Tiare in Bloom (28 page)

What women should do, well, according to Pito anyway, is to go away for a whole weekend now and then. Go, leave the children
with their father, disappear, but don’t tell the father what to do, what not to do. Just walk out of the house and close the
door. Like Materena did with Pito, like Lily is doing with Ati.

Materena had no idea Pito felt that way. She takes his hand in hers and squeezes it tight. “All right, then,” she says. “We
can go camping.”

“This weekend?” Tamatoa, sweating from his dance rehearsal, doesn’t look too happy about this. But at least Pito is pleased
that it isn’t looking after Tiare that is making his son unhappy, it is the fact that he’s expected to do it
this
weekend. Pito had expected to have to give his son a long sermon on fatherhood.

“I can’t, Papi, not this Saturday.”

“Why? What’s happening this Saturday?”

“I’m meeting this girl.”

“You like her?”

Tamatoa shrugs. “She has a sexy belly button.”

“She can’t wait until next Saturday, her and her belly button?” Before Tamatoa gives his father his answer, Pito tells him
that his mother had to wait for more than twenty-five years to have a romantic night with her husband. Surely, whoever that
girl is, seven more days isn’t going to kill her.

Tamatoa chuckles. “You’re right, Papi.”

Pito is so tempted to go ahead and give his son a sermon on fatherhood, like how it doesn’t mean leaving a child at home on
her own, it doesn’t mean not feeding her for a whole day and a whole night . . . But sometimes a father must trust his son.

And now, Saturday morning, close to seven thirty, the grandparents are saying their good-byes, glad to see that Tiare is taking
the good-byes so well, but then again, she’s very interested in what her father is mixing in the bowl.

“
E aha te ra?
”

“Pancake.”

“Pancake?
E aha te ra?
”

“It’s good.”

“It’s good?
Mona, mona?
”

Tamatoa smiles. “She speaks Tahitian a lot.” He turns to his daughter. “
Oui,
it’s
mona, mona.
”

Ah, it’s good to see, and Materena reminds her son to make sure he turns off the gas bottle at night because . . .

“
Allez,
Mama,” Pito interrupts, “let’s go before we miss the ferry.”

The car, loaded with camping equipment which Pito borrowed from Ati, is ready to go on a little adventure all the way to Moorea,
one hour by ferry from Tahiti.

“
Eh hia,
” Materena sighs, turning the engine on, “I hope that —”

“Everything is going to be all right.” Pito interrupts Materena before she winds herself up with worries. But it seems that
it is a woman’s second nature to worry, because that’s all Materena does. About this, about that, if Tamatoa will remember
to close the gas bottle, if Tamatoa will remember that Tiare doesn’t like her rice soggy, if this, if that. The worrying pours
out of Materena’s mouth nonstop driving to Papeete, during the ferry ride, standing at the rails and holding on to Pito tight
like she’s scared he’ll fall into the deep blue sea or something.

Materena only starts to relax at Temae Beach, the chosen camping site, the only beach without a TABOO sign nailed to a tree.
She even manages to laugh her head off helping Pito set up the tent.

“I’m so relaxed!” she says as they go for a walk, picking up shells and funny-shaped rocks, and later on as they frolic in
the sea.

Materena also feels very relaxed after the passionate sexy loving in the tent (her first ever sexy loving experience in a
tent, and how wonderful it was except perhaps a bit hard on the back) as they get the fire ready, barbecue their breadfruit,
and heat up their corned beef to celebrate their first Saturday away as a couple.

Night falls, stars appear, and there, right in front of the lovers, far away in the distance, is the magnificent island of
Tahiti, all lit up like a Christmas tree. Thousands of lights, this way, that way, up high in the mountains, on the shore.
It makes you think about things . . .

Like those expensive calls to France leading nowhere. So far, Materena has called twenty-one people of her list of fifty-two
phone numbers, and nobody knows Tom Delors who did military service in Tahiti. But one woman did point out to Materena that
the name
Delors
was very common in France.

“I’m so relaxed!” Materena forces the exclamation.

“Me too!” Pito doesn’t sound too convincing either.

