Jaz & Miguel

by Raven, R. D.

  "Prawns," he said to Jaz, holding the bags up and smiling. "Best in the world."

  "And the cheapest," said Sandile.

  Miguel spoke more to the kids and pointed over in a direction ahead, and then at his trailer. Then he pointed ahead again.

  They started running.

  The four of them got back in the car and Miguel started it.

  Jaz was not sure what she was feeling, but when Miguel spoke, he encapsulated it: "Heartbreaking, isn't it?" he said, and put the car in gear.

  And it was. It was fucking heartbreaking. It was so fucking heartbreaking that Jaz turned her head out the window in an effort not to cry.

  You'll understand why when we get there. It's not a religious thing. It's a human thing.

  They drove a few minutes and arrived at what seemed like a church. Basically, it was just an old house with a cross made of wood by the gate. Miguel was greeted by a dusky man with white stubble whose skin was darker than Miguel's but lighter than Sandile's, his features clearly Caucasian, but his peppered hair notably African. They hugged and exchanged some words. Miguel introduced them all but the man didn't speak English. The only words he said were, "Thank you. Thank you." Jaz didn't know what he was thanking her for—it had not been she who had brought the food. But she promised herself silently that if she ever came back here again it would be—and if not food, then something else.

  As they drove back out, an empty trailer now behind them, the crowd that had followed them was outside the gate. Looking at the numbers of people, Jaz tried to calculate the amount of days the canned food would last.

  She didn't even get to one.

  But it was impossible for them to have brought more. Miguel had even bribed someone at the border just to let them bring in what they had. Jaz had been shocked at first, but now she was fucking proud. They couldn't have gotten those things to those kids a minute sooner.

  "See what I mean?" he said.

  She was distant, and his words brought her back. It took her a moment to understand that he had said something to her. "Mean—mean about what?"

  "You could be Jewish, Catholic, Muslim or even an atheist, but if you ever come into this country and don't do even a little to help these people, then the one thing you're not, is human."

  Hell yeah.

  They stayed at a plain house by the beach—nothing fancy, and quite different to what Jaz had expected. The house itself looked like it had been built sometime in the forties. When they got inside, it smelled of dust and almost felt like an army barracks. There were two bedrooms, but it was clear that none of them would get any privacy over the next two nights because the walls were so thin. Outside, there was a huge gazebo-type thing with a thatched-roof (it seemed everything had thatched roofs in Africa!), low concrete walls and a built-in braai (of course) in the center. Surrounding it were coconut palms, the ground mostly covered in sand.

  Jaz saw a few coconuts that had fallen on the floor. She scavenged for the better looking ones and picked up two. Sandile and Miguel made a bet on who could open up their respective ones the fastest but, in all fairness, Miguel had a pocket knife with him so ... technically ... he cheated. (And Jaz, as the referee, called it).

  Miguel proceeded to marinate the prawns inside (which Jaz insisted were really shrimps but no one believed her) with butter and garlic—something he'd learned from his mom, he said. Sandile prepared the fire. When Miguel got back outside, he told Sandile that he made a fire like a girl, and Sandile told Miguel that only a girl knew how to marinate prawns.

  They cracked open a few beers and inhaled the fresh scent of butter and garlic as it burned on the grill.

  After dinner, Miguel took a bottle of rosé and two glasses and walked with Jaz on the promenade just outside the house. He'd changed into shorts and sandals and she'd gone casual as well. "Nice that we can see each other like this, isn't it?" she said.

  "Like what?"

  "Without make-up; without fancy clothes."

  "Oh, you look like a dog, I meant to tell— Ouch! Damn it!" Jaz had planted him one—solid on the shoulder. "You understand that I have lost mobility in that arm from all the times you've hit me, don't you?"

  Jaz stuck her tongue out at him.

  Miguel noted how beautiful she looked—make-up on or off, making a face or not, hands in the pockets of her surfer shorts or sleek body sheathed in a blue velvet dress. It didn't matter. She always looked perfect.

