Breadfruit

by Célestine Vaite

  At the Day of the Dead celebration, Materena prays at the cemetery of Faa’a and Pito prays at the cemetery of Punaauia, where his family is buried. And the kids take turns: one year in Faa’a—one year in Punaauia. It’ll be much easier for the kids if Pito and Materena are in the same cemetery—and the same grave, if possible.

  So Materena asks Loana if it’s all right with her if Pito gets buried here.

  There’s a silence, and Materena immediately regrets the question. Pito is not part of the family, she realizes. He’s only part of her life. Materena wonders if her mother would be more willing to have Pito buried here if he were her husband.

  “You don’t think Pito wants to be buried with his family in Punaauia?” Loana asks.

  Materena confesses that they have never talked about their funeral arrangements.

  “People should talk about their funeral arrangements,” Loana explains. “There’s an old woman, she died without a burial arrangement. Well, there was a lot of arguing at her wake between the children she had from her first man and the children she had from her second man. Words flew above the dead body, with one clan believing their mother belonged there and one clan believing their mother belonged somewhere else. The poor woman, she had to go in the freezer and it was a whole month before her body was finally laid to rest.”

  “Where did the woman get buried in the end?”

  “Next to her first man.”

  In Loana’s opinion, the old woman had wanted to be buried next to her mother, but she had never thought of mentioning this to her kids.

  “It’s nice to be buried next to your mother. Everybody wants to be buried next to their mother,” Loana says.

  “And if Pito wants me to be buried next to him in Punaauia?”

  Loana snaps her answer, and she’s not holding her daughter’s hand anymore. “Do what you want, it’s your dead body.”

  Materena feels like the tomato between the lettuce and the cucumber. She always feels like the tomato between the lettuce and the cucumber when there’s Loana and Pito in the story.

  “Eh, Mamie. Don’t be angry with me.” Materena is pleading.

  “I’m not angry. If you want to be buried next to Pito, go get buried next to Pito. I’m not going to say you can’t be buried next to him.”

  “Pito comes here, then. I’m going to tell him.”

  Loana takes a deep breath. “All right. But you two better sort out your funeral arrangements. Eh, Pito might have other plans.”

  Materena and Pito are in bed that night and Materena knows Pito is not sleeping. When he’s sleeping, he snores, and at the moment he’s not snoring.

  “Pito, you’re sleeping?”

  There’s no answer from Pito.

  Maybe he’s sleeping and not snoring. Materena closes her eyes, but she really wants to talk about their funeral arrangements, and right this moment is a good time to talk about that kind of subject. The kids can’t come interrupt the conversation.

  “Pito?”

  There’s no answer from Pito.

  “Pito, I know you’re not sleeping, because when you’re sleeping, you snore. Pito?”

  Pito reluctantly opens his eyes. “Okay, what?”

  “Ah, you’re awake. I knew you weren’t sleeping. When I die . . .” Materena pauses. It’s difficult for her to talk about her death in the bedroom and in the dark, but she must. She continues. “I don’t know where I’m supposed to be buried.”

  “I’m going to bury you in Faa’a,” Pito says.

  “You don’t want me to be buried in Punaauia?” Materena can’t believe how well Pito is accepting the subject of conversation.

  “Your family is not in Punaauia,” Pito says. “Why am I going to bury you there? Loana, she’s going to be buried in Faa’a, non?”

  “Oui, next to her mama.”

  “Well, you can be buried next to them two.”

  Materena has to ask the next question, but she hesitates. Pito always says that they should move to his part of the island (if he had land they would have moved there from the day they became a couple), that he sees Loana a bit too much, that there are just too many of Materena’s relatives here. Pito’s relatives from both his parents’ sides are from Punaauia, about fifteen minutes away by truck. Pito is not going to accept being buried in Faa’a, and Materena doesn’t want to be separated.

  “What if you die before me, what am I supposed to do with you?” Then, speaking quickly, Materena adds, “It’s fine with Mamie for you to be buried in Faa’a. She said to me, ‘Ah, it’s okay if Pito is buried next to us, no problem.’” Materena is now caressing Pito’s hand.

