian families gathered in Punaauia for the baptism of Tiare Makemo, soon to be Tiare Tehana. Women from both clans are eyeing each other, smiling little forced polite smiles, uttering polite sentences. “It’s a beautiful day to be baptized, eh, Mama Teta?” “That is a nice hat you’re wearing, Loana.” “You’ve lost a lot of weight, Rita.” “Giselle! Is this a new haircut?”
And many relatives from both clans would like to hold the little one in her frilly white dress before she gets purified, but there is only one person the child wants and it’s her soon-to-be godfather.
Even later on, with food and drinks galore and relatives by the hundreds, the godfather is still the only one who can hold the newly baptized child without making her cry. So far, one hundred and twenty relatives, the godmother, and Pito’s three sisters-in-law included have tried to carry the baptized baby girl and share a moment, even a brief one, in her new journey as an innocent and pure child. But the child only wants the strong arms of her parrain who fought so hard to get her baptized today.
It is now time to cut the cake — there is no party without a cake — and here it is being carried out to the table of honor in the skinny arms of the baptized baby’s Auntie Vahine. Everyone goes silent with fear that the woman with the so-thin arms might drop the cake.
The silence is also one of profound admiration before that beautiful cake, decorated with icing of Tiare Tahiti flowers all around the borders and with the name TIARE written in the middle. Everyone agrees that Moana’s handwriting is the handwriting of someone who writes a lot. It is so elegant and confident.
The young woman carefully puts the cake on the table beside the magnificent bouquet of flowers with the banner that reads WELCOME BéBé TIARE! WITH ALL OUR LOVE, AUNTIE LEILANI AND PAPA, although everyone knows that the baby’s father, Tamatoa, had nothing to do with it. Leilani was the one who called the florist in Tahiti and paid for that bouquet with her credit card.
Vahine rubs her sore, skinny arms and exclaims aloud in her little-girl voice, “Ouf! I was so scared I’d drop the cake!” Laughter erupts in the crowd. She isn’t the only one relieved that the cake is still in one piece.
“I’d like to say a few words before the godparents cut the cake,” Vahine goes on, smiling to her father- and mother-in-law. They smile back — as far as they’re concerned, Vahine will be part of their family forever, no matter what happens with their son. She flew from Bora-Bora especially to deliver the cake. That is worth more than words. It’s a ticket for life into Moana’s family.
“My fiancé, Moana, was up at three o’clock this morning to make this beautiful cake for our niece. He’s sorry that he couldn’t be with us on this very important day but he’s catering for the mayor’s daughter’s wedding —” Vahine pauses for a moment while her fiancé’s relatives nod and look at one another, meaning, The mayor’s daughter’s wedding? Wow! She continues, “But Moana is with us in spirit, and . . . well, let’s cut the cake.”
But first there are many relatives, at least those in the proud possession of a camera, who would like to take a picture of that amazing cake.
So, click, click, click and click; meanwhile, Pito’s guest of honor, Father Sebastian — squeezed between Mama Roti and Auntie Philomena — is flicking a peanut in the air and expertly catching it in his mouth.
This is a trick you learn in prison. Everyone knows that.
An All-Different Route
Most godfathers get to go home after the baptism of the baby and carry on with their lives until the next church ceremony, which is the Communion, when the eight-year-old child finally tastes the body of Christ he’s heard so much about from his older cousins. But Pito is not just the god-father. He is also the grandfather. And the guardian. He has three responsibilities:
1. to ensure that his goddaughter fulfills her requirements as a Catholic
2. to cuddle his granddaughter and pass on stories about the old days
3. to feed the little one, put clothes on her back, give her a roof over her head, and all the rest of it
Any normal man would panic at having three responsibilities at once, not to mention ongoing from one day to the next! Pito is a normal man and he’s panicking, don’t you worry about that. Even more tonight, because Materena is off to work and he’s expected to mind the baby, because, well, he’s the godfather, he’s the grandfather, and he’s the guardian, and Materena didn’t want to ask her mother for help. Apparently Loana is getting old, what’s more, she is very busy with her prayer meetings. So Pito has to stay home. Materena didn’t give him a choice, she didn’t order him to stay home either. She just stated the facts — without her martyr face.
Pito doesn’t mind it much tonight, he never does anything on Mondays except watch TV and recuperate from the weekend. But what about tomorrow? How is he going to attend his nocturnal meetings with his copains? What about Wednesday and Thursday, eh? And what about Friday! How is he going to get to the bar to celebrate payday and the end of the week with his colleagues? These meetings are the only pleasures Pito has in life, on top of fishing, promenading in his best friend’s speedboat, and of course doing sexy loving with his wife. When she’ll be in the mood — which is hopefully soon.
“I hope it’s not going to be in the next century,” Pito, sitting on the sofa watching TV, mutters as he gulps his beer. He glances at his granddaughter, comfortable next to him, and she gives him one of her irresistible smiles.
“You smile a lot, eh? You were born smiling or what?”
The baby girl kicks her legs to show the old man how thrilled she is to be with him.
“When do you sleep, eh?” Pito asks. “It’s nearly nine o’clock.”
Another sweet smile. You would think that with all that she’s probably been through, she’d be doing her miserable face. Pito gently taps his granddaughter’s feet to show her, well, that he’s not cranky with her, since it’s not her fault. She was just born to a woman who was too young to have children and a man who doesn’t live in the country. What can a baby do about that, eh? Rien.
But how cute Tiare is, how could anyone resist this baby girl? She is . . . ah . . . she’s something. She’s definitely part of the family, there’s no denying the resemblance with her grandmother Materena, she’s a Mahi for sure, and a Tehana too, a little. Let’s hope she doesn’t inherit any of the Mahi women’
s craziness. Anyway, there’s no more beer left, so Pito gets to his feet to get himself another one from the fridge. He hasn’t even walked three steps when Tiare starts whimpering.
“I’m coming back,” Pito says. “It’s not like I’m going off to war.”
Tiare is now wailing. It isn’t a piercing wail, the wail that Pito’s children used to drive Pito crazy, so crazy he’d put his hands on his ears and tell himself, “It’s not my child who is wailing, it’s the neighbors’.” Tiare’s wail is like a pleading wail, a lost little wail that says, Please don’t leave me. Pito hurries to the fridge, cracks his beer open on the edge of the table, and is back on the sofa in record time.
“I’m here,” he says.
Tiare, sniffing, gives the old man an accusing look.
“Ah, now I’m in trouble, eh?”
The baby looks away and sighs.
“I only disappeared for thirty seconds,” Pito justifies himself, “less than a minute!” Pito is about to continue, when he remembers that he’s talking to a baby. “Why am I talking to this baby like she can understand?” he says out loud. Shaking his head with his eyes back on the TV, Pito chuckles, “Copain? You’re starting to act like a bloody woman.”
Pito never understood women talking to babies as if they could understand, and Materena did this a lot, even when their babies were only a few days old. “Oh, I see that you’re awake,” she’d say. “Did you have a nice dream?” One day Pito, who was a bit confused with the whole talking-to-babies issue, asked his mother if she talked to him when he was a baby. “I only talk to people who understand what I’m saying” was Mama Roti’s answer. “I don’t talk to babies and I don’t talk to dogs. I don’t talk to statues either.”
Pito cackles and throws a furtive glance at Tiare to see if she’s asleep, but she’s still awake, and sulking.
“You’re practicing already for when you grow up?” Pito asks. He taps himself on the forehead and says, “Stop talking like she can understand!”
Tiare in Bloom Page 12