Jaz & Miguel (23 page)

The drive home to Miguel's place had been unnervingly quiet.

And lonely.

It was as if the roaring tumult at the university had at least added
some level of comfort to the atrocity that had just occurred, like a protective
blanket of sound that had kept them free from the douse of acidic liquid which had
been the truth outside it. But now, there was only silence.

When they got to Miguel's house, Thandie told his father what
happened while Jaz took Miguel to his room and sat with him. But he didn't want
to stay there long, so they went out into the garden.

The routine continued at his place much as it had been at the campus:
meandering in the garden, sitting, standing, walking, Miguel acting as if
nothing had happened, like he'd disappeared into a world so far from anything
that Jaz could call reality that he was basically unreachable to her. Finally,
at three a.m., Thandie long since asleep in the guest bedroom, Miguel's eyes began
to close, outside in the garden. Jaz walked him up to his bedroom—like leading
the living dead itself—and watched him fall asleep on his bed, her knees to her
chest, on the floor next to him, waiting.

His sleep was broken—asleep for twenty minutes, then another stroll
around the room—all the while practically unaware of her or anything else
around him.

And he still hadn't eaten.

He said nothing, admitted nothing, evinced
nothing
by his
facial expressions, cried … nothing.

Jaz fell into a rhythm as well, sitting with her back to the wall
and dozing off as he dozed off and then waking up when he woke up, as if they'd
grooved into some mutual rhythm in each other's minds.
Because of what was happening with Miguel, she never allowed
herself—not even for a moment—to think of what had happened that day; not yet;
her time to mourn would come. She had a new problem on her hands: Miguel.

He was just ...
too
quiet.

In Miguel's world—a world of hazy thoughts and blood and running for
the main gate and hearing the shots and watching Sandile fall and seeing Tsepho
screech off in a vehicle afterward—there were only two things that existed in
the whole universe: the .357 Magnum in his father's drawer, and the man who'd taken
the life of his best friend. The two of them would soon meet.

There was nothing else.

Nothing. Else.

There was no basketball, no Sandile, no Elize, no Jaz, no Thandie,
no Toyota, no Mozambique, no Durban, no Cape Town, no US of fucking A, no
Britain, no earth, no moon, no sun, no stars, no life, no death, no hope, no
joy, no friendship, no happiness, no kindness, no freedom, no peace, no calm, no
love—but hate.

There was ...
hate
.

He had to stay calm. He needed to walk. Every time he sat down,
things started running through his mind and they were horrible and painful and
shouldn't have happened and they scared him and worried him and freaked him
out.

And Sandile.

He walked.

Ahhh, yes, that was better. Walking, breathing, walking, throwing
stones, breathing, Jaz. Jaz. Jaz.

Jaz.

Jaz kept him calm. He hoped she would not leave him. She needed to
stay with him. She couldn't leave him.

Jaz.

Jaz was here. He knew it. Every time he looked, she was here. Yes,
she was.

He closed his eyes. He dozed off.

Nightmares. Blood. Gunshots. Falling!

He opened his eyes!

Jaz. She was still here.

He needed to walk.

Walk.

Walk.

Walk.

Walk,

Walk. Around the room.

Walk.

Walk.

Breathe.

Jaz.

She was here. She was here. She was here.

He breathed.

.357 Magnum. Tsepho.
Bang.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.

THE DAILY

Britain's Most Reliable News Source

BLACK BOYFRIEND OF WHITE GIRLFRIEND SLAIN IN JOHANNESBURG. TWO
FOREIGN NATIONALS IN HOSPITAL AFTER STAMPEDE—PICTURES

by Jonathan P. Abbey, Official South African Correspondent

BRAAMFONTEIN, SOUTH AFRICA — Fri, 20 September 2013

Summary:

Black boyfriend of Afrikaner girl (who is from the neighborhood of
this year's earlier murder of Dumisane Ndlovu and Rina Coetzee—allegedly due to
racial prejudices) slain on Jorissen Street outside Wits Theater, Braamfontein.
Today's alleged murderer (known only as "Tsepho" to locals) is a
known drug-dealer with ties to a Nigerian Drug Cartel based in Hillbrow (only a
few minutes away from the campus). Wage-strike turned violent as a result.
Reporter of this story personally attacked by mob of students. Three students
injured in ensuing stampede as a result of rubber bullets and teargas fired
into crowd: one American, one German, one South African. Investigations opened
up into possible excessive use of force by police. Travel warnings issued by USA,
UK, Germany, France, Italy, Canada, all Scandinavian countries, Australia, and
New Zealand. All current vacationers in South Africa from the above countries
urged to head home by their local governments because of "the unstable
situation."

