Breadfruit

by Célestine Vaite

  “It doesn’t matter why he wrote to you,” Materena says. “You’ve got a postcard.” It means Pito is an important person and he must respond.

  “And what am I going to say?” asks Pito.

  “Whatever comes into your head.” Materena is already looking in her pandanus bag for the special writing paper and the pen she uses to write notes to the children’s teacher. She gives them to Pito, who sits at the kitchen table. Materena remains standing and pretends to be busy. She fusses over a pot, she puts a plate away, and she eyes the blank page.

  Eventually, Pito writes one word, two words, five words, two lines. He scratches his head, he looks at the ceiling, he looks at the plants outside, he looks at the paper, he reads his two lines and shakes his head.

  He’s having difficulties, the words are not coming into his head, and Materena understands the situation. The kids are mucking around in the living room, and she knows it is much easier to write when there’s silence. She writes her notes when everyone has gone to bed. Pito could wait for that time, but Materena wants him to respond to his friend now.

  Because with Pito, later can mean never.

  And Materena wants Tihoti to get a letter from Pito. She feels a bit sorry for him. Not wanting to come home—it’s sad. Tihoti’s only link to Tahiti is Pito.

  Materena marches into the living room. “Eh, kids. Go play out the back. Papi is writing a letter to his friend in France.”

  “Papi’s writing a letter?” Leilani is rather amused.

  “Papi’s got a friend in France?” Tamatoa whistles, he’s impressed.

  “Papi’s got a friend in France and he’s writing a letter to him?” Moana marches to the kitchen to see his father writing.

  “Out the back!” Materena hoots the children outside.

  She goes back to the kitchen and fusses over the frying pan. Pito seems to be inspired, he’s furiously writing. But then he’s furiously scrunching the paper.

  “It’s no use,” he says.

  Materena knows just what to do, and she’s now unplugging the radio. Then she gets batteries and a blank tape from a box in the bedroom. Materena always has a blank tape available for when she’s in the mood to record herself singing.

  Materena also gets Pito a cold beer, that way he’ll be more relaxed.

  Pito is now comfortable, sitting on a chair under the tamarind tree with the radio on his lap and a beer in his hand.

  He presses the record button and takes a long slug of his beer.

  He’s ready now. “Of course I remember you. What do you think, eh?”

  Long silence.

  “Are you still skinny like a nail?”

  Long silence.

  “Eh, fourteen years, it’s a long time. I don’t know what I’m supposed to tell you, mate.”

  After three beers, Pito’s tongue loosens up. He doesn’t hear the giggling of his children, who are hiding behind the tamarind tree. Materena waves them away. The last thing Pito needs is an interruption. He’s talking to Tihoti and Materena is happy.

  Pito reminisces about the barracks, the slop they ate, the jokes they did on the commandant. He talks about speedboats, fishing, his work, and the beer they will share one day with Ati. Pito talks until the tape runs out. All that talking has tired him. He says he’s going to have a lie-down.

  While Pito rests, Materena quietly listens to the tape. She’s very annoyed Pito didn’t talk about his family—his woman, his kids—yet he mentioned Ati.

  Well, she’s going to rectify the situation. She erases about two minutes of Pito’s talk, but she’s going to do a little practice before recording. “Tihoti,” she says out loud, “iaorana. My name is Materena and I’m Pito’s wife.” Materena shakes her head. She can’t introduce herself as Pito’s wife, since they’re not married yet. She starts again. “Tihoti, iaorana. My name is Materena and I’m Pito’s future wife.” Materena is not happy with this introduction line either. She can’t say that she’s Pito’s future wife, since there’s no date for the marriage yet. Materena is at a loss as to how she should introduce herself to Tihoti, especially since Pito didn’t mention her and the kids. But Materena realizes that women are usually the ones who talk about their family, their kids. Men, they talk about their mates and their sports.

  Materena has her introduction line worked out now. She calls to the children to come into the kitchen. After she calls them several times, the children come. She explains the situation. The children nod. Yes, they understand the situation.

