Free Tiare in Bloom by Célestine Vaite Page B

around the dance floor, twirling
     this way, that way. “Oh,” the Chinese man casually replies, “I own ten pearl farms and two music shops.” Then Materena would
     give him her most charming smile, and he’d say, “That’s a cute dimple you have on your left cheek —”
    Pito drags his feet to the bedroom, sits on the bed, and glances at the clothes for mass tomorrow, which Materena has ironed
     and neatly laid on the ironing board. My wife is so organized, Pito thinks with pride. He’s quite surprised to feel proud
     about this. Ironed clothes lying on the ironing board have never had this effect on him before, but here he is, proud and
     impressed. He lived with a chaotic and disorganized mother for eighteen years. That’s probably why.
    At ten o’clock precisely, Pito switches all the lights in the house off except in the kitchen. He lights a mosquito coil in
     the bedroom, hops into bed, and closes his eyes.
    He opens his eyes, he closes his eyes again, turns to his left, to his right, sits up, stays still like a statue for several
     minutes, gets out of bed.
    He switches the bedroom light on, grabs a comic from his comic box, hops back into bed, fluffs the pillows behind his back,
     makes himself comfortable, and looks at the pictures. Every now and then Pito has visions of his wife in bed with a Chinese
     man. Actually,
non,
a Tahitian man, a young and fit Tahitian man.
    Pito puts his comic down and stares at the wall. If anyone could see his aura right now, it would be glowing with question
     marks.
    Who is my wife with?
    Why does my wife look at me like she wants to give me slaps?
    Why, who, how . . . To stop the questions, Pito forces himself to think about family stories. Family stories are good to pass
     the time. There’s the story of his great-auntie Catherine, who left Tahiti as a young woman to follow her American husband
     back to his country and who came home an old woman and a widow. She spent her days raking the leaves, crying for her island
     that had changed so much, and calling out to her great-nieces and nephews to give her a kiss and a hug. But all the children
     would give the foreigner was an obedient forehead. She died not long after her return and was buried, as per her wishes, next
     to her twin brother, who had died at birth.
    Then there’s the story of another great-auntie, who didn’t know for two months that her only son, who joined the French army
     during World War Two, had died fighting the Italians in Bir Akeim. For two months the great-auntie imagined her son alive
     and breathing, a hero of the Egyptian desert, when in fact he had been struck in the first minute of the battle. She had to
     get the official letter, the one filled with apologetic words, translated since she couldn’t read French. She couldn’t read
     full stop. Despite the time lapse, the Tahitian soldier was given a proper farewell ceremony. It was a tricky situation —
     a wake without a body — but Tahitians are well known for not letting anything get in the way of their prayers. The soldier’s
     family prayed, sang, and called out to his soul to come home, back to his birth land, the
fenua.
    And there’s the story of a great-uncle who . . .
    At quarter to twelve Pito is on the phone to the Mamao Hospital’s emergency ward. He explains the situation to the nurse on
     duty, how his wife went dancing with a friend and said that she’d be home by ten but she’s not home yet. He explains all of
     this in a neutral voice. There’s no need for the nurse to start thinking he’s panicking.
    “Maybe she’s still dancing,” the nurse snaps, angry. “Your wife wouldn’t be the first woman to go out dancing at night and
     come home the following morning. What’s her name?”
    “Materena Tehana.”
    “
Non,
she’s not on our list, call the hotels. Good-bye.”
    Next morning, just as the first church bells are calling out to the faithful, reminding them all that mass is in half an hour,
     so get