Full story on page two – PICTURES

Also on Page Two:

-
      
FOOTBALLER, WESLEY RYAN, NUDE ON SALINE BEACH WITH PORN-STAR, KANDY
SANCHEZ—PICTURES!

-
      
MEGAN DANIELS SEX-TAPE—WAS IT A HOAX? YOU DECIDE.

-
      
EXPOSÉ: IS OPRAH REALLY AS CARING AS SHE MAKES HERSELF OUT TO BE?

jazinsa.blogspot.com

I'm safe

Posted on:
Fri, Sep 20th, 2013 at 08:13am, South African Standard
Time

Posted by:
Jaz

# Comments:
comments closed for this post

Dear mom, dad,

As I'm sure you know, things have gone a little crazy down here.
Before you ask: I am fine. I don't even know where to start ....

Sandile ... is dead. It's hard for me to even say it just like
that—simply and without description. But that's how death is, isn't it? Sudden,
quick, decisive. I have not told you much about him before, and I won't now. He
was a friend—a good friend. A great friend.

The newspapers this morning are mixing up a bunch of facts and
relating the murder (God, it's still so hard to believe it) to the protests and
to Sandile's girlfriend.

Whatever.

It had nothing to do with any of that. It was an unfortunate attack
by some guy high on crack or whatever these fucking assholes smoke around here.

I'm sorry about the swearing—but I really don't care right now.

Stefan (the German guy) is in hospital, along with Candy and Nita. I
know I haven't introduced Nita to you—just know that she is my friend. Nita is
on life support. Stefan has a collapsed lung and a few broken ribs. Candy also has
a few broken ribs, two broken fingers and a shiner.

Maxine fill fly home tomorrow. She said she can't "stand being
in a place where people are fucking crazy."

She obviously hasn't hung out at The Jungle before, thinking such
behavior is only limited to South Africa.

Many of the other foreign students have also left.

I am at Miguel's place. Thandie is here with me but she'll be going
back soon.

Miguel is ... not doing well. That's an understatement. I don't want
to say anything more about it.

Sandile was pronounced dead on arrival.

I know I'm jumping around. I just want to let you know everything
that's on my mind and then get on with my day, my week.

I'll be here for as long as Miguel needs me.

That's all I have to say.

I love you.

Bye.

Jaz

Comments closed for this post.

raeinseattle.blogspot.com

BRING JAZ CURTIS HOME!

Posted on:
Fri, Sep 20th, 2013 at 07:16am, Pacific Time

Posted by:
raeinseattle

# Comments:
2

This is a post for my best friend Jaz. She's in South Africa where
things have just gone
insane
! As you all know,
South Africa has had some really bad problems with RACISM in the past—and
they're still doing it!

Yeah, while we were emancipating and shit, they were putting our
African-American friends in SLAVE CAMPS!

Jaz, people don't change. That country has its own problems.

Come home to the USA.

COME HOME!

We're here for you!

[IMG_7523.jpg]

Jacquie, Priscilla (fellow cheerleaders—W00T!) and me cheering for
Jaz to come home

[IMG_7524.jpg]

Matt (yeah, we're back together!) and his crew cheering for Jaz to
come home

See, baby? We all love you up here. Come back to where it's safe!
Get on with your life!

Your best friend 4ever and eva—Rae! Xoxo
3 Comments:
Comment from:
Brenda
Posted on:
Fri, Sep 20th, 2013 at 08:16am, Pacific Time
Yo, Rae. It's "African," not "Africa-American,"
you idiot.
Reply from:
raeinseattle
Posted on:
Thu Fri, Sep 20th, 2013 at 08:20am, Pacific Time
> Bitch! Matt chose me, now FUCK OFF!
> He doesn't love you anymore! Skank!

Friday became Saturday, became Sunday, became Monday. Miguel showed
little progress, and Jaz had started to more than worry. Thandie had left on
the Saturday. She went to be with Sandile's family. Sandile's father had called
a few times and Jaz told him what was happening with Miguel. He spoke to Miguel
a few times, but Miguel stayed stoic, not reacting, not saying much at all.

The cops had also come by. They asked Miguel a few questions and he
answered succinctly and then sunk back down into the hole he'd been in since
the incident, not a glint of hope in his eyes that they'd actually find
anything after they left.

—
  
Mr. Pinto, did you actually
see
this Tsepho
shoot Sandile?

—
  
Yes.

—
  
Was he alone?

—
  
Yes.

—
  
Do you know where to find this Tsepho?

—
  
No. But he deals for a guy in Hillbrow—Nigerian, likes to call
himself "God."

—
  
Yes, we've checked Hillbrow, but there's no known address for this Tsepho
there, and, as you know, nobody talks very much to the police in Hillbrow. And
this "God" character is about as elusive as … well … you know what I
mean. Was Sandile using drugs?

—
  
No.

—
  
Are you sure?