  Materena places the radio in front of her and leans forward. “Tihoti—iaorana. My name is Materena, and I’ve been with Pito for nearly thirteen years now, and we have three children. I’m a professional cleaner and it’s very nice you sent a postcard to Pito. It’s the first time he’s received a postcard, plus, all the way from France too. Pito, he’s very happy… he’s happy you remembered him. Now, when you come back to the fenua, our house is open to you, and your family too is welcomed to our house, your woman—your children. Now here are Pito’s children to say hello to you.”

  The next day, on her way to work, Materena stops by the post office in Papeete to send Tihoti his package, which comprises the tape, three cans of corned beef, and four blocks of coconut-scented soap. She hopes this package will make Tihoti feel as if they all know of him.

  As if Pito talked about him all the time.

  Totem

  It’s true, Materena was quite upset when Pito didn’t mention her and the kids on the tape to his friend Tihoti. But look at Pito now, sitting at the kitchen table with his children, telling them about his totem. It’s so beautiful to see. Materena, mixing a cake, is feeling very moved by this family gathering.

  Pito’s totem is Piihoro, a giant black-and-white dog with a long tail. Piihoro came from the island of Raiatea and his first mission was to look after the rare black pearl. For Piihoro to come to the rescue, you call out: “Piihoro, eh, I’m Tehana blood. You’re my totem—come to me.” And Piihoro will make an appearance in a second.

  Pito has never needed, so he stresses to the kids, to get in contact with Piihoro. But one of his cousins was walking around the streets of Papeete one night when a gang of hoods confronted him. Pito’s cousin called out, “Piihoro, eh, I’m Tehana blood. You’re my totem, come to me.” Soon after, the no-goods began to yell like lunatics and they ran off at one hundred miles per hour, calling out for their mamas.

  Materena chuckles. “Eh, Pito,” she says sweetly, “your cousin—you’re sure he wasn’t a bit drunk that night?”

  “You’re telling me the story of my cousin is a lot of inventing?” Pito is on the defensive.

  Materena keeps on mixing her cake. There are days when it’s best just to listen to Pito’s talk and make no comments.

  Pito goes on about how we, the Polynesian people, all have a totem, but not many of us know what our totem is, because when the white people arrived, totem talk became forbidden.

  One of Pito’s aunties has a newspaper clipping about Piihoro in her family album. Pito is going to get it for the kids to read, although there’s no guarantee that his auntie is going to lend that newspaper clipping, because the last time she lent something out of her photo album to a relative, it never came back.

  “What is your totem, Mamie?” Leilani asks.

  Materena confesses that she doesn’t know what her totem is but she’s going to inquire about it tomorrow.

  But as soon as the cake is in the oven, Materena hurries to Loana’s house. She’s too curious to wait for tomorrow, and she wouldn’t mind her totem being a creature of the sea, because she loves the sea.

  Loana is raking when Materena arrives. They kiss each other. Materena asks her mother about her health, and Loana complains about her legs being a bit stiff when she wakes up in the morning. Then Materena compliments her mother on the garden and Loana complains about the lack of rain.

  Now Materena can reveal the real reason for her visit. “Mamie, I’ve come to ask you about my totem.”


  “Eh, what? What is this question about your totem?” Loana looks surprised.

  “I’m just curious because Pito told the kids about his totem and I want to tell the kids about mine.”

  “What is Pito’s totem?” Loana says, squinting.

  “It’s a dog, a giant black-and-white dog called Piihoro.” Materena knows her mother is going to make some comment about Pito’s totem being a giant dog.

  “It can’t be just a dog,” Loana says. “It has to be a giant dog.”

  Materena ignores her mother’s comment. “And my totem, what is it?”

  “I don’t know.” Loana’s answer is firm. But then she goes on about how she knows that the totem of her father is the shark, but, since the totem can only be passed from the mother, Materena’s totem can’t be the shark.

  “How come the totem can only be passed from the mother and not the father?” Materena is perplexed.

  “What do you think?” Loana says.

  Materena shrugs, so Loana spells out the reason. The totem can only be passed from the mother because a child is sure to be that woman’s child but not necessarily that woman’s man’s child.

  “Ah.” Yes, now Materena understands.

