Breadfruit

by Célestine Vaite

  “I know about the quarts of wine,” she said. “We all lost land over quarts of wine, and the land we lost over quarts of wine is not the issue here. The issue here is that there was a private-property sign and Materena ignored it. Is the sign really visible?”

  “Well, it’s nailed to a tree,” Materena replied.

  “How high?”

  Materena wasn’t sure what Maeva was asking her.

  “Is the sign nailed at eye level?”

  “Non, it’s higher.”

  “Do you have to lift your head to read the sign?”

  “Ah oui.”

  “Do you always lift your head when you see a tree?”

  “Oui, to see if there’s anything ripe in that tree.”

  “We’re talking about an aito tree here, oui?”

  “Oui.”

  “And there’s nothing ripe in an aito tree.”

  “Well, the aito doesn’t have fruit.”

  Materena was getting more and more confused.

  “So when a tree doesn’t have fruit, you don’t look up—

  correct?”

  “True.”

  Loana made an interruption. “Why are we talking about trees?”

  “We’re talking about trees because the sign, which is the core of this story, is nailed to a tree.” Maeva looked at Materena. “Describe the sign to me.”

  “Well… there’s a black board and the writing is in white.”

  “How big is the board?”

  Materena shows Maeva with her hands.

  “Okay,” Maeva said. “It’s not a big sign. And the letters—are they capital letters?”

  “Non—normal.”

  “Is the sign only written in French?”

  “Oui.”

  Maeva nodded. “Did you see the sign the first time you went there?”

  “Non.”

  “How come?”

  “You can’t see that sign if you don’t look for it.”

  “Why is it that you can’t see the sign?”

  “It’s a bit hidden by the branches.”

  “Did the gendarme ever point out the sign to you?”

  “Non.”

  Maeva stopped typing and swung her office chair to face Materena and Loana.

  “Okay. You go take a photograph of that sign. Make sure you can’t see the whole sign in the photograph. Don’t you two cut the branches to make that sign more visible.”

  “That’s all we do?” Loana asked.

  “Oui.”

  Loana had thought her cousin was going to tell them to argue about a particular article in the law that said that when the land is sold over a few quarts of red wine, the original owners of the land still have the right to the land in some way.

  “That’s really all we do?” she asked again.

  “Can I go to prison for this?” Materena asked.

  Maeva did her serious-business look. “Girl, if you go to prison, your story is going to be on the television. Nobody can be accused of trespassing on private property when the private-property sign is not visible.”

  So Materena and Loana went to take a photograph of that not-visible sign.

  They also went to the courthouse three days ago to familiarize themselves with the environment—Loana’s idea. They sat at the back and watched and listened. There was a young man who stole a TV—he got convicted. There was a young man who stole a car—he got convicted. There was another young man who stole a hi-fi system—he got convicted. The judge spoke harshly to these young men, like he was fiu of dealing with thieves. There were mamas and grandmamas crying all over the place. One man (the one who stole the car) yelled out, “I’m innocent!”

  And the judge said, “Get a job—and pity your mother for a change.”

  “You can’t compare yourself to them,” Loana reassured Materena once they were outside the courthouse. “They’re hoodlums and you’re a hardworking mother. You’re going to get dressed nice—you have to look respectable. Those hoodlums, they didn’t even comb their hair.”

  Loana advised Materena to take the kids to the tribunal because apparently the judge always feels sorry for you when you’ve got kids, but Materena refused. The kids, they’re going to school.

  The kids don’t know about the court summons.

  Materena’s boss doesn’t know about the court summons.

  And Pito can’t take a day off, because he’s had so many (due to hangovers) that he might lose his job.

  Materena and Loana are in the truck now, on their way to Papeete. It’s nine thirty, there’s plenty of time, but Materena wants to be in the tribunal way before eleven o’clock because it’s best to be in the tribunal early. Then you don’t keep the judge waiting.