  Right now, her hair was messy—pretty much as it had been every day since the start of their trip, what with the wind and everything—and she wore a baggy shirt, her pert breasts only really noticeable when she stretched and arched her back (yes, he'd noticed). If it had been up to him, he would've taken her right here and now, out on the beach, naked with her on the sand. And then they might have even slept under the moonlight, not a care in the world, as if nothing else mattered.

  Except that something did matter.

  Jaz was leaving.

  "I still can't believe you told me you love me," she said wistfully.

  Was she fucking kidding him? Miguel loved her more than he'd ever loved anyone. But he didn't tell her that. Instead, he looked out into the ocean as its waves crashed into the sands. He turned off the promenade and onto the beach itself.

  They sat down on the sand and he poured them both a glass of rosé.

  "Jaz?"

  "Hmmm, this sounds serious," she said with a lilt, as if asking a question.

  "What are you going to do in December?"

  A moment of silence.

  "I ... don't know."

  It wasn't what Miguel had wanted to hear.

  "I mean," she continued, "I want to be with you. I just don't know how that will work. My life is in Seattle—I mean ... and I have to major in something—"

  "Right."

  "Miguel, don't ask me now. I—I also love you. I love you more than anyone has ever loved another person. But what would I do down here? My whole family is in the States. I mean, would you ever think of living—"

  "Never."

  She stopped.

  "Just like that? Not even … for me?"

  "You never fully leave Africa once you've lived in it. I'd spend the rest of my life wanting to come back here. I can't do that to you."

  And so the conversation stopped. A stalemate. Jaz sipped her wine, clearly enjoying this sweeter tasting one far more than that Pinotage they'd had in Durban; then she leaned back and put her head on his shoulder.

  Miguel said nothing else, but only looked out into the sea.

  She kissed him in on the neck, but his blood was cold now. He twitched away. "Not tonight, Jaz." He saw her eyes move away in embarrassment.

  You can't do that to a girl—reject her advances—and expect her to not lose pride in herself. And a woman's pride in herself is what she values most—as if the moment of losing it is the first moment of her growing old.

  And Miguel knew that, by his rejection, he'd just made Jaz grow a little older.

  But he also knew that sleeping with her, or keeping up this façade of togetherness when it was bound to be ripped apart from them in only a few months like an impala's neck at the mercy of a cheetah's jaw, would eventually hurt her more.

  And it would all but kill him.

  So he chose the lesser of two evils for now.

  The next morning, Elize walked out of the house wearing one of Sandile's long shirts and nothing else, sipping a cup of coffee. Jaz sat on one of the concrete benches in the gazebo, looking out into the ocean, a moist wind blowing strands of her hair gently across her face.

  Elize wore a smile—a satisfied smile—whereas Jaz had never felt so ... frustrated.

  "Good night?" asked Jaz, feeling slightly jealous.

  Elize nodded. "Thanks for letting us be alone last night," she said.

  Right.

  They sat in silence and the boys finally came out. Miguel sat on the back of the bench on which Jaz was sitting, and rubbed her back. They all said very little.<
br />
  It was then that Jaz managed to give a name to what she'd been feeling since the night before: it was emptiness (if that was even an emotion). Because conceiving of a life in which Miguel did not play a part, made her feel like the shells of the coconuts they'd eaten after the prawns the night before: just … empty.

  "So, what's on for today?" asked Sandile, pecking Elize hello on her cheek and then looking at Miguel and Jaz. As he said it, Elize's phone rang from inside and she went to pick it up.

  "Whatever you want, boet. We could even just sit here and look out into the ocean and do jack-shit."

  Elize came out of the house right away, the phone in her hand and her eyes wide with shock. She was speaking in Afrikaans and rushing toward the gazebo. Jaz leaned forward, and felt Miguel's hand press harder against her back.

  "What is it?" she said to Miguel, and as she looked up at him, she noticed the lack of color in his face.

  When she looked at Sandile, he had paused, mug in hand, mouth wide open, staring at Elize.

  What the fuck is going on?

  Elize was now frantic, saying something, shaking her left hand and looking at the three of them intermittently.

