Tiare in Bloom (11 page)

As for Leilani, that champion, she used to rent too (with six people, two sleeping under the stairs), but three weeks ago
she moved. Now she has a maid’s chamber, a tiny bedroom (but big enough for Leilani) above the apartment of an old couple.
Leilani looks after them, she cleans their apartment, does their shopping, and cooks for them, and in return they take care
of her accommodation, including the electricity bill. In Pito’s opinion that is a lot of work for one tiny bedroom, not counting
that Leilani also works in a bookshop, but Leilani seemed very pleased with the arrangement when she told her father about
it.

“They are such a lovely couple,” she said. “They still fight about little things like leaving the fridge door open for too
long, they’re so cute, they remind me of you and Mamie.” Leilani went on about how sometimes that old couple prompted her
to visualize her parents old and still together, fighting over little things like they’d been doing for years. Pito didn’t
have the heart to tell his daughter to stop visualizing, because the way things were going . . .

Anyway, back to Pito’s first-ever visit to a real-estate agent, for which he is dressed in his wedding-and-funeral suit. And
his shiny black shoes (also wedding-and-funeral). First impressions count, even Pito knows this, and what an impression Pito
is making as he walks down the street in Papeete!

A Tahitian man who wears such a suit on a Sunday is a Catholic going to mass. A Tahitian man who wears such a suit on a Saturday
is a Protestant going to
le temple.
But when such a suit is worn on a weekday, there’s a funeral on. Or it could just be a very important Tahitian man strolling
back to his office to make important phone calls, sitting at his very important desk.

Let’s just say, in all honesty, that a Tahitian man wearing a suit is bound to attract eyes. This happens to Pito. Some eyes
are sad. They are saying, Eh, eh, my condolences. Some eyes are filled with admiration. They are saying,
Ouh,
you must earn a lot of money!

The eyes that look up at the man bursting into the real-estate office are filled with respect. “Monsieur,
bonjour,
” the pretty twenty-something French girl says. “May I help you?”

“I’m looking for a house.” This voice belongs to a confident businessman.

“Well, you’ve come to the right place.” Smiling, the receptionist picks up her phone, dials an extension, delivers the magical
line — someone is here to see you — and, still smiling, asks Pito if he’d like a coffee.

“Ah
oui, merci.
” This is the first time, in his entire life, that a receptionist has asked Pito if he’d like a coffee.

“Sugar? Milk?”

Coffee is on its way, but first things first — an introduction to Robert Matron, head of the sales department, a short, fat
man with the biggest grin Pito has ever seen, you would think he’s just won the tombola or something.

“This way, Monsieur.” A hand goes out to the very important client’s back to steer him in the right direction. “
Excusez-moi,
my desk is a mess! Take a seat, please. So —” The head of the sales department hurries to shuffle papers away and rubs his
hands together. “What kind of house are we looking for?”

“A small one.”

“Ah-ha, and with a pool maybe? For hot days?”

“Okay.” Pito can sure visualize himself relaxing by his pool.

“A house by the sea or a house in the mountains?”

“By the sea.”
Oui,
a house with a pool by the sea. Imagine that! He hopes the rent isn’t too much, though.

“I do have a bungalow on my books but —”

“Ah
oui,
a bungalow!” Pito exclaims. “I want a bungalow!
Oui,
give me a bungalow!”

The head of the sales department grins from ear to ear as he reaches for a black folder on his desk, opens it to a picture
of a bungalow by the sea. “Isn’t she cute?” He raves about the building materials used to build this little treasure (hardwood,
which won’t rot away), the luscious garden (the purple bougainvillea vine is, like, fifty years old), the grass (green, well
looked after), and . . . let’s save the best for last: a pontoon!

“I’m sure,” the head of the sales department winks, “that you will put your pontoon to good use. I can already see your speedboat
anchored to it —”

“How much is it?” Pito goes straight to the most important question. He doesn’t want to get all excited and find out he can’t
afford the rent because it’s more than his salary.

“The price is negotiable.” Robert Matron’s voice lowers a few notches. “We’re talking twenty percent if not thirty off the
market value —” Then, adopting a sad expression, he whispers, “There’s a death in the family, you understand.”