  Yes, but Pito doesn’t want to be buried next to Loana, so he tells Materena. In fact, Pito doesn’t want to be buried, full stop. He doesn’t want to be put into a hole and to be eaten up by the worms. He doesn’t want to be buried.

  Materena is shocked. What is this story? What is she going to do with him if she can’t bury him?

  “Don’t bury you?” she asks, as if she didn’t hear properly.

  “Don’t bury me,” Pito repeats. “Cremate me and throw my ashes into the sea.”

  Cremate? Materena has never heard of anyone getting cremated in her family. And it’s the same situation in Pito’s family. Everyone gets buried. It’s the tradition. There’s the wake and then there’s the burial and then the name is written, the date of the birth, the date of the death, the little message of love, on the white cross. Cremate? What is this nonsense?

  “How are the kids and I going to pray on you if you’re not in the grave? I can’t cremate you, Pito. Think a bit!”

  “Materena, I tell you, don’t you bury me. If you bury me I’m not going to be happy. You cremate me and then you put a bit of my ashes in a box for you and the kids.”

  Materena is sad now. In her opinion, when you get cremated it’s like you’ve never existed. Whereas with the grave, your kids can come visit you, and your grandkids, their kids, and on and on. There’s proof that you were born and died.

  She visits her great-great-grandmother sometimes. She sits on her grave and says iaorana.

  Well, you can talk to the ashes, but it’s not the same as talking on the grave, all the while weeding and clearing up the sand.

  Maybe it is, Materena doesn’t know. She’s never talked to ashes before. And, the box, it can be dropped, broken, lost. And who is going to keep the box of Pito’s ashes after she dies? There are three kids.

  She’s not going to cremate Pito—ah non. She’s going to bury him, and she’s going to bury him in Faa’a. That’s her final decision. She best write the funeral arrangements and put them in her special box for the kids to act upon.

  And now that the matter is resolved, Materena is going to sleep.

  “Materena,” Pito says.

  She doesn’t answer.

  “Swear to me that you’re going to cremate me.”

  She’s not hearing anything—she’s asleep. But Pito is not having that comedy. He gets out of bed and switches the light on, and Materena covers her face with the pillow.

  Pito snatches the pillow away. “You’re going to swear to me that when I die, you’re going to cremate me like I said. I never thought about all of this, eh? You got me thinking. And I’m telling you again. I don’t want to be buried, okay?”

  Pito looks so serious about his cremation. Materena nods slowly. “Okay, Pito. I’m going to cremate you—don’t you worry.”

  Frying Pan

  It is Mama Roti’s birthday tomorrow, three days before Pito’s birthday, and she wants a present.

  She’s been hinting about it for the past week—in fact, the past month.

  “Twenty-nine days until the day I was born.”

  “Twenty days until the day I was born.”

  “Five days until the day I was born.”

  She has to get a present on her birthday, otherwise she won’t speak to you for days. She’ll sulk. Mama Roti likes it when her kids remember the day she was born. She often says
, “All those years I wiped your bottom—you better give me a present on my birthday.”

  She’s not fussy about the present as long as there’s something for her to unwrap and there’s a card with Happy birthday, Mama written on it. She’s got boxes full of birthday cards.

  Usually, Materena chooses the present and she wraps it in nice colorful birthday paper. But this year, for no particular reason, Pito wants to be involved. He wants to do more than write Happy birthday, Mama, from your son Pito, Materena, and the kids. So Pito and Materena are going to Euromarché to buy Mama Roti her present. And Materena has a few ideas.

  She suggests a hand-printed pareu for Mama Roti to wear on special occasions. But Pito doesn’t approve, because, according to him, his mama has got enough pareus—hundreds, as a matter of fact.

  “Ah, you counted?”

  “There’s pareus all over the house,” Pito says.

  And apparently Mama Roti sometimes even uses a pareu for mopping. So Materena proposes a coupon for a manicure, with a couple of nail polish bottles.