  And then Jaz saw it: the water in her eyes, as if they were swimming in a lake of terror. Her lips trembled, and she shook as she stretched the phone out toward Miguel.

  "Hy wil met jou praat?" she said to Miguel, presumably meaning that someone wanted to talk to him.

  Miguel got up and took the phone. Elize hardly moved. Miguel paced the gazebo as he spoke quietly. Jaz got up and hugged Elize whose body, she discovered, was trembling.

  "We are fucked," Elize said. "We are totally ... fucked."

  When Miguel put down the phone, he hefted it in his hand as if weighing his options. Sandile and Jaz waited for him to say something. Elize simply kept her head buried in Jaz's shoulder.

  Miguel: "Well, boet, the way I look at it, we're all screwed either way. The man is ... furious. They know everything. Piet spilled the beans. We didn't fool him one bit. Now we could all go running back home like babies, or enjoy our flipping holiday and face the music when we get back."

  Sandile: "Face the music? We haven't done anything wrong." Sandile was surprisingly calm, sitting back on another seat across from Jaz. Elize went over to him.

  Jaz: "We lied. All of us."

  Sandile: "Ahh, but was it the wrong thing to do?"

  Miguel: "Look, guys. I'm cool either way. I mean, if you want to run away together and elope, or if you want to go and face them—whatever, I'm here for both of you. Jaz, you?"

  "Yeah, me too. I'll go along with whatever you guys choose." Jaz felt like she had just violated some international treaty or something.

  "Baby?" Sandile spoke to Elize in Afrikaans, the first time Jaz had heard him do so.

  Elize, who sat on his lap, turned to face Miguel and Jaz when Sandile was done talking to her. She answered in English. "I want to go home, but only after our holiday is finished."

  Sandile swallowed.

  "Good," said Miguel. He shuffled his feet on the concrete floor for a second. "Should we go for breakfast?"

  They ate at a restaurant called O Camarão, a Portuguese establishment whose name meant, literally, The Prawn, although the breakfast was decidedly English (except for the freshly squeezed orange juice—that was decidedly tropical). As they sat almost at the edge of the ocean, munching on eggs and bacon and buttering their toasts, Miguel looked out into the sea and said something that, for a moment, seemed slightly out of place.

  "Do you ever wonder about the Third Force, boet?"

  Sandile stopped chewing.

  "The Third what?" asked Jaz.

  Elize looked equally as confused.

  Sandile: "The Third Force was a term use by the ANC—the African National Congress. You know, the political party of Mandela that—"

  "I know what the ANC is," said Jaz.

  "Well, it was a term used by them to describe a theoretical Third Force in operation in the late eighties and early nineties which lead to a sudden surge in violence in many townships and in KwaZulu-Natal (that's where Durban is). So, anyway, the TRC—"

  "Uh, that I don't know," said Jaz.

  "TRC—Truth and Reconciliation Commission. They looked into crimes committed during the apartheid era and granted amnesty for any which were done as a result of people following orders."

  "I see," said Jaz.

  "So, the TRC did find evidence of some sort of fomenting of violence by external groups, but it was very limited, and, personally, I think that finding the real source of a Third Force—if there even was one—would be all but impossible."

  "Why?" asked Jaz.

  "Think of the potential groups involved. I mean, let's forget South Africa, let's talk Mozambique and—hah!—the USA! And we can all assume (now Jaz, don't take offense) that the US has likely had some pretty shady history when it comes to the subject of oil, agreed?"

  Jaz could accept that. She'd seen Fahrenheit 911. It had been a semi-plausible plot.

  Sandile: "Well, the USA had oil interests in Mozambique, as did England. Now what if those making money from that oil could control the prices by means of internal political strife or violence? And how would they go about creating that dissent? Well, they wouldn't flipping come in the with guns blazing. They'd say things ... here and there ... and make little comments to the locals—just enough to set things in motion. Now how would you ever discover that?"

  "And don't forget Russia," added Miguel.

  Sandile: "Russia? Hell, boet, don't forget the whole goddamn world. Probably every major power had its thumb in the Mozambican pie at one stage—if not still. Now back to South Africa. Well, forget oil. South Africa has gold, diamonds, lots of moolah-making commodities in it that people could have an interest in. South Africa is like one big fucking gold mine—no pun intended."