“Somebody died in the bungalow!” The bungalow has suddenly changed in Pito’s eyes.

Robert Matron makes frantic small movements with his hands. “
Non, non,
absolutely not, I guarantee you!” He wipes a pearl of sweat from his forehead, repositions himself in his rolling chair,
having just remembered that the quickest way to lose a sale in Tahiti is to mention the word
death.
He’d thought this modern businessman to be over such ludicrous superstitions . . . but once a Tahitian, always a Tahitian.
“Nobody died in that bungalow, in fact, nobody died, it was just a figure of speech, what I meant to say is —”

“How much?” Pito doesn’t have all day.

“Thirty.” The head of the sales department leans back in his chair.

“Thirty.” Things are still not clear to Pito. “Thirty a week? Thirty a month?”

“Pardon?” The head of the sales department doesn’t seem to be following his client’s thinking.

“Thirty thousand francs a week or a month?” Pito repeats.

“Thirty thousand?” The head of sales now looks very lost. “
Excusez-moi,
but I’m talking about millions . . . thirty million.”

“Thirty million! Where do you want me to get thirty million francs from? I can only pay ten thousand francs a week maximum.”

The grin vanishes as the head of the sales department gets up. “Monsieur, there has been a misunderstanding.” And to the receptionist
bringing the very important client his coffee, he adds, “Monsieur was just leaving.”

But Pito isn’t leaving yet. As far as he’s concerned, he’ll leave when he’s ready, okay? And pass me that coffee. “Where are
your houses for rent?” he asks, taking a sip.

“For rent?” the receptionist says, eyeing Monsieur Matron from the corner of her shocked eyes. “I thought —”

“That’s right, Bernadette.” Poor Bernadette gets the evil eye from the boss. “You thought.”

“So?” Pito tells the stunned receptionist. “Where are your houses for rent?”

She points to a notice board at the far corner of the front office, almost hidden behind a gigantic fake plant. “There, Monsieur.”

All right, Pito is going to have a look. He looks and he looks, he sees one ugly house after another, they’re all the same.
A concrete box plonked down on a small block of land. A clean box, too clean . . . but houses for rent must all be like that.
People move in and out, as he plans to do — six weeks maximum — just enough to make his wife miss him and realize that he’s
worth keeping.

Every now and then, Pito turns to the receptionist, sitting at her desk, still looking a bit pale, to ask the price. “How
much for this one?” The price is the same for all of the houses, too expensive, but perhaps he could take a loan at the bank.
Here, this one isn’t so bad. Less ugly, more trees.

“I’m going to see my bank,” he tells the receptionist. “And I come back.”

“
Oui,
Monsieur.”

“Do I need to fill out some papers with you?” Pito doesn’t want to miss out on his house.

“
Oui,
Monsieur, you do.” The receptionist attempts a smile. She reaches for a folder on her desk, and explains the whole rent system,
including the condition of one month’s rent in advance.

“One month in advance?”

“
Oui,
Monsieur.”

Well, Pito might see his bank first. He puts his empty cup on the front desk, nods a sharp nod, meaning, I’ll see you shortly,
and leaves.

Pito strides into the bank and joins the queue. There’s a young man over there at the counter who wants to withdraw three
hundred francs.

“Three hundred francs?” the bank teller sniggers.

“It’s to catch the truck,” the young man says.

“There’s only two hundred eighty francs in your account.”

“Can I withdraw two hundred eighty francs?”

“You need to leave at least two hundred francs in your account.” The bank teller, who’s all made up as if she were off to
a ball, explains that one should always leave some funds in one’s account to prevent the account from closing.

“I close my account, then.” The young man sounds like he’s getting edgy. “I need the money to catch the truck home. I live
in Papeno’o.”

“Fine . . . close your account.” The bank teller punches her keyboard, making sure not to break her long nails. “Give me seven
hundred and fifty francs,
merci.
”

“What?”

The bank teller repeats herself: seven hundred and fifty francs. “You need to pay the closing-account fees before I can close
your account.”

