Jaz & Miguel

by Raven, R. D.

  Tom in some High-Rise Wall Street job (he knew Wall Street wasn't in Seattle, but all those American names were the same to him). And her mom living the life, cleaning the house or making sure dinner was on the table just like Bree fucking van de Kamp in Desperate Housewives?

  Truth be told, Miguel was hurting. He was hurting so bad it was all he could do to keep his eyes on the road they were so misted over. At one stage, she'd called him. He saw his phone ring and let it go to message, and then he pulled over to the side of the road and cried. He cried his friggin eyes out. There'd been that whole thing with Sandile and Elize at her house—God Almighty, he'd been shitting himself. And then there was the end of the holiday—a beautiful holiday with sunsets and buttered prawns filled with so much garlic that their breaths had stunk to high heaven, and kissing each other had been like staring down a friggin dumpster.

  It had been … ahwsumm.

  He would've kissed Jaz even if her breath smelled like garlic and butter for the rest of her whole friggin life. But her breath rarely smelled like that. Usually it smelled of peppermint, or spearmint, or just of girlness which was a smell he never had a name for but which always pleased him every time he got close to her. And then there was the flavor of raspberries or strawberries or something sweet on her lips which made his eyes go back into his skull and his knees go weak and made his blood race hot for want of her.

  And therein lay the problem. He loved her. He more than loved her. He loved her so much that the thought of anything ever happening to her ….

  Goddamnit! What a week. The memories of pain and death and suffering and blood had beaten constantly against Miguel's mind like a machete to a coconut since the moment Elize's father had called her. He thought of telling Sandile to leave—just leave! Take your girl, jump the country, fuck off, boet, because I can't lose you. Please! Not like that. You can't go out like that!

  It had been an injustice, the way his mother and sister had died. They were good people. They didn't deserve to have died like that. No one deserves to die like that.

  Not even the scum ….

  It was the one thing Miguel tried never to do: fall into that trap of hate. But his mind seethed with a simmering loathing for the animals who did those things to his dear, sweet mother and his twelve-year-old sister.

  They hadn't deserved it. No one deserves it.

  Jaz. Does not. Deserve it.

  She had to leave. It was clear to him. It had become clear as crystal shining in the equatorial sun that Jaz had to get the fuck out of South Africa—now! Miguel had seen too much death in his life. Sandile—well, the guy was bullheaded, stubborn, always trying to get his own way. Miguel could've pleaded with the guy for an eternity to take his girlfriend and run and he wouldn't do it.

  But he couldn't lose two people that he loved.

  So, Jaz had to go. At least one of them would be safe then. And there was only one way to make her do that.

  It's funny, how pain comes in doses: the first rejection, the first lost love, a broken heart, a death. A murder.

  A brutal slaughter.

  This was an easy pain for Jaz. He needed to tell himself that. This pain was better for her than … a pain that no one should ever endure.

  As for Miguel, he was beyond pain; beyond feeling. Just living … day … by day.

  He would never leave. This is where his mother died, where his sister died, where the mother and sister of his best friend had died, where his father would die and where Miguel, too, one day, would have his blood go into the soil and make it red: Blood Diamond. Damn it, he loved that movie. And DiCaprio did a damn fine South African accent in it. As did Matt Damon in Invictus (the trick was in how they pronounced the O vowel sound—that was the clincher of a good or bad South African accent). Not like Sidney Poitier or even Michael Caine in Mandela and De Klerk, or, worst of all, Morgan Freeman as Mandela, also in Invictus. But that was the problem with the Americans, wasn't it? (He knew Michael Caine wasn't American, but the movie was). That they thought they knew about life down here, but really didn't.

  But at least those movies told about South Africa. And the stories had been true enough—that part Hollywood seemed to have gotten right. And didn't Poitier and Caine and Freeman all play a role filled with such emotion that you couldn't help but feel along with what those characters had suffered and felt here on African soil?

  In a way, slight inaccuracies in depiction, he figured, were better than no depiction at all. Better than total and utter ... silence.