—
  
Very
.

—
  
I see. OK, Mr. Pinto. Thank you for your time. We'll keep you
informed as to any developments.

And that was the last Jaz had heard of them. And the last full
sentences out of Miguel's mouth.  

She and Miguel's dad spoke sometimes while Miguel sat on the couch
or when he dozed off for a few minutes at a time on it. Overall, Senhor Pinto
(who looked a little like Mario of the Mario Brothers) was friendly and
accommodating. He did some shopping and cooked a bit so that Jaz would have
some food.

Miguel didn't eat much.

Watching Miguel had started having the disturbing feeling of being
like watching a real life occurrence of  
The
Stepford Wives
—and
Miguel was one of the wives, acting as if nothing was wrong in the whole world.
Although Miguel didn't smile or laugh or act as if
nothing
had happened,
he also didn't do anything else. He'd wake up, go down to the TV room, flick on
some talk-show and sit with his hands folded in his lap, watching. Jaz knew he
wasn't really watching, because he'd sit for hours and hours looking at
infomercials sometimes. She sat next to him every moment she had. The boredom
had been killing her. She'd lost his Kindle, and when she remembered that, a
feeling of great regret came over her, like the Kindle had meant so much more
than it really did.

But she realized that, on some level, she'd probably equated the
loss of the Kindle with the loss of something so much greater that day.

Jaz had shed more than one tear for Sandile by now. And every time
she thought of him, she turned away from Miguel or went to the bathroom or
walked for a bit outside and then, once her tears had dried, went back inside.

Miguel never said anything.

Once or twice she'd seen his hand fly over to the phone on the side
table by the couch, as if wanting to suddenly call someone, but then his hand
would go back to meet the other, and there they'd sit again, motionless.

After three days, Miguel's thoughts began to congeal. There had been
enough distance of time between now and the incident for him to finally face—in
his mind—what had occurred, and his thinking was becoming lucid. The only thing
he needed to solve now ... was Jaz.

He appreciated her being there. But there was a time when a woman
needed to step aside and just let a man do what he needed to do.

He'd heard that line so many times. Only now did he appreciate its
merciful truth. There are certain things a woman should never have to face:
death, pain, vengeance, hate, sorrow. All the ugly things that life has to
offer. This is the realm of men, hiding the atrocities of the world for them so
they can continue to provide the comfort a man so desperately needs so he
can
face those things on her behalf; comfort in the form of a warm smile, an easy
embrace.

And Miguel needed to do this.

It was a question of honor.

It was a question of ...
finality
.

By the Monday, four days after the incident, he was becoming more
aware of his environment. Jaz talking to his father had stopped being a random
set of voices in the distance, but actual distinct sentences.

His only chance to leave would be when Jaz fell asleep.

He knew she wasn't sleeping much. Neither was he. But he was wired
now, and she wasn't.

He'd seen her puffy eyes at times when she walked away and went
outside—no doubt when she was remembering Sandile.

And Sandile
would
be remembered.
Miguel would also remember him. And he would also mourn him, eventually.

But there were things that needed to be done first.

It was Monday night (or early Tuesday morning, depending on how you looked
at it) and Jaz could have sworn she'd seen more movement in Miguel's eyes that
day, as if he no longer had that dazed, out-of-touch look in him that he'd
carried the previous few days. But something wasn't right, because, although
the life seemed to have returned to his eyes, he seemed to still be acting as
if he was lost in some world other than the one they were all supposed to be
sharing.

Acting
. She couldn't believe she was
saying this about him, but it had been her gut feeling.

Miguel? Are you OK?
she had asked him
earlier that day as he'd flipped onto old reruns of the A-Team on TV.

Of course!
he'd said—and that was
exactly what had freaked her out. Because this time, he'd smiled, as if he were
putting on a show. As if, behind his eyes, he'd been planning something.

It was the problem with Miguel (this much she knew about him): he
brooded. To this day, ever since they'd known each other, Miguel had not once
spoken about his mother and sister to her. He'd never once opened up to her
about what happened to them on that day—the day that had brought him and
Sandile together with a bond that no one could ever understand but the two of them.

Surely that couldn't be healthy.

Jaz sat with her back to the wall and her arms around her knees,
watching Miguel as he slept on the floor next to his bed. Other than the first
night (when he'd been too zombied out to even notice what was happening around
him), every other night he had refused to sleep on his bed so long as she was
there, saying that, if she insisted on staying with him, she should at least
take the bed—long story short, neither of them took it. Jaz was too afraid to
go to sleep, wanting to keep every moment she had with her eyes on him.
Miguel's father had also made up the guest bedroom for her. Not once had she
used it.