“I’ve got no money!” To prove this, the young man turns out the pockets of his ripped shorts.

“I can’t close your account, then,” the bank teller says.

“What’s this? A joke?”

“I don’t make the rules.”

“Stick your rules up your fat arse!”

The bank teller throws a death look on that rude customer’s back before singing out, “Next, please!” Poor kid, Pito thinks.
Eh, he’s going to give that kid the fare home. Actually, he’s going to do more than that. He’s going to give that kid five
hundred francs for the fare and something to eat on the way home.

“Eh,” Pito says discreetly, the banknote flat in the palm of his hand. “Here.”

The desperate young man gracefully accepts Pito’s generosity. “
Maururu,
Monsieur, I’m going to pay you back.” He asks for Pito’s address, but Pito waves a little wave that says, Don’t worry about
it, kid. It’s only five hundred francs. I’ve got more money coming my way.

“I’m here to take out a personal loan,” Pito says to the bank teller, another pretty young woman all made up like she’s off
to lunch with the president. “For one hundred thousand francs.”

“You’re in the wrong queue,” the bank teller says, apparently oblivious to the customer’s shiny wedding-and-funeral suit.
She sees all kinds of attire in her job and isn’t one to judge a man by the cloth he’s wearing. She’s more the kind to judge
a customer by how much money there is in his bank account, and a customer who needs to take a personal loan for a hundred
thousand francs isn’t what she’d call financially established.

“The wrong queue?” Pito glances over his shoulder to the queue, which has doubled in size in the past ten minutes.

“The loans department is upstairs.”

“Upstairs where?”

“The information desk is over there.”

Muttering under his breath, Pito proceeds to climb the stairs, joins the correct queue, lands at the right desk, and gets
his forms.

What’s with all the questions? Pito asks himself later, filling out his forms at the information desk under the watchful eye
of a friendly-looking Tahitian mama. Who needs to know if I own my house, how much I spend a week, if I have savings . . .
question one, question two, if the answer is no, go to question six, question seven . . . Just give me the money, you idiots!

All these questions are giving Pito a headache, and to make matters worse, he answers question three in the question four
box.
Merde!
He puts a line through his answer and rewrites it again neatly, and again next to the wrong question.
Titoi!

“Forms are really hard to fill out, eh?” says the mama at the information desk, to be nice. She has a very special spot for
Tahitian people having difficulty filling out forms, she used to be like that too. Now she’s a crack at filling out forms,
of course.

“You’re not wrong,” Pito agrees, wiping sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand.

“Why are you taking a personal loan?” the mama asks nicely. “To buy a car?”

“A car? I don’t even have my driver’s license.” He explains that he just needs about one hundred thousand francs to pay the
rent for a month.

“One hundred thousand francs? We don’t have loans for one hundred thousand francs, you’d best apply for a
carte bleue.
”

“You don’t have loans for one hundred thousand francs? What kind of bank is this?”

The nice Tahitian mama, faithful to her employer, takes on a cranky face. “It’s the same with all the banks.”

Merde,
all of this exercise is getting on Pito’s nerves. It’s enough that he hardly slept last night, and it’s enough that he’s
sweating away like a sumo in his suit. What he needs more right now is a nice cool beer. Or then again, maybe three.

On beer number six Pito hits the road, walking because all his money is gone, the whole lot. Even when it starts to rain (unexpectedly,
as it often does on this fertile island) Pito is still walking, with nowhere to go.

Two kinds of people walking by the side of the road get a lift; the people we’d like to know more, and the people we feel
sorry for. You would think that a Tahitian man wearing a suit on a weekday and walking in the rain would fit both of the above
categories.

But Pito is still walking. He’s not cursing people driving by and not stopping, he just puts one foot in front of the other
like a robot. All the way back to familiar Faa’a.

T
he expression “Don’t shit in your own backyard” means what it says: don’t be an idiot or you will get caught, and next thing
you know, you will be in the
caca
up to here. To put it simply, don’t fool around with someone you know, or worse, someone your man or woman knows. This rule
also applies to anyone who lives in the neighborhood. If you must fool around, go somewhere discreet, and pick someone discreet.