  "Sandile, don't swear so much," said Elize.

  "Sorry, baby."

  "It makes you wonder, doesn't it?" said Miguel, Jaz understanding that some unresolved thought was still pressing in his mind as he continued to gaze out into the ocean. "About our situation, I mean."

  "I still don't follow you, boet," said Sandile.

  "Nah, forget it, it's just bullshit."

  "No, say it," said Jaz, intrigued by all of it (and, not to mention, impressed as hell at Sandile and Miguel's knowledge of African history).

  Miguel: "No, I mean, just, racism and xenophobic attacks and—man!—whatever else has gone wrong in South Africa—or even Africa itself. How much of it could have theoretically gone wrong because someone else was making a profit out of it? And then, here we are, who knows how many years later, and there's a boy"—he pointed to Sandile—"and a girl"—then to Elize. "That's what I was wondering. The theoretical butterfly effect—but in reverse—of us tiny little people at the end of some major plan to keep Africa in turmoil."

  "That's fucking deep, boet," said Sandile. "A little stretched, but deep nonetheless."

  "Fuck me," said Jaz, the expletive being the only adequate expression of the epiphany she was currently experiencing. And she thought of the movies Blood Diamond and The Constant Gardener.

  "You also swear too much, Jaz. You know that?" said Miguel.

  Jaz: "Asshole."

  Miguel: "I love the way you say 'Asshole.' "

  "Oh, I'm sorry: arsehole!"

  "But regardless of that, my man," said Sandile, "imagine how much of it would change if the majority of these children just learned to read."

  "I don't follow," said Miguel.

  "Words. Knowledge. Sure, you can't do much if some unknown force is doing something behind your back. But imagine how much more negative power that hypothetical force would have if the people it was influencing were also illiterate, unable to find knowledge or question things for themselves without having that knowledge interpreted for them first."

  Jaz, who had meanwhile stopped chewing, pointed at Sandile with her fork and said, "Now that is
deep."

  "I try."

  Thandie had said the same thing, hadn't she? Had it been Sandile behind the concept all along? Had she gotten it from him originally? Jaz thought of that conversation with her on their way to the camp, and about words and their ability to incite people to action.

  PART III

  EIGHTEEN

  Whereas Jonathan P. Abbey, freelance reporter for The Daily, had many dislikes and pet peeves, he only truly loathed two things: the abomination which had become the English language on the other side of the Atlantic ... and all those fucking South Africans who insisted on making a home for themselves on the Queen's fine soil.

  He also disliked cursing, and only ever reserved use of the F-bomb for things he truly despised, preferring, usually, the milder expletives such as bloody or bleeding or blooming, as in: Don't get your blooming knickers in a knot, I'll be right there you twat. And he usually reserved the words prat or twat or even twit (another word the Americans had all but destroyed with their online social networks) for the truly loathsome, such as: You bleeding prat, how dare you take the piss out of me when all I'm trying to do here is have a drink? Blimey! Bollocks!

  Jonathan was a Red Top newspaper reporter—freelance. He was also somewhat of a wordsmith (a bloody fine one if dared say so himself!) He took personal umbrage to anyone who called the fine art of "yellow journalism" (a despicable term in itself) anything less than giving people what they want. He kept a picture of William Randolph Hearst (one of the few Americans he actually admired ... a little bit) up on his wall in his London apartment, and had also managed to secure an autographed copy of the News of The World's Thank You and Goodbye edition, which he kept locked in his safe as motivation for where he planned to be (chief editor of some or other fantastic newspaper chain) before he hit his grave—signed by the big man himself, that copy, it was.

  Which made him think of Hugh Grant—now there was a resourceful chap if he'd ever seen one. I mean, to bring down an entire newspaper chain ...? It had crossed Abbey's mind more than once to call up Mr. Grant and ask the old chap if he'd like to work at The Daily, but Jonathan imagined that he would probably not have jumped at the opportunity.