If a stranger were to walk past and glance at this couple sitting by the fire, he would think it odd that they look so gloomy
on such a romantic night. Why the funeral face? It’s bizarre. The stranger would probably put this down to a lover’s spat,
but then he would tell himself that it couldn’t be, since these two people sitting by the fire don’t look angry. They just
look . . . sad, really. A bit flat. An amicable separation, maybe? The last night before the end . . .
Ah oui,
how tragic.

“I’m worried.” There, Materena has decided to speak the truth.

“Okay, me too.”

Just then, a shooting star flashes by, heading towards the ocean, traveling very fast, giving people who believe that a shooting
star is a chance from the sky merely two to four seconds to come up with a wish from their heart. People are often caught
unprepared and panic, coming up with a wish only after the shooting star has disappeared. In this case, the wish doesn’t count,
since you’ve got to make it there and then, on the spot. Since Materena and Pito have been wishing nearly all day, they have
no trouble coming up with a wish within one second.

Meanwhile, back in Faa’a, a young father is putting his daughter to bed, realizing how little she is, how fragile she looks,
defenseless. At the door, his new friends look on.

“Tamatoa,
mon bijou,
” Brigitte says with her much-practiced femme-fatale voice, “you’re the man — you make sure your daughter grows up safe. The
world is a dangerous place.” This
raerae extraordinaire
knows what she’s talking about. Born a boy, the last child of the family, and raised as a girl by the mother, Brigitte has
seen all kinds of colors as a woman.

“Look after her, Tamatoa,” she says. “Don’t fail your daughter’s trust in you.”

W
hen his daughter grows up, Tamatoa tells his father — actually, as soon as she’s six years old, perhaps even sooner — he will
get her into kung fu classes. Father and son are sharing a beer at the kitchen table, in between drinking their required glasses
of water.

“Kung fu?” Pito cackles. “Why? You want your daughter to be the next Bruce Lee?”

“Heh, and why not, eh?” Tamatoa sees no reason to set limits on his little girl; but for now,
non,
Tamatoa has no intention for Tiare to be a martial arts expert. He just wants her to be able to defend herself against idiots.
This is worrying him a bit, he admits, having a daughter, a pretty daughter, so it’s best she knows a few self-defense tricks.
“There are too many idiots running around who are after only one thing,” he says.

“Like you?” Pito teases.

“I never forced a girl,” Tamatoa says seriously, to show his father the kind of man he is. “If a girl is not interested, it’s
not the end of the world for me.”

“That’s good.”

“But I get girls easily.” Tamatoa is not showing off here, he’s just stating the truth. He’s got the eyes girls (and women)
love looking into, the body girls (and women) can’t have enough of, and a smooth tongue that can whip out a charming conversation.

“What about boys who can’t get girls easily?” Tamatoa goes on. “They’re the boys I’m worried about, they don’t always take
no, those animals. If one of them hurts my daughter, I tell you, Papi, I’m going to slice his throat. I’m going to
taparahi
him until he dies, until he chokes on his blood and vomit —”

Pito takes a sip of water.

“My daughter isn’t going to be a victim,” Tamatoa says. “She’s not going to be a statistic, because she’s going to know how
to defend herself.” His daughter won’t need to call out for help, Tamatoa continues, she won’t need to pray either, she won’t
panic or cry for mercy,
non.

She will surprise her assailant with a powerful punch in his gut and a sharp kick in his
couilles,
and then she will run and not look over her shoulder. Her assailant will run after her, cursing his head off, but he will
not catch up to her because she will run like the wind.

Oui,
that’s why Tiare will be joining an athletics club as soon as she’s five. Tamatoa has just decided this. His daughter will
be a Tahitian gazelle, and she will have iron fists too. Nobody will be pushing her around,
ah-ha
no way.

“I remember a girl,” Tamatoa says, “she was about nine and I was ten, it was at school, she had a packet of Twisties in her
hand, and I told her, ‘Give me the Twisties or I’m going to
taparahi
you.’ She started to cry and gave me her Twisties. This is not going to happen to my daughter. Someone tries that trick on
her, she’s going to laugh and say, ‘You want two black-buttered eyes?’”

Well, maybe Tiare won’t have to do that, Tamatoa elaborates, because she will already have a reputation, she will be known
as that girl who takes
merde
from nobody, not even bossy boys who steal Twisties. She will have muscular arms, and eyes that fear nothing. She’ll never
cry because a boy took all her marbles — nobody will be touching her marbles, it’s simple.