  Materena is wearing a dress, and her hair is plaited in two plaits. There’s no rouge on her cheeks, and there’s no flower behind her ear. There’s just the dress and the bleached white, flat shoes. And the pandanus bag.

  The rock-and-roll music in the truck is annoying her. It’s too loud. But you don’t tell the driver what music he can play in his truck.

  “You’ve got the photos?” Loana asks in Materena’s ear.

  “Oui.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, Mamie.”

  But Loana wants to see the photographs with her own eyes, so Materena gets the photo holder out of her bag. There are thirty-six photos of the tree and the PRIVATE PROPERTY TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED sign that you can’t really see. They used a whole roll of film. Loana flicks through the photos. She’s satisfied now, she puts the photos back in the holder. Materena puts the holder back in her bag.

  “Don’t you get nervous.” Loana puts her comforting hand on Materena’s shoulder. “Stay calm.”

  “Yes.”

  “Because when you get nervous, you say a whole lot of nonsense.”

  Materena, looking out the window, nods.

  “Like how you’ve gone to that place six times,” Loana goes on. “I told you not to go there. Ah hia hia, the children, we think once they’re grown-ups, we don’t have to worry about them, but the worrying never stops.”

  Materena keeps looking out the window.

  “Stay calm,” Loana says.

  “I’m calm.”

  “Don’t be afraid of the judge. He’s just a person. Just imagine him on the toilet. He’s somebody, but he’s not God. Ah, if I had the money, I would have hired a lawyer to defend you. A lawyer has to be better than you defending yourself. A lawyer knows the tricks and the rules. All you’ve got are photos.”

  “I can defend myself.” Materena strives to sound confident.

  “Don’t cry at the tribunal,” Loana says.

  “I’m not going to cry.”

  “When we cry, it’s like we’re guilty. The judge doesn’t like it when we cry in front of him. He prefers it when we stay calm.”

  “Yes.” Materena wishes her mother would keep quiet. She’s concentrating here.

  “Don’t forget that when you speak to the judge, you have to call him Your Highness.”

  “Yes, I know.” What is the boss going to say when she finds out about the conviction?

  “And don’t talk to Your Highness the way you talk normally. We don’t say ‘eh’ to Your Highness.”

  “Yes.” Pito, he can’t even cook rice.

  “Look at the judge in the eyes.”

  “Yes.” Materena’s voice is now a sad murmur. And my poor kids, eh. No way I’m going to prison.

  “Do you think you’re a pilot?” the judge asks.

  Materena is standing before him, her head held up high but not so high that the judge would mistake respect for arrogance. She’s surprised about the question. She thought the first question Your Highness was going to ask her would be, “Did you see the private-property sign?” She would then have said, “No, Your Highness, because the sign is not very visible, and I’ve got proof, I’ve got photos.”

  Does she think she’s a pilot? Of course not! Why would she think that she’s
a pilot? Is Your Highness trying to trick her?

  “Non, Your Highness.” Materena hesitates. “I don’t think I’m a pilot.”

  “Er, it’s Your Honor,” the judge says. Then, “Imagine you and the children are on the landing strip and a plane has to land.” The judge looks into Materena’s eyes. “Are you imagining?”

  Materena wants to tell Your Highness (Honor) that they only cross the landing strip when the light is green, and the light is still green by the time they reach the other side. Also, she always checks the sky for planes, she knows that sometimes planes have to do an emergency landing and the pilot doesn’t have time to contact the traffic controllers. It’s a risk to cross the landing strip, Materena realizes that, but it’s safer to cross the landing strip than it is to cross the road.

  She can’t imagine herself and the kids on the landing strip when a plane has to land. But she’s not going to argue with Your Highness.

  “Yes,” she says. “I’m imagining.”

  There’s a moment of silence.

  “Anything can happen,” Your Highness goes on. “The pilot might try to divert the plane and in doing so crash the plane, killing hundreds of people… or he might choose to run you and your children over. Are you imagining?”

  Ah yes, Materena is imagining now, and she’s not feeling good.