  Pito gives Materena a funny look. “Mama? A manicure?”

  “Or a brooch, a brooch is nice. Not a big one, a small one, like a bird or a flower.”

  Pito grimaces, and Materena realizes that the search for Mama Roti’s present isn’t going to be an easy task with Pito involved.

  It is never an easy task, searching for Mama Roti’s present. Mama Roti may say that she doesn’t care about the present as long as there’s something for her to unwrap, but, deep down, Mama Roti does care about her present—Materena knows this.

  Materena always starts looking for Mama Roti’s present a few weeks before her birthday, which is why she has so many ideas today. But since Pito wants to be in charge of Mama Roti’s present this year . . .

  “What do you want to give to your mama?” Materena asks Pito.

  Pito wants to give his mama something useful, something practical. He doesn’t know what that useful-and-practical something is yet, but he trusts his instinct. His instinct will tell him: This is for Mama.

  Pito heads to the cleaning department, and Materena follows him. She’s dragging her feet because, in her opinion, you don’t get someone a present from the cleaning department, especially when that someone is a woman.

  And especially when that someone is Mama Roti!

  Mama Roti hates cleaning. Her house is always a mess, and Mama Roti likes to say, “Ah hia, if only I had a magic wand to clean the house for me.”

  Last year, Materena got Mama Roti a coupon to the hairdresser for the value of five thousand francs. Mama Roti got herself a perm, she was very happy. She thanked her son over and over, knowing full well that the coupon to the hairdresser wasn’t Pito’s idea.

  Last year, Materena was really pleased that Pito had remembered the day she was born. Pito gave her a box wrapped in newspaper and said, “Here.”

  Materena delicately tore the newspaper and slowly opened the box (it was a plain box—no relation to the gift). Then she saw the frying pan and said, smiling, “Ah, a frying pan.”

  Mama Roti, who was present at the time, caught her disappointed look. She shook her head and mumbled, “What does a man have to do these days to make his woman happy?” She rolled her eyes and went on and on about how her son’s gift was well chosen—how a woman could always do with a frying pan. Mama Roti inspected the frying pan, nodding several times. She tapped her fingers on it and declared, “This is no cheap frying pan, this is a good-quality frying pan. Not too big, not too small, medium-size.”

  Materena was disappointed with the frying pan because she had expected to see a new pair of shoes—a few days prior to her birthday, she’d complained to Pito about her shoes getting a bit worn-out and how they were hurting her feet.

  This year was worse because Pito forgot her birthday completely.

  In the cleaning department, Pito’s first choice for his mother’s present is those perfumed mushrooms you put around the house to make it smell good.

  “Pito. Are you serious or are you fooling around?” Materena doesn’t know if she should be annoyed or laugh.

  Pito is serious, and why wouldn’t he be serious? Perfumed mushrooms are nice.

  Materena tells him (speaking in a low voice because of the other customers) that his mother sprays her deodorant around her house when she wants it to smell nice, and she’s very content with that technique, plus, the smell of the mushrooms is horrible.

  “How about this?” Pito says.

  Materena tells him that his mother will definitely not appreciate a family-size packet of washing powder.

  Pito moves to the gardening department and picks up a rake. Materena reminds him (speaking in a low voice again because of the other customers) of his mother’s relationship with her leaf pick. She loves her leaf pick, she gets a lot of satisfaction stabbing the leaves one by one, and very slowly, for hours.

  Materena decides to take charge now. She’s seen enough of Pito’s nonsense. She barges toward the perfume department. A whole hour they spend at the perfume department. They smell fifteen bottles of eau de cologne, and Pito complains about the smell every single time. Either it is too sweet, too spicy, too strong, or rotten.

  “Since when did you become a professional smeller?” Materena isn’t speaking in a low voice anymore.

  “Give your own mother eau de cologne,” Pito snaps back. “Mama, she’s not getting eau de cologne.”