  It would be better for Jaz to remember Africa in those ways: through Hollywood; through nice, safe movies on the silver screen, chewing on popcorn, away from the war zone.

  Miguel got to his house and, while looking around for threats as he did every night, he waited for the electric gates to open. He listened for the growls of his Dobermans—yes, they were there. That was a good sign—the dogs barking and growling; not like on that day, two-and-a-half years ago.

  Miguel's mind went to it again now, to how he'd walked through these very same walls. God he wished he could stop thinking about it. Two days and it's all that had been on his mind.

  It had been the middle of the afternoon. Four-thirty or so. He and Sandile had been gone, what, two hours?

  The first sign had been the Dobermans—or the lack of them. They owned another pair those days. Miguel had noticed the silence as he'd opened the gate, but put it down to being nothing more than a little odd, still high on his one-on-one victory against Sandile.

  But when he saw the dogs lying on the ground, a piece of poisoned meat next to them, no sign of movement in their chests—that was when he ran.

  Mom. Mom! Suzie! Mom!

  And Sandile ran and shouted next to him.

  And then, Miguel puked. He just out and vomited when he saw their lifeless bodies, and all that blood, and little Suzie.

  He loved Jaz so much. No one deserved to die like that.

  No one!

  Miguel parked his car now and looked around nervously. He always got this way when driving in at night. Rudolph and Reindeer—those were their names—were panting at his door. He got out quickly and paused to listen awhile, the only break in the silence being a cricket or two and the panting of his dogs, counterpointed by the incessant click click click click click of their 10,000 volt electric fence. He eased his door shut and pressed the alarm button for his car—one more sound in the dead silence of the neighborhood—and headed for the front door.

  It was open.

  When he got in, he saw the TV on but no one at the two-seater. The show that was on was Soul City, so he knew his dad could not have been sitting there for some time because he never watched that shit.

  Miguel tightened his fist and felt the clamminess in his palm. He was sure everything was fine.

  And then he saw his dad, his face down on the kitchen table as if someone had pushed him down and stuck a knife in his back.

  "Papa!!"

  Miguel ran! He grabbed him by the shoulders—

  "M—Miguel, is ... that ... you?" his father slurred.

  Miguel stopped, all the strength gone from his limbs. He sank to his knees. "Yes, it's me, papa."

  He looked down and saw the Vinho da Madeira bottle on the ground, 1972 vintage, its sweet smell wafting into his nose.

  So, the old man had finally let it get to him. Miguel had wondered when it would happen. "Let's go to bed, papa."

  "Mig—Miguel, you need to find ... nice girl. You ... girl. Love ... important." The old man slurred and Miguel struggled to guide his Santa-like body up the stairs. When he got him upstairs, he laid him down and took his shoes off. His father rambled incoherently for a moment (while half-asleep) and Miguel sat down with his back to the wall next to him, waiting for the man to fully pass out eventually.

  No, Jaz would not live this kind of life. She would not spend her days wondering if Miguel would be OK or if he'd be coming home that night or if the electric fence was on ... or where the gun was.


  Miguel opened up his father's drawer.

  There it was. Loaded, glistening, weighing in at a meager 640 grams but packing a .357 caliber bullet, five-rounds, synthetic grip, double-action and Satin Stainless finish: their S&W Magnum revolver. Or, as Sandile liked to call it, Death in a Lucky Packet. They used to keep it in the safe. Now, however, it was always here—always accessible.

  On that day, it had taken Miguel five minutes to open the safe, what with forgetting the code and the tears fogging his eyes and Sandile screaming from across the hall. Who the fuck kept their gun behind a combination lock?!

  Once he'd finally gotten it out, Sandile's screams had become nothing but wailing mourns: the sound of truth sinking in. Miguel went into the bathroom. Sandile was crouched on the floor. Miguel held the gun, pointed down. Sandile had not even noticed him at first, his hand to his head, his own mother's head on his lap.

  And Miguel turned, calmly—as if there was nothing left but this one, simple task. As if his life had no further meaning but to find the rodents who'd done this to his family, who'd taken everything from him, and kill them. And then, once that had been done, he would ... he didn't know ... shoot himself? Or maybe ... just ... stop and think?

