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Authors: Célestine Vaite
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in life was to see sweat on Frank senior’s forehead twenty-four hours a day, it wasn’t enough that
he had three jobs so that she could buy herself the beautiful things she felt she deserved.
One morning a week after Pito’s circumcision, when a boy supposedly becomes a man, Pito told his father (springing to his
feet at Mama Roti’s shout “
Frank!
”) to have a rest if he wanted.
The father replied, “Son, all a man wants in life is peace.” Three months later he was dead.
After his wake, Mama Roti put their mattress next to the coffin and lay there staring at her dead husband and crying her eyes
out. She cried nonstop for two whole weeks. She sat at the kitchen table with her red wine and caressed her shiny new wedding
ring, singing the praises of her Frank
chéri
who had married her on his hospital deathbed. “My love, come back to me,” Mama Roti lamented. “I’m the sky without stars,
the tree without roots, the flower without petals.”
Pito’s ears were hurting. For him, all of this was hypocrisy. His mother was just repeating words from a song.
Pito digs a hand into the packet of chips his brother is holding out to him, thinking, what a miserable life his father had.
Then again, maybe he was just one of those men who can’t function without a woman to issue commandments and instructions.
“Huh?” says Frank, handing Pito the bottle of Coca-Cola.
Pito takes a sip, relieved he hasn’t turned out like his father. Unlike his three brothers, who can’t fart without their wife’s
permission. Ah true, he nods to himself, he can be proud. He fought hard to be where he is today as the man of the house.
But did he really? Or did he just slip into this man’s act because Materena let him? Because . . . well, because she’s not
the kind to shout and order people around like his mother.
Now that the
pakalolo
is taking effect, Pito realizes quite clearly that Materena is everything his mother isn’t. To begin with, she’s a very good
cook, and she’s tidy and neat. She smiles a lot, she’s patient . . . and she doesn’t judge people. She is, without exaggerating,
the most loving person Pito has ever known in his whole life.
Later, walking through the door of his house, spaced out a bit but very relaxed, Pito finds himself wishing his wife
would
yell at him for once. He wants to know what he’s done wrong.
Love for a Man
M aterena bumps into Cousin Tapeta on her way into the Chinese store; Tapeta, holding breadsticks, on her way out.
“Cousin!
E aha te huru?
” Two big kisses on the cheeks follow, with a big warm hug.
“And how is our Rose in the country of kangaroos?” Today it’s Materena’s turn to begin the interrogation about the absent
daughters.
“Kangaroo, kangaroo,” Tapeta laughs. “I tell you one thing, Cousin, the only kangaroos Rose sees are on postcards and tea
towels. Otherwise, my Rose is still walking around Sydney with baby Taina-Duke in a pram, hoping to bump into someone from
the island.”
“
Ah oui?
And?”
“So far, because our Rose is counting, she’s bumped into twenty-five Maoris and twelve Samoans.”
“Really? No Tahitians?”
“All the Tahitians live in Tahiti or in France, my poor girl, eh? But the story I wanted to tell you today, Cousin, is that
last Saturday Rose drove to the Fijian market to buy a breadfruit.”
Materena cackles. Rose used to complain about the breadfruit diet, and Materena would tell her niece, “One day, Rose, you
are going to love the breadfruit like your mama and I do.”
Well, after years growing up complaining of the breadfruit diet (even if Tapeta has always gone to great lengths to vary the
menu, alternating it from fried breadfruit to barbecued breadfruit to baked breadfruit, et cetera), Rose suddenly felt the
urge to reconnect with the food of her childhood. Her stomach yearned for breadfruit. Her mouth could even taste the warm,
soft flesh of cooked breadfruit when it melts
he had three jobs so that she could buy herself the beautiful things she felt she deserved.
One morning a week after Pito’s circumcision, when a boy supposedly becomes a man, Pito told his father (springing to his
feet at Mama Roti’s shout “
Frank!
”) to have a rest if he wanted.
The father replied, “Son, all a man wants in life is peace.” Three months later he was dead.
After his wake, Mama Roti put their mattress next to the coffin and lay there staring at her dead husband and crying her eyes
out. She cried nonstop for two whole weeks. She sat at the kitchen table with her red wine and caressed her shiny new wedding
ring, singing the praises of her Frank
chéri
who had married her on his hospital deathbed. “My love, come back to me,” Mama Roti lamented. “I’m the sky without stars,
the tree without roots, the flower without petals.”
Pito’s ears were hurting. For him, all of this was hypocrisy. His mother was just repeating words from a song.
Pito digs a hand into the packet of chips his brother is holding out to him, thinking, what a miserable life his father had.
Then again, maybe he was just one of those men who can’t function without a woman to issue commandments and instructions.
“Huh?” says Frank, handing Pito the bottle of Coca-Cola.
Pito takes a sip, relieved he hasn’t turned out like his father. Unlike his three brothers, who can’t fart without their wife’s
permission. Ah true, he nods to himself, he can be proud. He fought hard to be where he is today as the man of the house.
But did he really? Or did he just slip into this man’s act because Materena let him? Because . . . well, because she’s not
the kind to shout and order people around like his mother.
Now that the
pakalolo
is taking effect, Pito realizes quite clearly that Materena is everything his mother isn’t. To begin with, she’s a very good
cook, and she’s tidy and neat. She smiles a lot, she’s patient . . . and she doesn’t judge people. She is, without exaggerating,
the most loving person Pito has ever known in his whole life.
Later, walking through the door of his house, spaced out a bit but very relaxed, Pito finds himself wishing his wife
would
yell at him for once. He wants to know what he’s done wrong.
Love for a Man
M aterena bumps into Cousin Tapeta on her way into the Chinese store; Tapeta, holding breadsticks, on her way out.
“Cousin!
E aha te huru?
” Two big kisses on the cheeks follow, with a big warm hug.
“And how is our Rose in the country of kangaroos?” Today it’s Materena’s turn to begin the interrogation about the absent
daughters.
“Kangaroo, kangaroo,” Tapeta laughs. “I tell you one thing, Cousin, the only kangaroos Rose sees are on postcards and tea
towels. Otherwise, my Rose is still walking around Sydney with baby Taina-Duke in a pram, hoping to bump into someone from
the island.”
“
Ah oui?
And?”
“So far, because our Rose is counting, she’s bumped into twenty-five Maoris and twelve Samoans.”
“Really? No Tahitians?”
“All the Tahitians live in Tahiti or in France, my poor girl, eh? But the story I wanted to tell you today, Cousin, is that
last Saturday Rose drove to the Fijian market to buy a breadfruit.”
Materena cackles. Rose used to complain about the breadfruit diet, and Materena would tell her niece, “One day, Rose, you
are going to love the breadfruit like your mama and I do.”
Well, after years growing up complaining of the breadfruit diet (even if Tapeta has always gone to great lengths to vary the
menu, alternating it from fried breadfruit to barbecued breadfruit to baked breadfruit, et cetera), Rose suddenly felt the
urge to reconnect with the food of her childhood. Her stomach yearned for breadfruit. Her mouth could even taste the warm,
soft flesh of cooked breadfruit when it melts
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