Jaz & Miguel

by Raven, R. D.

  Maybe she could get a job there.

  Jaz crashed on the bed and let the linen caress her tear-marred cheeks, trying her best to just stop thinking, and then realizing she'd have to call her parents soon—not only to take the heat for what she'd done, but also to have them pick up her luggage at the airport. It would've been better to have made this sudden decision not to return home before she had checked in her luggage. But, better late than never—isn't that what people say?

  She decided that she wouldn't call Thandie or Elize or Nita right away for the same reasons she'd chosen to stay at a hotel and not asked one of them to put her up (which any one of them would've immediately done). She just needed to feel like she was ready to stand on her own two feet. This and nothing else—not Miguel, not her parents, not her emotions or how sad she still was for the things that had happened—was what she needed to prove to herself most of all.

  The hotel room had a fresh wooden smell, almost like the thatched roofs of the rooms in Rustenburg. In Jaz's mind, this would be an aroma that she would forever equate with Africa.

  She eased off her clothes and slid into a hot shower, letting the firm spray wash the last five months away from her mind. When she got out, she put on a white robe that was hanging behind the bathroom door and pulled out a fruit juice from the mini-bar. For an instant, she pretended she was a woman on a business trip with no worries on her mind but the imaginary upcoming meetings of the following days.

  The feeling soon passed, and after finishing the drink and realizing she'd probably have to pay double for it than if she'd simply bought something at the airport, she threw the bottle in the trash and promised herself to start counting her pennies (or her Rands).

  She made a list of things to do the next day:

  - Buy clothes at Mr. Price

  - Get a job at that cute Italian place

  - Find a cheap place to stay

  - Buy groceries (if the place I'll be staying at has a kitchen, otherwise find a cheap place to eat at every day)

  - Call the girls

  - Get a number for Miguel and call him

  Then she called her mom (who was pissed!) After thirty minutes of arguing and fighting and Jaz standing up for herself, followed by lots of explanation as to why she had done it and all the things that had happened and which had been going on in her mind, her mother sighed in a way that made Jaz wonder if she hadn't done the same thing when she'd been Jaz's age.

  "Like mother like daughter," said her mom. "How can I stay angry at you? My little baby is growing up." The sound of tears was clear in her voice. Jaz promised that she'd email every day (yes, email—her mom insisted and it was the least Jaz could do) and, at the first sign of trouble, Jaz promised she'd ask her parents for help. Her mom also offered to send her money, but Jaz refused it.

  "Not now, mom. If I go broke, I'll come back home. I just … need to do this. Life—well, it's tough and, unless I learn to survive …." She trailed off into thought, not knowing even what she meant herself, just feeling it inside her, like some primal, instinctual urge of needing to break away from the den and go out and hunt on her own or something. In the back of Jaz's mind, she even defined "broke and needing help" as something like having slept on the street for three nights in a row and not eaten for four days. She wasn't going to give up that easily.

  But she didn't tell her mom that.

  Her mom told her she'd smooth things over with her dad that evening. "I love you, sweetie, with all my heart. And I believe in you. And, as you know, the door is always open," she said.

  The statement brought a tear to Jaz's eye—and she didn't want to cry—so she choked out an "I love you" back and quickly hung up. She was amazed at the capacity for love and forgiveness from a parent to a child—like that night in Hillbrow, and how Miguel's father had simply hugged him, happy to see him come home alive, all sins forgiven. And now, her mom, letting her out into the world despite her own fears, the door always open. It's like parents were tapped into some eternal fountain of love and forgiveness despite the (evidently innate) ability of their children to come up with the most elaborate, endlessly imaginative, and just downright thick-witted fuck-ups possible when they are young ("young" being defined as any number of years less than the parent's own age).

  Jaz felt a sudden gratitude for the existence of that fountain.

  But her mom's support, and her understanding, had at least given Jaz a fighting chance.

  And that's all she asked for now: was a fighting chance.

  Because life had kicked her, and she wanted to kick back at it now.

  Having nothing else to do, she sat by the pool just outside the bar downstairs, hands folded in her lap—thinking—and stared out at the golden-blue glow of the pool's lights and sniffed the chlorine until she was too tired to keep her eyes open.

  The next morning, she stuffed herself on the breakfast buffet and caught the shuttle to Eastgate—the nearest mall. She went to Mr. Price and bought three pairs of jeans, seven T-shirts (she saw one like Thandie had with the arrow pointing up to her face—but that was a hopeless dream she knew would never sprout any further than it already had), and two dresses, amazed at how little they'd all cost. Then off to Clicks for a few toiletries, and finally she sat at the Milky Lane eating a chip caramel sundae that was almost as big as her forearm.

  As she sat watching people walking by, going into the Exclusive Books store up ahead or cuing up in front of the Health-Juice place on her right, she was amazed at how easy it all suddenly seemed. She thought of her times up at Bauhaus Books and Coffee in Seattle: people-watching, checking out men's butts, reading a good book.

  Was this any different? Is home not simply the place you choose, or the place where all your friends are?