  He remembered now how, after, he'd headed slowly and deliberately to his front door, his mind on something else, on that thing in the bathroom, that ... blood. He walked forward, much like he'd seen in those zombie movies, and he opened the door.

  There were sirens in the distance. Police? Ambulance?

  He walked out into his garden, blood also on his hands and white shirt, but not as much as had been on Sandile's.

  Miguel didn't remember much of what happened next, although it was easy for him to piece it together. There were suddenly police in front of his gate, guns pointing at him, lots of shouting and screaming and franticness, then Sandile's voice behind him.

  More screaming.

  More shouting.

  ... gun down .... That's all he'd heard.

  And then a shot.

  And that had woken him. It had been a warning shot.

  And he fell to the ground, Sandile behind him, gently pulling the gun from Miguel's hands and throwing it on the grass.

  And then Miguel wept. He wept on the ground while Sandile lay beside him and wept as well.

  The cops arrested them, of course. They had no idea what the fuck was going on. Sandile explained it all. Miguel had been without words. Only thoughts. And he thought this: So long as I live, no one else that I love will ever go through this.

  He put the gun back in his father's drawer now. Honestly, he didn't love it being here, not so close to his father. But he didn't like it in the safe, either.

  "Dorme bem, papa." Sleep well, father, he said quietly.

  Soul City was still on downstairs. Miguel went into the TV room, picked up the phone and hit two.

  "Hey, boet," said Sandile when he answered the phone.

  "Hey," said Miguel, his voice catching. "Pool?"

  "Sure. See you in fifteen."

  Sandile was always there when he needed him. And he always understood. A silent agreement between them never to mention that day.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Miguel was not at school the next day, or the day after, or even the day after that. Jaz asked Sandile where he was and all he said was, "He just needs some time to think. Don't worry about him."

  Worry about him? She wasn't worried about him. She was ... angry at him.

  So angry that it secretly brought tears to her eyes.

  Jaz remembered that the three of them (four? Was Elize also supposed to help?) would be doing gardening or cleaning the garage at Elize's place that coming weekend. She wanted to see Miguel so badly—and yet, not at all.

  Thandie and Jaz were on the grass ahead of Jaz's favorite spot (the pond by the Great Hall) only a few steps away from where she'd first met Sandile and Miguel. It was one-thirty and they had no more classes for the day. Usually they'd have gone down to the mall but there was a march on in town and it would be headed outside the Wits main gate at some stage so it was best to stay in the campus gates for the rest of the day. Jaz had no idea if it was a strike or a protest or what it was. She'd read so many headlines of strikes and protests in the South African newspapers in the past few months that she'd given up trying to follow them anymore. The most recent one she remembered was about wages, so maybe that's what this one was about. For the most part, they were usually peaceful from what she'd seen.

  The sun was beating down like mad and Jaz wore shorts and a sleeveless shirt. Miguel's Kindle only brought back memories and the only reason it was here at all is because Thandie was reading it. Jaz told her she'd have to give it back to Miguel soon—but that hadn't stopped Thandie taking full use of it at the moment. She lay on her back and held the Kindle in such a way as to block out the sun while Jaz sat cross-legged, fiddling with blades of grass, pulling them out of the ground and throwing them aimlessly, staring out into the field at all the students milling about. They'd asked Nita to join them there as well, but she had to go past the dorm and change because she'd dressed too warmly.

  Stefan, Candy and Maxine were also lying in the sun about a hundred yards away, probably sleeping. Another guy hugged a girl, soon after kissing her in such a way that Jaz felt they needed to get a room.

  But that's what you did at college, wasn't it?

  She looked down, not really wanting to look at them anymore.