She won’t ever cut a lock of her hair to give to a boy who doesn’t even like her, and she will NOT follow a boy into the school
toilets to show him her private parts just because he wants to see and she thinks he’ll like her after she does what he wants.
If a boy ever asks Tiare to show him her private parts, she’ll laugh and say, “Ah, you want to see my private parts, eh? Well,
here’s my private parts.” Bang, she’ll knock that stupid boy’s teeth out.

Pito is starting to wonder how much of this is coming from Tamatoa’s personal experience, but his son is not finished. Tiare,
he announces, will not be wasting time doing a boy’s homework just because he said, “You’re so pretty, can you do my homework?”
She’ll be doing her own homework and get good marks like her Auntie Leilani. And she will be strong like her Auntie Leilani.
She will say what Leilani used to tell boys: “I’m not a servant in my own house, why should I be in yours?”

So this is Tamatoa’s plan. He will never ask his daughter to get him a beer out of the fridge and turn her into a servant.
He will never tell his daughter that she’s ugly, like the father of one girl he knew, who was willing by seventeen years old
to do anything (and by
anything
Tamatoa means
anything
) a boy asked her in return for a small compliment. He will never tell his daughter that she can’t do this, she can’t do that,
because she’s a girl . . .

“In short,” Tamatoa continues, “I’m going to raise my daughter like you raised my sister.”

“Eh?” As far as Pito is concerned, Materena is responsible for Leilani’s raising.

He did very little with his daughter. He never took her to a soccer match. Never took her fishing. Leilani was always stuck
at home with her mother. “Like I raised your sister?” he says.

“You never treated her like she was your servant,” Tamatoa says. “And you’ve never told her that she couldn’t do this, she
couldn’t do that, just because she was a girl, and look at Leilani now. She’s strong, she takes
merde
from nobody.”

And before Pito can say, Look, I appreciate the compliments and everything, but the person you should really be complimenting
here is your mother, Tamatoa steps in. “I had a really good weekend with my daughter, Papi . . . Thank you for opening my
eyes.”

He continues to talk about the girls he met and who grew up without a father, and how insecure they were. “Papi, there was
this girl,” Tamatoa says, “she was mad, but my God, she was beautiful, a
canon!
”

Tamatoa loved walking with that girl in public. Everyone would look at her, and Tamatoa would laugh in his head, “Bad luck
for you! She’s with me!” But she asked the stupidest questions. “Would you still find me beautiful if I had no toes?”
Oui,
Tamatoa would say. “Would you still find me beautiful if I had only one eye?”
Oui.
“One arm?”
Oui.
“No fingers?”
Oui, oui, oui,
shut up and take your clothes off.

“Then one night, we were at a restaurant, just about to order, and she says, ‘It’s the end of the world, and you can have
only one more kiss. Who is it going to be with?’ and I said, ‘Isabelle Adjani.’”

That name flew out of Tamatoa’s mouth before he could think because . . . well, he wouldn’t mind kissing Isabelle Adjani before
he dies. What a way to go! She’s more than a
canon,
she’s a goddess! Anyway, no sooner had Tamatoa given his answer than his mad girlfriend flicked her glass of water at him,
stood up, gave Tamatoa a long look, and said, “How could you ever be the father of my children?” Then she left, just like
that!

“You didn’t go after her?” Pito asks.

“Would you have gone after her?”

Pito thinks about this. “I don’t think she would have been with me in the first place.”

Tamatoa shakes his head and half cackling says, “I don’t know why I attract girls who don’t have a father. I must have a tattoo
on my forehead or something.” Anyway, Tamatoa’s point for today is that daughters need a father, and he’s persuaded that the
reason why Miri is crazy in the head is because she grew up without a father.

“There’s her childhood too,” Pito reminds Tamatoa. He won’t go into Miri’s childhood — well, the little he knows (and guessed)
from Miri’s short letters full of self-pity.

“
Ah oui,
” Tamatoa admits. “She did have a . . . colorful childhood.” Meaning, drama galore.

“And you’re being careful with your seeds at the moment?” Pito asks.