Authors: Célestine Vaite
Tiare in Bloom
Copyright © 2006 by Célestine Hitiura Vaite
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced,
distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written
permission of the publisher.
WARNER BOOKS
Hachette Book Group
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Visit our Web site at
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.
First eBook Edition: June 2007
ISBN: 978-0-316-07272-4
Contents
Two Nights Ago on the Dance Floor
Man in a Suit Walking in the Rain
Getting Some but Not in Your Own Backyard
Welcome to Our Humble Neighborhood
Love Like When You Can’t Think Proper
Célestine Vaite on why Pito’s voice had to be heard
Breadfruit
A wise, enchanting tale of Tahitian-style romance, introducing Materena Mahi, whose cleverness, generosity, and appreciation
of island traditions make her one of the most appealing heroines in contemporary fiction
“Like Alexander McCall Smith in his No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency series, Vaite excels at depicting the warm sense of community
that pervades her Tahitian island setting. . . . In charming fashion, Vaite conveys universal truths about men and women and
the mysteries at the heart of every romantic relationship.”
— Joanne Wilkinson,
Booklist
“Vaite’s focus is on how one woman’s strength can affect the lives of her family and the community. . . . She writes about
real people coping and caring and somehow getting along.”
— Ginny Merdes,
Seattle Times
“Peppered with witty encounters between Materena and her nosy family. . . . When combined with Vaite’s light touch and the
exotic setting, the result is redolent of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency series — a delightful diversion.”
— Publishers Weekly
“
Breadfruit
is as much about the culture of Tahiti as it is about Materena and her impending marriage.”
— Rebecca Stuhr,
Library Journal
. . . and
Frangipani
A tale of big dreams on a small island — in which Materena Mahi, professional house cleaner and “the best listener in Tahiti,”
becomes a radio talk-show host
“What a gorgeous, evocative novel! It charmed me from beginning to end.”
— Sophie Kinsella, author of the Shopaholic series
“A winning tale of mothers and daughters. . . . An engaging debut.”
—
People
“This delightful novel speaks to the universal nature of the mother-daughter experience. Even though Célestine Vaite writes
of Tahiti, a place I’ve never been and a culture with which I’m entirely unfamiliar, I felt as if she were writing about me,
my own daughters, and my own mother.”
— Ayelet Waldman, author of
Love and Other Impossible Pursuits
“Vaite takes us beyond the resort compounds into the rhythms and rivalries of a tropical culture. A novel about two strong
women,
Frangipani
testifies to the necessity of upholding traditions and defying them too.”
— Carrington Alvarez,
Elle
“I read
Frangipani
in one sitting, falling in love with the characters. Célestine Vaite writes about the bond between mothers and daughters
with such truth and tenderness. I loved reading about the struggle between Materena and Leilani, even when it made me cry.
There are no hopes and dreams like those of a mother for her daughter, and Ms. Vaite made them so real, I found myself missing
my mother terribly.”
— Luanne Rice
“Vaite serves her culture well by taking us into the kitchens of those fibro shacks where we can hear the characters’ travails
in a chatty narrative. Generously,
Frangipani
gives us Gauguin’s women in their off hours.”
— Victoria Kelly,
San Francisco Chronicle
“A lovely and transcendent mother-daughter story. . . . An intriguing slice of Tahitian life.”
— Debbie Bogenschutz,
Library Journal
Also by
Célestine Vaite
Breadfruit
Frangipani
For my sons: Genji, Heimanu, and Toriki.
“A happy woman means a happy household.”
Remember this, boys.
P
ito Tehana steps off the truck at the petrol station facing the bakery in Faa’a. His calico bag is thrown casually over his
shoulder and a smile is on his lips because work is over. Still smiling, he gives a little, slow nod to one of his wife’s
many cousins walking to the Chinese store, meaning,
Iaorana,
you’re fine?
The woman shrugs an insolent shrug, flicks her hair, and keeps on walking.
“You need something, you,” Pito mutters under his breath.
Another of his wife’s relatives walks past, but this one has already done her grocery shopping at the Chinese store. Today,
that means a family-size packet of disposable diapers and ten breadsticks. Pito gives another
Iaorana,
you’re fine? nod. She raises an eyebrow, gives Pito a long look, and turns away.
“
Iaorana,
my arse!” Pito calls out, thinking, Here, now you have a reason to be rude to me.
He is puzzled, though. It’s not that he expects Materena’s relatives to be overwhelmed at the sight of him, they never are.
But give him a nod at least! A little nod, where’s the politeness, eh? It’s not as if he was asking for a salutation to the
sun!
Then Pito spots Materena’s cousin Mori playing his eternal accordion and drinking his beer under the mango tree near the petrol
station.
“Mori!” Pito calls out. “
E aha te huru,
Cousin?”
“
Maitai, maitai!
” Mori calls back, putting his accordion down.
Mori never ignores Pito.
Enfin,
Mori never ignores anybody. The two men shake hands.
“Eh?” Pito asks Mori, who sees and hears everything from his mango tree. “What’s the story with the Mahi family this time?”