  “And I do not count the fact,” Your Highness says, “that you are endangering yourself and your children by swimming at the airport. Underwater electrical cables, for example.”

  Materena gives Your Highness a shocked look. “Underwater electrical cables? It doesn’t say on the private-property sign that there’s underwater electrical cables.”

  “So you knew about the private-property sign.” The judge looks a bit angry now.

  Materena too, she’s angry. She’s not thinking about her defense. She’s only thinking about how her kids and she could have been electrocuted.

  “Monsieur,” she says, “I know all about electrical cables. My brother, he was an electrician once. I know you don’t mess around with electrical cables, and I never do mess around with electrical cables. We can die when we mess around with electrical cables. Now, monsieur, that sign doesn’t say anything about the electrical cables.”

  Materena is forgetting to call the judge Your Highness or Your Honor. “You imagine a little, eh? My kids, they’re swimming and they get electrocuted because nobody told me about the electrical cables. Imagine how I’m going to feel. I’m going to feel like I killed them. I’m never ever going near that place again. And, monsieur, that private-property sign better be fixed… I’m glad the gendarme sent me a court summons.”

  Ah yes, she’s blessing that man now. She’s taking back all the bad talk she and Loana did about him—how his woman left him for a younger man because he’s a cranky old bastard, etc. And then Materena starts crying. She tries to fight the crying, but the revelation about these underwater electrical cables—it’s too much of a shock.

  “I’m happy we didn’t get electrocuted.” Materena is now wiping her eyes with the palm of her hand. “Give me one hundred thousand francs, give me a million francs, I’m never ever going to that place behind the airport.”

  Case dismissed.

  Teacher

  What a shock about those electrical cables… her children came so close to being killed… Materena is still crying as she walks to the market past the clothes shops, wiping her tears with the back of her hands.

  “Mamie,” she says, “I’m going to buy the kids a surprise.” By surprise, Materena means a family-size packet of chocolate cookies—something nice to eat that her kids don’t often have. She might even buy a big, juicy watermelon on top of the surprise. “I can’t believe . . .” Materena stops talking to look at her mother, standing still, with a pained expression on her face. “Mamie?”

  Loana hurries to hide behind a rack of clothes reduced by 50 percent, with Materena following.

  “Look at that man,” Loana whispers. “There, walking slow steps, a pandanus bag on his arm.”

  Materena looks at the old man and looks at her mother. Is she supposed to know that old man?

  The man stops to sit on a bench and roll a cigarette. He doesn’t notice the two women standing next to the rack of clothes reduced by 50 percent—eyeing him. He gets a book from his pandanus bag and reads, all the while smoking his cigarette.

  Materena waits for her mother to tell her who the man is. Loana knows a lot of people and it isn’t unusual for her to bump into a number of them when she’s in town. Materena is used to her mother chitchatting for long minutes at a time with someone she knows or used to know, or someone who’s a bit related to her.

  “That man was my teacher.” Loana is still whispering. “He’s an old man now but he was a young man when he taught me all those grammatical rules and mathematical formulas.”

  “In Rangiroa?” Materena is whispering because her mother is.

  “Of course in Rangiroa,” replies Loana, now talking with her normal voice. “I didn’t go to school in Tahiti. I only went to school in Rangiroa.”

  “Ah—well, go say iaorana.”

  “Oui, I’m going to say iaorana to him. I’m sure he’s going to recognize me, I was his best student.”

  But Loana doesn’t go over to her teacher. She just hides behind the clothes rack.

  “Go on.” Materena is puzzled. Usually when her mother wants to have a little chitchat with someone, she just marches over to that someone and calls out, “Iaorana!”

  “He’ll think I’m somebody now, you see,” Loana says.

  “Mamie, you raised us kids. You are somebody.”

  “Non, it’s best he doesn’t know I clean houses.” Loana’s voice is a sad murmur now. “It’s best Teacher thinks that Loana Mahi, the daughter of Kika, is somebody—a secretary or a teacher.”

  The man has finished his cigarette and slowly rises to his feet and walks away—he’s gone.