The only light in the room was from a sliver of moon outside. Jaz's back
felt like it was made of bricks. Every muscle in it was hard and sore from
leaning against the wall for the fifth night in a row. Her neck felt like it
had been held up on a meat hook for days. What she wouldn't give for a soft bed
or a warm shower.

Her eyes began to close and she rested her head on the wall, looking
out into the glowing clouds. The scene began to fade as she dozed off for
seconds at a time. That's how her sleep had felt for the last few days—a few
seconds awake, a few seconds asleep.

She hadn't showered in days. She barely went to the bathroom, ever
afraid to leave Miguel alone.

It was not normal that Miguel had not shed a tear since Thursday.
He'd cried in the first few moments, but not a drop since.
Jaz was no shrink, but it didn't take an expert to know that this
was very,
very
bad.

Like floating gossamer, the thought had come to her mind of what
people were capable of in this state, after having lost so much that they had
nothing left to lose. And, although no particular memory or idea came to mind,
she couldn't help but briefly entertain the thought that, when Miguel did
explode (because he would, this she knew) that he would do something that might
cause her to lose him forever.

And she hadn't lost him. Not yet. She knew that. Even though they
weren't dating, he was still here. There was still hope.

And, at this stage, she didn't even care about that—dating or not
dating, the thought that Miguel might even simply ... cease to exist ... had
given his life a whole new meaning to her.

One death did not immediately mean that another life should be lost.

Her eyes burned from exhaustion. She felt her head drop to the side.

Then she awoke again.

Then her head dropped again. Sleep.

She awoke.

Drop.

Sleep.

Miguel was wide awake. He would do it tonight. He lay with his back
to Jaz and listened to her breathing. The poor girl. She needed a break. After
tonight, she'd get one. After tonight, all would be OK. He would mourn
Sandile's death with her, peaceful that he had not died unavenged.

He heard her breathing become more regular, then a grunt of
awakeness, then regular, regular, regular ….

She was sleeping now.

He lifted himself up, stopping for a moment as the floor creaked—but
Jaz continued to sleep.

She was curled up on the ground. A wave of sadness came over him
seeing her there. She was so lovely, so caring, so beautiful.
No one should ever have to see what she saw—with
Sandile. At least she never saw the actual gunshot.

She was completely passed out. He crouched down next to her on his
haunches so that he'd be able to use his legs for strength, slid his arms
underneath her shoulders and thighs and ever so gently lifted her up.

He stumbled back for a moment, and she opened her eyes briefly. His
heart raced.

"Shhhhh, shhhh, it's OK, Jaz. It's OK," he said, holding
her in his arms to look at her for only a second.

The poor girl was so wiped out that she barely noticed anything, her
eyes closing just as fast as they had opened. Miguel laid her down on the bed,
and tucked his pillow under her head. He covered her with the comforter, and
looked out into the sky, lit only by a milky wash of moonlight against the
clouds.

He stroked her hair once.

He opened his drawer quietly, and pulled out the brown envelope with
his money in it. He felt that there were some coins in it—useless, really—but
decided to leave them there in case he woke Jaz up by moving them. "God"
(who Sandile and he had given the name "Igbo" to—a random Nigerian
name they'd found on the internet, hating the blasphemous sound of the drug
lord's chosen nickname) would want payment in exchange for the information
Miguel needed. The cops might not have gotten Tsepho's address, but Miguel knew
(hoped) that Tsepho was a problem that "Igbo" needed to solve. Miguel
had bought enough shit and been in the scene long enough in the past to know
that a death was no good unless it brought money—and even then, killing a
person only closes that potential business. Igbo would've never ordered a hit
on Sandile. What for? So long as Sandile lived and got an education and made
lots of money, he'd be great future business. What Tsepho did was just plain,
fucking,
stupid
. If Igbo hadn't taken care of it himself by now (Miguel fucking
prayed that he hadn't) then he would be taking care of it soon enough. Because
if Tsepho talked, this could prove to be very bad for Igbo's business.

At least this is what Miguel was hoping. If he was wrong … well, he
tried not to think about that. He
needed
this.

 He grabbed his high-tops and made his way to his father's room.
When he got in, he crept to his bedside table, opened the drawer gently, felt
inside underneath the socks and handkerchiefs, and then found it: that fresh
touch of cold steel.

Hate filled his mind.

He took the gun.

It was odd: he had sensed that, maybe, he would've felt a little
more relief knowing he was so close to doing what he needed to do. And yet, all
he felt now, was shame, as if what he was about to do was somehow … wrong?

Bullshit!

In the hallway, he checked that the gun was loaded—it was—and then
stuck it in his belt and crept out.

As he walked past his bedroom door, he heard Jaz moan. "Miguel?"
It was a half-asleep, half-awake moan. Again: "Miguel?" as if she was
dreaming. He paused for a second, a bead of sweat now tickling his temple.