  Loana thinks awhile, then says, “Your totem could be the turtle.” Loana tells Materena about how her mother was so fond of turtles that she would never eat the turtle. One day, there was a feast and they served barbecued turtle in coconut milk, and Kika said, “I can’t eat the turtle.” And someone immediately said, “Yes, of course you can’t eat the turtle.”

  Materena hurries to declare that she too is very fond of turtles. There was a documentary on the TV not long ago about a turtle laying eggs, and the camera was focused on the turtle’s face. Materena saw the tears, the silent tears of suffering, and tears came to her eyes too, she felt the turtle’s pain. And then, when the turtle struggled back into the sea, Materena said, “Go on, turtle—courage.”

  Loana nods. She informs Materena that she too watched that documentary and it made her cry. In fact, Loana goes on, any woman who’s given birth would have related to the turtle’s pain and cried. You don’t need to have the turtle as your totem to feel sorry for the turtle.

  Materena is very happy her totem might be the turtle.

  She excuses herself to Loana, explaining that she’s got to hurry home because there’s a cake in the oven, but how about Loana comes for dinner soon? “Eh, Mamie?” asks Materena. “We eat together tomorrow?”

  Loana looks up to think a little. “Okay, I’m pretty sure I’m free.”

  “See you tomorrow, then.” And with this Materena runs home.

  Pito and the kids are still in the kitchen waiting for the marble cake to be ready. Materena checks it, but there’s still a bit more cooking to go.

  And then, standing next to the oven, Materena proudly announces that her totem is the turtle.

  “The turtle!” Pito laughs his head off.

  According to him, from the time you called out for help to the arrival of the turtle, one hundred years would have passed. Materena reminds him of the rabbit-and-turtle story. The turtle won the race, didn’t it?

  “It was a tortoise, which is different from a turtle, and, anyway, it’s only in popa’a stories that tortoises or turtles win and rabbits lose.”

  Pito asks the kids what totem they would rather call out to, the fast giant dog or the slow turtle. There’s hesitation at the kitchen table. The kids look at each other.

  “Eh, you don’t have a choice, anyway,” Materena says. “You can only call out to the turtle.”

  “How come we can only call out to the turtle?” the children ask.

  “Because the totem can only be passed from the mother and not the father,” Materena says.

  And Pito wants to know how come the totem can only be passed from the mother and not from the father, and Materena repeats what her mother told her.

  “It’s been like that for hundreds of years,” she adds. “It’s not a new rule and you can’t change that rule. So Piihoro is not your totem after all.”

  “Ah.” Pito doesn’t look too happy with this information.

  He now inquires about the cake.

  But there’s no changing the subject. Everyone wants to know what Pito’s totem is, and Pito seems uneasy and annoyed.

  His answer, which finally comes after a long silence, is abrupt. “It’s the gecko.”

  The children shriek.

  “Ah, be careful, you lot,” Pito snaps. “You don’t want the gecko to fall on your head in the middle of the night. Show respect.”

  And Materena is chuckling as she takes the cake out of the oven. She’s chuckling because Pito is not fond of geckos at all.

  He always keeps a flashlight under the bed, and when he hears the clicking sound of a gecko, he gets that flashlight real quick and shines it on the ceiling to check if there’s a gecko up there. Right above his head.

  And when there is a gecko sleeping on the ceiling right above his head, Pito either tries to shoo it away with the broom or he moves the bed to the other side of the bedroom. Most of the time, he wakes Materena up to help him move the bed.

  A while later, there’s a gecko on the ceiling, and Pito grabs the flashlight from under the bed. Then he wakes Materena up to help him move the bed to the other side of the bedroom.

  Materena, who has been sleeping a deep, beautiful sleep, is furious. “How can you be afraid of a gecko? It’s your totem!”

  “Eh, my totem and that fat gecko, they’re not the same, okay?” Pito is illuminating the gecko with his flashlight.

  He goes on about how it’s not his fault that he’s afraid of geckos. It is the fault of his mama.

  Mama Roti was seven months pregnant with Pito and resting in the living room when a fat gecko fell from the ceiling and landed on her uncovered belly. She opened her eyes, saw the gecko, and screamed her head off.