  Tears well in Loana’s eyes. “My teacher, eh.”

  In the truck, on the way home, Loana talks more about her teacher, she talks about the days when she was at school.

  “In my day… it was forbidden to speak the native language on the school grounds. We speak miri-roa in Rangiroa, it’s like the Tahitian language but a bit more singing and with a few different words.

  “Oui, we had to speak the French language, but it’s a bit difficult to play in a foreign language, so at every lunch break Teacher would always catch a student breaking his command, and, that student, well, he got the porcelain shell. His mission: find another miri-roa-language user and pass the porcelain.

  “The porcelain shell transformed you into a person with a contagious skin disease. Everybody would run away from you, tell you to go to another direction, call you tiho tiho, the informer. Only the tough ones continued to play, and speak the native language, without fear of getting the porcelain shell. Their warning: ‘You give me that shell and you’re going to get it after school.’

  “When the first person to have the porcelain shell was a tough, he would get rid of it in a rapid second. He would walk up to somebody and say, ‘Take this or you’re going to get it after school.’

  “That was how I would get the porcelain shell, girl.

  “One day I told Teacher, ‘It’s much easier to play in miri-roa. The French language, it’s for inside the class.’

  “‘Loana,’ he said, ‘I’m the teacher and I’m telling you, the French language is to speak as soon as you enter the school yard. Do you think I’d be a teacher today if I didn’t force myself to speak the French language every day, more than my own language?’

  “Some days, when the porcelain shell wasn’t passing around as much as Teacher expected, everyone got special punishment: weeding, and scrubbing the grapefruit leaves.

  “And writing I must speak French at school one hundred times.”

  Materena nods. She can relate to her mother’s story. It was also forbidden to speak Tahitian on the school grounds in
Materena’s school days, and she remembers the nuns pacing the school ground, their ears wide open for a foreign word. Things have changed now, and the Tahitian language is being taught at school.

  “He was a devoted teacher, that man,” Loana says. “He was always arguing with the parents for allowing their children to miss out on school—the girls to help with the cleaning, the boys to fish and work copra.

  “‘Paper is the future!’ he often said. And one of the parents would always respond, ‘Coconuts—always plenty on trees. Fish—everywhere in the ocean. A girl, she needs to learn how to cook.’

  “Teacher had a vision: to see more Polynesian teachers, so many they wouldn’t need to come from France to teach us. In his vision, there was even a Polynesian governor, and, who knows, he could be from Rangiroa!

  “People laughed at his vision. Some said, ‘The other teacher was better. He didn’t interfere with people’s lives. He didn’t try to change us.’ And, ‘That teacher, he’s a dreamer. He should go back to Tahiti.’

  “Teacher was obsessed with getting his students to pass the school certificate, but every year all he got were failures. One year, a few years before I was in his class, he seriously considered giving up teaching, but his wife threatened to leave him. She told him he didn’t study all these years to become a postman.

  “There were only two classes in the school. One class for the little kids and one for the big kids. Teacher was my teacher for three years, and during that time he discovered that I had—and I don’t mean to show off to you—I had an amazing memory.”

  Materena hugged Loana. “Mamie, you still have an amazing memory. You always remember people’s names and words they told you, even if it was ten years ago.”

  Loana cackles, but not loud. She doesn’t want the other passengers of the truck to think she’s mocking them. They are German tourists with sunburned noses, thongs, and cameras hanging at their necks. They just look out the window.

  “Girl,” Loana says, “the reason my memory is good is because your grandmother didn’t like to repeat herself. She would tell me her orders once and I better register them… Teacher only had to tell me a grammatical rule or mathematical formula once for me to register, whereas with the other students, he had to repeat and repeat, and sometimes he would fall on his chair and rest his head on the table for a while. Other times he smashed his cane on the board and left the room to go have a cigarette outside… I can see him, eh, my teacher. His hands are white from the chalk. His face is brown-red from the frustration. He’s having his cigarette outside, and there’s total silence in the class.”