  And, truth be told, her friends were not in Seattle, her friends were here—her real friends.

  She called them—feeling like she'd achieved something great by now. Within an hour all three of the girls were with her, tears of joy falling from their eyes, and before Jaz knew it she was ordering a second ice cream the size of The Rocky Mountains (she really had to stop doing that lest she start looking like Candy one of these days) and stuffing it down while the girls worked out the remaining items on her list for her without Jaz even having to ask.

  Nita had a cousin in Lenasia who had a car he was getting rid of. She was sure she could twist his arm and get him to sell it for five-hundred or so (he was trying to get it sold for three-thousand). She called him right away and made a deal (with Jaz's approval) that he could take Jaz out on a date as well (after confirming with him that Jaz was indeed "a babe"). Then Nita told her that Jaz should make him take her to the most expensive restaurant she could find (Elize came up with a few suggestions) and, if he tried anything funny, that she had other cousins who would put him in his place.

  Jaz giggled, although part of her was also excited about meeting the guy. Jaz had seen photos of Nita's family and if her cousin looked anything like her brothers, then all the guy needed was a half-decent personality and she might even go out with him a second time.

  Thandie knew someone who worked at a fancy restaurant in Melrose (wasn't that a place in Seattle?) and called him up to arrange an interview for her. She told Jaz that the tips were probably much better than at a small coffee shop and, with a car, she'd manage to travel the extra distance and still come out with more money.

  Elize had friends who'd just lost a tenant for one of their cottages. They were old and rented more out of the need for company than for money. They might be willing to put Jaz up and, if she was willing to help around the house and garden, maybe even charge her only for water and electricity.

  The more her friends talked and bulldozed through all the possible barriers to Jaz making a life for herself in South Africa, and as they negotiated amongst each other as to how to get her completely on her feet, the more she felt ... like she belonged.

  Isn't this how life is supposed to be?

  Having completed just
about everything on her list, the four of them decided to hang out at the mall ("Shopping Center") and look at guys and eat even more ice cream (if that was even possible).

  Jaz laughed and smiled. She was happy. She was. That picture she'd had in her mind of Miguel—even now as she sat there—was not really bothering her that much anymore. Sure, it was there, but it wasn't too bad. It wasn't making her want to cry or bury her face in her hands or wonder where he was and if he was OK—not like it had been doing that morning. And she knew that, if the picture pressed too hard against her again, that she'd have the girls to lift her mood.

  As the weeks and months went by and Jaz started working and saving up money and counting her coins at the end of each month to see how much she could spend and how much she needed to save, and as she hung out with the girls every Saturday (each of them choosing a mall on a turnabout basis), Miguel became more and more a fading memory. During the daytime, and as she got busy with things, he was barely on her mind, a photograph fading with the sun. It was only at night sometimes, at random points that seemed to have no connection with anything she'd been doing during the day, when his image would impress itself upon her so severely that it felt like she was being burned by it.

  And in those moments, she cried. She cried into her pillow, her only comfort being the distant hope that—as it had happened endless times before—the next morning, the sun would again rise, the birds would again sing, and she could move on.

  She'd considered calling his father and maybe getting a number for him, but the way Miguel had left—so suddenly and without warning—it had been clear he was in no mood to stay in touch with anyone. And, after all, he had broken up with her that night after Mozambique. And it had not been because she was leaving—from what he'd said to her that night, that much had been abundantly clear.

  She never did find out what his real reasons had been.

  Maybe it was better this way. She couldn't face discovering what he'd despised so much about her to have ended their relationship so abruptly.

  In truth, it was actually this last point—and only this last one—which really stopped her from ever trying to get a hold of him. She was afraid of another rejection from him.

  And she loved him too much to go through that again.

  She'd asked herself many times what she'd maybe learned from being in love with Miguel (she knew she still loved him; and that he would forever be her first love). Had she learned that love sucked? Or that love just wasn't enough? But these questions, too, as it was with his image, also began to fade, each day—and night—becoming less and less.

  One thought, however, didn't fade, and she found herself thinking on this particular night more than any other. It was their first date, in Melville, at that quaint little restaurant where all had seemed so perfect and everything felt like it had all come together by Fate or Destiny. And then Miguel had even asked her that very question.

  Do you believe in fate? You know: destiny, signs, things meant to be, serendipity, whatever?

  Destiny. Fate. Serendipity. Wow. She had really believed in that stuff once before—a lifetime ago. But she didn't anymore.

  Occasionally the girls went to clubs. Again, the choice being a rotating one between the four of them, and Elize and Nita had complained on at least one occasion about the fact that they were now attending kwaito clubs twice in a month because Jaz had taken a liking to that "horrific noise" which she and Thandie liked to call music. Then again, Jaz and Thandie also complained when Elize insisted on going to clubs that played what Jaz liked to call "folk music." But, at the end of the day, they all knew their complaints were utterly bullshit because, as much as each hated the other's music (they didn't really "hate" it, although they liked to say so), none of them ever considered spending one of their club nights (or their Saturdays for that matter) away from the other. Jaz didn't even consider it a "mutual respect." She considered it, simply, that they liked being with each other, and the music could've been friggin death metal for all they cared because, so long as they had a few Caipirinhas (or any other source of alcohol) and several decent derrières to look at, they were happy.