  In Pito’s opinion, he was born with the fear of geckos in him.

  The bed is on the other side of the bedroom now and Materena hops back in and makes herself comfortable. But Pito is standing, still illuminating the ceiling.

  “You and the geckos better start living in harmony,” Materena says.

  Pito turns off the flashlight and gets into bed.

  “Oui, it’s true. I have to fight my fear of geckos,” he says. “I can’t go on checking the ceiling every single night of my life.”

  “Ah, oui alors,” Materena agrees. It’s daunting going to bed never knowing if you’re going to get woken up in the middle of the night because there’s a gecko on the ceiling.

  Materena is just drifting off when Pito wakes her again to make an announcement. He’s getting himself a tattoo. He’s been thinking about this for weeks—a tattoo on him—but he wasn’t sure what it should be. Until now.

  Materena hopes it’s not a dragon spitting fire—that makes you look like you’ve had a visit to the prison. When Mori had that green and red dragon spitting fire tattooed on his chest, his mama went crazy. She believed that the dragon made her son look like he’d had a visit to the prison, which he had, but there was no need to tell the whole population.

  There’s no way Materena is letting Pito have a dragon tattooed on him.

  “I’m not giving permission for you to have a dragon tattoo,” she says.

  “Eh what!” Pito exclaims. “Did I ever talk to you about dragons?”

  “Ah, the tattoo is not a dragon?” Materena is relieved.

  “I don’t want a dragon,” Pito says. “I’m not Chinese.”

  “You don’t need to be Chinese, look at my cousin Mori.”

  “Your cousin Mori and I, we’re not the same,” Pito snaps. “And what is this permission business, eh? I don’t need your permission. When you had that perm, did you ask my permission? Non. You went straight to the hairdresser, and when I saw you, I didn’t recognize you, I thought you were a sheep.”

  Materena takes a deep breath. “A perm, it’s for a few months. A
tattoo, it’s for eternity. What kind of tattoo are you going to have?”

  She hopes it’s not a heart pierced with an arrow. Her cousin James got one of them and it looks ridiculous.

  Pito reveals that his tattoo is going to be a gecko.

  And Materena thinks, Ah well, maybe the fear of geckos is going to disappear for good once Pito tattoos one of them on his body.

  “And where are you going to put that gecko?” she asks.

  Pito’s gecko is going on his thigh, and this doesn’t make sense to Materena.

  “What’s the point of having a tattoo if it’s to hide it?”

  “My tattoo, it’s not to show off, it’s… it’s . . .” Pito searches for the right words.

  Five minutes later: “It’s like my identity.”

  Materena slowly nods. She’s going back to sleep, but she’s remembering her godfather Hotu’s tattoo. He has a tattoo on his right shoulder. It is the name of the woman he loves—Imelda.

  Hotu was fifteen years old when he had that tattoo done, and he went to show it off to Imelda. They weren’t together at the time. Imelda got angry with Hotu. She said, “Ah, now that my name is tattooed on you, I’m forced to accept you.”

  Materena wouldn’t mind having her name tattooed on Pito. Right underneath the gecko. There are no reasons why Pito shouldn’t tattoo my name on his body, Materena thinks. I’m his wife.

  “Pito, and my name? Can you tattoo it on you? Next to the gecko?” Materena is caressing Pito’s thigh.

  “I’m not tattooing any name on me,” Pito says. “Just my gecko.”

  “Fine.” Materena turns her back on Pito. “Maybe you’re going to stop being afraid of geckos once you get one tattooed on you. But you don’t know, eh? Your tattoo might attract geckos to come your way, crawling up your legs to say hello to their mate, sleeping on your thigh.”

  Materena waits for Pito to yell at her, but he just pulls the quilt over himself.

  Brooming

  Materena is now setting the record straight with Loana about Pito’s totem. It is not a giant dog at all but a gecko. Loana’s come, as discussed, to share a meal with her daughter, her daughter’s man, and her grandchildren. As Materena gets the baked chicken out of the oven and calls Pito and the children, she whispers to her mother that it’s best she doesn’t tease Pito about it.