at the moment, or maybe
I’m just outside watering the plants, or maybe I’m at the Chinese store, but I’m not going to be too long. Leave a message
after the beep. And don’t forget to tell me your telephone number!”
Beep.
Pito hangs up.
“What happened?” the receptionist asks.
“It was a machine.”
“Why didn’t you leave a message?” Josephine does her big eyes, shaking her head with disapproval. She also has an answering
machine, she tells Pito, and she detests it when people hang up instead of leaving a message, as if leaving a message were
like asking for the moon. Josephine continues on and on about how many of her relatives have told her off for getting an answering
machine but any Tahitian with the right mind knows that when it comes to telephones, you must be selective, otherwise nothing
would ever get done. It shouldn’t be that way, really, Josephine explains to Pito, standing still like a statue at the door.
Ah,
oui alors,
people who have telephones shouldn’t have to answer their telephone praying it is someone they want to talk to and not a
cousin who needs ears for hours, eh?
“. . . Eh?” Josephine demands.
“
Oui,
” he agrees, escaping through the door.
After work, Pito decides to visit his brother Frank, and here’s the Range Rover parked in front of the house, so he’s home.
Good. Sister-in-law Vaiana is on the veranda drinking a martini with her
copines.
She’s wearing a gigantic pandanus hat and waving one hand around to show off her rings, while the other hand is delicately
placed on her chest as if to say, “I couldn’t believe it . . . they were actually talking about
moi!
”
Pito knows where to find his brother, but when you visit Frank Tehana, you must first report to Madame, otherwise she complains,
whining for days and days about his family’s lack of respect.
“He’s in his tomato plantation,” Vaiana coldly advises her brother-in-law. She used to adore Pito and call him sweet names,
“my little cabbage, my little treasure,” until one night after a few drinks, she tried to jump on Pito for a bit of beefsteak
and he pushed her away. She’s never forgiven him.
Pito sneaks in between the row of banana trees and finds his brother comfortable on a mat smoking
paka,
a family-size packet of chips and a big bottle of Coca-Cola nearby.
“Pito!” An embrace, friendly taps on the back, and a
paka
cigarette. Frank knows how to greet family. Anyone, actually.
“Your wife still thinks you’re growing tomatoes?” Pito asks, lighting up.
“I don’t talk about my plantation with Vaiana.”
“Ah. Otherwise, all is fine?”
“All is fine, little brother, and you? All is fine?”
“All is fine,” Pito says.
End of conversation. The brothers smoke away. They’ve never been big-mouths, these two. As children, Frank, the eldest of
the tribe, and Pito, the youngest, talked to each other with hands, eyebrows, eyes, and grunts, and they always understood
each other.
“Come eat.”
“Go and get me a glass of water,
ha’aviti,
quick, I’m thirsty.”
“Shhh, not a word to Mamie about my plants, otherwise I’m going to give you one black-buttered eye.”
Despite the limited
parau-parau,
Pito has always felt very close to Frank. Pito felt the same with his other two brothers, Tama and Viri, too. But then the
sisters-in-law arrived and everything changed. If Pito wants to talk to Tama he can, but only at the gate of Tama’s wife’s
house — she doesn’t like visitors. If Pito wants to talk to Viri he can, but only on Viri’s wife’s telephone — she doesn’t
like visitors. At least with Frank, all Pito has to do is report to Madame.
“You went to see Papi?” Pito asks.
A nod meaning
oui,
a nostalgic smile meaning, I still miss Papi.
Pito sighs: Me too.
Their poor father couldn’t sit for two minutes without his woman yelling at him to go and do something. It seemed to Pito
that his mother’s mission
I’m just outside watering the plants, or maybe I’m at the Chinese store, but I’m not going to be too long. Leave a message
after the beep. And don’t forget to tell me your telephone number!”
Beep.
Pito hangs up.
“What happened?” the receptionist asks.
“It was a machine.”
“Why didn’t you leave a message?” Josephine does her big eyes, shaking her head with disapproval. She also has an answering
machine, she tells Pito, and she detests it when people hang up instead of leaving a message, as if leaving a message were
like asking for the moon. Josephine continues on and on about how many of her relatives have told her off for getting an answering
machine but any Tahitian with the right mind knows that when it comes to telephones, you must be selective, otherwise nothing
would ever get done. It shouldn’t be that way, really, Josephine explains to Pito, standing still like a statue at the door.
Ah,
oui alors,
people who have telephones shouldn’t have to answer their telephone praying it is someone they want to talk to and not a
cousin who needs ears for hours, eh?
“. . . Eh?” Josephine demands.
“
Oui,
” he agrees, escaping through the door.
After work, Pito decides to visit his brother Frank, and here’s the Range Rover parked in front of the house, so he’s home.
Good. Sister-in-law Vaiana is on the veranda drinking a martini with her
copines.
She’s wearing a gigantic pandanus hat and waving one hand around to show off her rings, while the other hand is delicately
placed on her chest as if to say, “I couldn’t believe it . . . they were actually talking about
moi!
”
Pito knows where to find his brother, but when you visit Frank Tehana, you must first report to Madame, otherwise she complains,
whining for days and days about his family’s lack of respect.
“He’s in his tomato plantation,” Vaiana coldly advises her brother-in-law. She used to adore Pito and call him sweet names,
“my little cabbage, my little treasure,” until one night after a few drinks, she tried to jump on Pito for a bit of beefsteak
and he pushed her away. She’s never forgiven him.
Pito sneaks in between the row of banana trees and finds his brother comfortable on a mat smoking
paka,
a family-size packet of chips and a big bottle of Coca-Cola nearby.
“Pito!” An embrace, friendly taps on the back, and a
paka
cigarette. Frank knows how to greet family. Anyone, actually.
“Your wife still thinks you’re growing tomatoes?” Pito asks, lighting up.
“I don’t talk about my plantation with Vaiana.”
“Ah. Otherwise, all is fine?”
“All is fine, little brother, and you? All is fine?”
“All is fine,” Pito says.
End of conversation. The brothers smoke away. They’ve never been big-mouths, these two. As children, Frank, the eldest of
the tribe, and Pito, the youngest, talked to each other with hands, eyebrows, eyes, and grunts, and they always understood
each other.
“Come eat.”
“Go and get me a glass of water,
ha’aviti,
quick, I’m thirsty.”
“Shhh, not a word to Mamie about my plants, otherwise I’m going to give you one black-buttered eye.”
Despite the limited
parau-parau,
Pito has always felt very close to Frank. Pito felt the same with his other two brothers, Tama and Viri, too. But then the
sisters-in-law arrived and everything changed. If Pito wants to talk to Tama he can, but only at the gate of Tama’s wife’s
house — she doesn’t like visitors. If Pito wants to talk to Viri he can, but only on Viri’s wife’s telephone — she doesn’t
like visitors. At least with Frank, all Pito has to do is report to Madame.
“You went to see Papi?” Pito asks.
A nod meaning
oui,
a nostalgic smile meaning, I still miss Papi.
Pito sighs: Me too.
Their poor father couldn’t sit for two minutes without his woman yelling at him to go and do something. It seemed to Pito
that his mother’s mission
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