  They promised each other that, even when they got married, they would always hang out on Saturdays, and they would always compare butt-ratings on a scale of one to ten—from there on out and forever.

  The mention of marriage had come from Jaz, having noted that Nita and Vinesh (the guy she'd met in Cape Town) had become a little more than "serious." Vinesh had been to Jo'burg several times to see her (after officially requesting permission to date her from her father) and Jaz knew that it was only a matter of time before the guy popped the question.

  As for Jaz, she'd met a guy here and there at some of the clubs. It had always been only physical. She could never bring herself to sleep with any of them, opting simply for the pleasures that they could give her out in the open, usually on one of the many couches that the clubs provided for (what Jaz assumed to be) that very purpose. It was far from romantic, and barely even satisfying. But that's exactly what Jaz had wanted.

  Besides, her first time would not be with someone she'd just met and who considered his best asset to be his chest (and who had little else to offer).

  Elize had also met a few guys, although she normally let things go at a peck or a few French kisses. Once, Jaz had to just about knee a guy in his nuts to get him away from her—moron. But that's the way guys are in clubs, mostly pathetic, always horny. Vinesh, it seemed, was a gift from God himself, and if Nita decided not to marry him, Jaz decided that she would take it upon herself to knock some sense into the girl.

  When you've got a good one, never let him go. Never. Because he might not come back, and there is no greater heartbreak than never having the chance to have your heart broken in the first place. Because having no one at all, is the greatest heartbreak of all. Hearts always get broken, it's whether the one who broke it can also mend it, and learn from it, and not make that same mistake again—that's the true test of love. (At least that's what Jaz had figured out in her inexpert musings about the subject).

  She had been thinking of Miguel lately. Just as Elize had been spending less and less time with boys at clubs lately. And both factors, unrelated as they seemed, were actually more related than anything—as related as brothers in blood.

  Because Sandile's umbuyiso was coming up—the Xhosa celebration, held a year after the funeral, to bring back the spirit of the dead as a true ancestor. There was no ways Jaz would miss that.

  There was no ways Miguel would, either.

  That, she knew.

  THIRTY-TWO

  The night before the umbuyiso, she slept little, and dreamed a lot. Do you believe in fate? she heard in her dream. Do you believe in fate? The voice was hollow and distant, coming from the foggy Drakensberg mountains, and then from Table Mountain, and then from Mozambique. At first it was Miguel's voice, and his face was etched in the roiling nimbus clouds, but then, as she looked closer, the face was Sandile's.

  And then there was blood. There was so much blood outside the Wits campus and Miguel was holding Sandile's body in his arms and screaming into the heavens, Why? Why? Why?

  Why?

  And in her dream she asked herself the same thing. And in her dream it began to rain, so she knew she was crying. Because that is the way of dreams: to symbolize the truth of what's happening in life by symbolical representations in the dream itself. She'd learned this when she was only five or six or so, realizing that whenever she was in a pool filled with water, it meant she'd needed the bathroom. And she knew that, in her dreams, she should never let that pool overflow, because that meant she'd wet her bed.

  In tonight's dream, the rain water washed her face so that it was soaking. And Sandile's face appeared again in the heavens as a cloud.

  Do you believe in fate?

  "No. No, I don't," she said. And in her dream, she was angry. She was angry at the gods or the mountains or the land or something.

  Sandile's
face faded into nothing over the mountain (which she realized, now, was definitely Table Mountain in Cape Town), and soon the sky was empty of clouds, but still dark and looming. Lightning struck at the top of the mountain.

  A Sangoma was now there. She spoke in a language Jaz could not understand but, as it goes in dreams, she did understand it.

  Angels. Angels have kept Africa alive. Devils have tried to destroy it, but always failed. The sun always rises again, every day, in Africa. The Ancestors look over Africa.

  Then, in her dream, she thought of that horrible man with that deathly voice who had asked her questions on the same day Sandile had died, that man with the electrocuted red hair.

  But that was no dream?

  The Sangoma said more things, but now Jaz didn't understand them, and the empty skies filled again with clouds and they formed to take on a shape, and the shape was the face of Sandile.

  And he said, "The Ancestors look after Africa. The sun always rises again."

  The dream had perturbed her. When she got up, her eyes were tired even though she'd been in bed for a good eight hours. Her face felt clammy and she did her best to make herself up. Thandie had told her that, for umbuyiso one was to dress in as brightly colored clothes as possible. Umbuyiso is a celebration, she'd told her.

  So Jaz bought a traditional African dress. It had red and green and orange and yellow splotches of color on it and, when she looked herself over in the mirror, she was amazed at how the motley combination actually lifted her spirits. She began to think of Sandile in a positive way, as if the colors themselves had reminded her that the day was not one of mourning, but of joy.