  "Hello there, do you mind if I ask you ladies a few questions?" said a man with an unmistakably British accent (Jaz had become good at telling the difference now) and a voice so raspy that she felt her head was being grated against a wood file. He cast a shadow over their blanket and when Jaz looked up at him, the sun behind his frizzy red hair made him look like he'd stuck his finger in a socket and been electrocuted—something like a mix between a troll doll and that Australian comedian, Yahoo Serious. He had huge, unbecoming glasses, as if he were trying to keep an eye on every peripheral thing possible, even at the cost of personal appeal. A silver pen jutted out of his shirt pocket and a small digital camera hung around his neck on a green and black lanyard.

  He also wore a wide smile—one of those smiles that tells you he's really not smiling but doing something else entirely.

  "Questions about what?" asked Jaz defensively.

  Thandie sat up, laying the Kindle next to her.

  "Well, I'm doing a story on racism in—"

  "We know who you are," said Thandie.

  The man's smile broke, but for just a second.

  Yes, Jaz knew that kind of smile.

  "Oh, lovely. Well, then I guess we'll just get started then. I believe you are friends of a Sandile Ma—"

  "Look, mister," said Jaz, "we're not willing to answer any questions." Sandile? Why did he want to know about Sandile?

  "I see. So you choose to make no comment?"

  "No comment about what?" asked Thandie.

  "About the interracial relationship of a Mr. Sandile Mabuyo and an Elize Van Zyl, and the racist killings that occurred in that very neighborhood only a few months ago? And about the alleged hatred of her family for Mr. Mabuyo."

  How the fuck did this guy know so much? Jaz felt a squirt of bile enter her mouth, and a sudden pain in her stomach as if an anvil had been shoved down her throat and left to sit at the bottom of her gut.

  "There is no hatred," she said. "I was there."

  "Yes, I know. You are"—he looked through a notepad—"Jaz Curtis, correct?" He looked at her, still with that smile which she felt like slapping off of him.

  How did he know her name? She felt, somehow, violated.

  "Yes, I'm Jasmine Curtis." This guy had no right to call her by her nickname.

  "And you were there ... in Mozambique, I mean—"

  "Who are you?" asked Thandie, clearly pissed.

  "Jonathan Abbey, reporter for The Daily." He stuck out his hand, but soon took it back after no one shook it.

  "What right do
you have to use my name in a story?" asked Jaz.

  "I won't use your name if you don't want me to."

  And then what would he do, refer to her as "an American student from Seattle doing the IHRE program who had been seeing a Portuguese guy from Germiston"? That would really keep her identity a secret.

  "So, what is the story about, actually—I mean, in detail?" Jaz asked.

  Jonathan Abbey stood up straight and placed his hands behind his lower back and stretched it. "Oh, you know, we're just looking into whether or not racism is still alive or not in South Africa; whether or not the country has actually moved on."

  Jaz looked at the field. She saw black kids, white kids, Indian kids. "Just look around," she said.

  Abbey gave a cursory glance. "Yes," he said pensively, and then looked back at the two of them with a more determined glare. "About this Sandile, is it true that the four of you lied about what you had been doing for fear of violence from the neighborhood?"

  Shit. It was the truth—but the way he'd worded it …. Jaz's mind began to reel, much like it had reeled with Miguel in the car only a few days ago. She turned her gaze from the reporter and looked out into the sun. Save for the occasional shout of joyous kids, there wasn't much noise around, but internally her mind screeched like a high-speed car chase.

  "I choose to make no comment," she said, openly avoiding his gaze. What she actually wanted to do was jump to her feet, grab him by the lapels and ask him who the fuck he thought he was.

  But there was no need: "Can we help you?" The sound of Miguel's voice brought a rush of an emotion that was either joy or terror—but she didn't know which. How confusing it was to hear his voice after all these days—and in these circumstances.

  She turned her head up to see him standing domineeringly over the scrawny reporter.

  "Ah, you must be Mr. Pinto," said the man—smiling; always fucking smiling.

  Miguel glared the man down, but he seemed unperturbed. "Mr. Pinto, if I—"

  "You know what, boet, from where I was looking, I could've sworn you tried to make a pass at these two girls. In fact, from where I was watching, I could swear I saw you try and touch that girl's breasts and she told you not to." He pointed to Jaz. "Right, Jaz?" Miguel's face had a look that said, Play along.