Mori considers the question. “Well, it’s about you,
hoa hia.
”
“It’s always about me, what did I do now?”
After a moment of hesitation, Mori spills the bucket. “The family says that you don’t care about Materena’s new job because
you didn’t invite her to the restaurant and she’s been at the radio for a year.”
Pito gives Mori a blank look.
“Twelve months, Cousin,” Mori continues. “And you know about Materena’s radio program, it’s a success, it deserves champagne,
an invitation to the restaurant. It’s the most listened-to program in Tahiti, Cousin!” Seeing Pito’s incredulous face, Mori
asks, “You didn’t read
Les Nouvelles
on Tuesday?”
“
Non.
”
Mori shakes his dreadlocks, meaning, You don’t read the
news?
“There was an article, it’s official, nobody can say it’s just stories. Materena is the star of radios! But she hasn’t turned
into a
faaoru,
a show-off, she’s still the same Materena that I know. She says good morning, she talks to you.”
There, Mori has spoken the truth.
“What else are they saying about me?” Pito wants more information. What he’s just heard isn’t enough.
“You’re a big
zéro.
”
“Eh oh,” Pito protests, looking wounded.
“You’re thirsty, Cousin?” Mori hurries to ask, as if to make himself forgiven for the harsh comment.
“
Oui,
my throat is a bit dry,” Pito admits, and sits down on the concrete. He never refuses a beer with Mori. It is so rare. It’s
not that Mori is tight with his beer, but when you drink thanks to your mother’s generosity, you can’t distribute like you
want.
Pito takes a few sips of his warm beer and explains his case. He doesn’t like to eat at restaurants, it’s simple,
d’accord?
He doesn’t want somebody coughing on his food, spitting on his food, talking over his food. When you eat at a restaurant,
you don’t see what’s going on in the kitchen. And anyway, he likes to eat at home, his wife is a number-one cook . . .
“Where’s the problem?” Pito asks Mori.
“Cousin,” Mori says nicely. “Women like to eat at the restaurant now and then. It’s an occasion. They put on a beautiful dress,
makeup, shoes . . . They feel special and they have a rest.”
Pito shrugs. He’d like a rest too, and not having to work eleven months of the year. Everybody would like a little rest, but
it doesn’t mean people can tell stories about him.
“It really annoys me,” Pito continues, “when people talk like they know what they’re talking about and they don’t even know.”
By
people
Pito means women, because they’re always talking, those ones, they never shut up. “My husband did this, my husband did that.
My children talk back to me. Tonight we’re going to eat breadfruit stew . . .” They talk in the truck, outside the Chinese
store, inside the Chinese store, over hedges, under trees, by the side of the road, on the steps of the church, on the radio
. . . Even when they have the flu and their voice is croaky, they talk and talk and talk.
Mori chuckles.
“I’m sure women are born with a special mouth,” Pito says, pretending he doesn’t see the cranky look another relative by marriage
fires at him as she walks past with her breadsticks. Mori gets a friendly wave. Mori always gets a friendly wave.
“Cousin,” Pito says.
“
Oui,
Cousin.”
“What else are they saying about me?” Pito mentally prepares himself for another story. With the Mahi women, there’s never
just one story. But Mori has said enough for today, perhaps even too much. His lips are stitched.
“
Cousin?
” Pito repeats.
“That’s all I know.”
Fine. Since Mori doesn’t want to speak, Pito will say a few words. In his opinion, Materena’s relatives have never liked him.
He understood this during his first official visits to Materena at her mother’s house. Before that, Pito’s visits to Materena
were behind the bank, under a tree, in the dark, and in total secrecy. Then Materena fell pregnant and . . . welcome into
the family, eh? The moment he arrived in the neigh-borhood, the Mahi family felt they knew Pito Tehana. “I hope you’re not
going to abandon Materena after what you’ve done to her,” one of Materena’s relatives would greet him. “You better recognize
Materena’s baby.” “You better not make Materena cry.”
The first time Loana met Pito, her greeting was much shorter. “Ah, you’re here.” She did her little eyes at Pito as if he
were a nuisance and not her potential son-in-law, the father of her unborn first grandchild. “Take your thongs off before
walking into my house.”
Pito never stayed for too long back then, ten minutes was enough. He had to save a bit of energy for the journalists waiting
for him by the side of the road. “You don’t care about Materena’s baby,” they said. “We see it in your eyes. Have you bought
any blankets for the baby, at least? We don’t dance the tango alone, you know. It takes two.”
Pito couldn’t believe his ears! In his experience, a Tahitian man who does the right thing (by this, Pito means visiting the
girl he got pregnant) is feted like an
ari’i,
a king! The girl’s relatives give the father of the unborn baby a chair to sit on, and somebody (usually the grandmother)
gives him something nice to eat like cookies — fried prawns if he’s lucky. This happened to two of Pito’s brothers. But all
Pito got from Materena’s family, he tells Mori, was
tutae uri.
Dog shit.
“I bet I could write a book on all the stories your family has told about me over the years,” says Pito.
“It’s true.” Mori smiles.
Aue,
if Pito only knew! He could write a whole encyclopedia!