  Materena comes up with the idea of a jar filled with mints for Mama Roti to munch on when she reads the Bible, watches the TV, or rests on the mat. She can also use the jar to store something else. But, in Pito’s opinion, his mother much prefers to munch on Chinese lollies, and, anyway, she’s got jars galore as it is, and another jar she really doesn’t need.

  “How about that crystal wineglass?” Materena is losing hope.

  “That wineglass is only going to last one day in Mama’s hands. Mama, she breaks everything.”

  Fed up, Materena suggests a frying pan—as a joke.

  Pito’s eyes light up. “Now you’re talking, woman.”

  He did notice that the last time he was at his mother’s house, her frying pan didn’t have a handle. In fact, she burned her hand with that frying pan—she showed him the scar. Mama Roti had also showed Materena the scar on her hand, but she’d said it happened when she took the baking dish out of the oven.

  Pito grabs a frying pan. It is a 100 percent stainless-steel frying pan, like Materena’s, except that it is smaller. Materena advises him to get a bigger size.

  “Mama only needs a small size. She doesn’t use the frying pan heaps,” Pito says.

  Materena insists on the family-size frying pan and Pito wants to know why she’s insisting on a family-size when he told her his mama doesn’t use the frying pan heaps. But Materena isn’t going to tell Pito that he cannot give his mama a frying pan that is smaller than Materena’s frying pan, because Mama Roti would sulk and go on and on and on about how she’d suffered for two whole days pushing Pito into this world.

  Pito wouldn’t understand this delicate situation. He’d most likely say, “Ah, you women. You’re so complicated.”

  Materena grabs the small-size frying pan out of Pito’s hands and puts it back on the shelf. Then she gets the family-size frying pan and gives it to Pito.

  “When the kids go visit your mama,” Materena says, “and they feel like an omelette, Mama Roti can make a big omelette. It’ll be easier for her. Plus, the price difference isn’t great.”

  Pito shakes his head like Materena’s explanation is too much to comprehend. “My mama, she gets a bigger frying pan than my wife. I thought it was supposed to be the contrary.”

  Materena grins. “Eh? I’m your wife these days? It’s not ‘woman’ anymore?”

  But Pito is already heading toward the cash register. He’s never ever called Materena “wife.” He calls her Materena or “woman.” Pito sometimes calls Materena Mama, but she always tells him to keep that name for his own
mama.

  “Wife”! Not once!

  It’s been two weeks since Pito has proposed, and, in Materena’s opinion, Pito is trying to get used to the idea of being married, for a man simply doesn’t call his woman “wife” unless he secretly wishes that she were his wife.

  Materena is still grinning when they get outside the shopping center.

  “Why are you grinning?” asks Pito.

  “I’m just happy about Mama Roti’s birthday present,” Materena replies.

  “Ah oui,” Pito says. “Mama, she’s not going to believe her eyes.”

  “Happy birthday, Mama.”

  Pito gives his mama her present. He’s wrapped it in newspaper. Mama Roti presses both hands on her chest and acts surprised. She rips the newspaper, she rips the box (it’s just a box, no relation to the gift), all the while smiling and looking at her son like he tricked her.

  She sees the frying pan and for a moment it is not clear what her reaction is going to be. She seems to be searching for the right words to say.

  Finally. “A frying pan! How did you know I needed a frying pan! Now I can throw the old one in the garbage!”

  Mama Roti inspects her frying pan. She taps her fingers on it. “This is no cheap frying pan, this is a good-quality frying pan.”

  Then, later on . . .

  Thinking no one is watching her . . .

  Mama Roti, in the kitchen, compares her frying pan with Materena’s frying pan. “Eh-eh, my frying pan, it’s bigger.” She chuckles to herself.

  The Colorful Shirt

  With Mama Roti’s birthday out of the way, Materena can now concentrate on Pito’s birthday present. But the problem is that Pito specifically asked her not to get him anything this year.

  Last year Materena bought Pito a love-song tape and he didn’t appreciate it. He said, “Why are you giving me this love-song tape? You know I don’t like love songs.” True, Pito doesn’t like love songs—love songs irritate him or they make him laugh. Materena listens to that love-song tape—she likes love songs.