Jaz & Miguel (15 page)

They argued that night. All of them. With each other. In Sandile and
Elize's room.

Miguel: "It doesn't matter if we stay or go now, if her family
knows then they know!"

Sandile: "Bullshit. Maybe the fucking doofus didn't actually realize
I was moving in to kiss her—"

Elize: "He did. I know it. You also know it."

Sandile: "Well, now I've rethought it. I mean, are you sure? Are
you absolutely
positive
he saw us?"

Jaz: "Miguel, he seemed pretty happy after you guys all played
rugby."

Miguel: "He's a Dutchman. All Dutchmen are happy when they have
beer."

Elize: "I wish you would stop using that word, Miguel."

Jaz: "She's right. You can't expect them to respect Sandile if
you don't respect them."

Miguel: "Ach man, what the fuck do you know?! Everyone calls
them fucking Dutchmen down here. You're just a—" He stopped himself. "I'm
sorry. Jaz—"

Jaz: "I'm what, just a
Yank
? Like Elize is a
Dutchman
and Sandile a
kaffir
?!" She turned away and
stormed to the balcony, her arms crossed.

"Baby, I'm really sorry." It was Miguel, now outside with
her. She inched away the moment his hands touched her shoulders.

"I'm right, aren't I? You hate them as much as they hate
Sandile."

"I don't hate them. Or— Well, maybe I do, but why shouldn't I?
I mean, most of them are a bunch of racist fucks."

"You know that for a fact? You've surveyed every Afrikaner in
this country? And what about Elize?"

Miguel sighed. "She's— Well—"

"You're being a hypocrite. I don't give a shit if you've 'lived
here all your life' or whatever your excuse is. You've put them all in a
category. Isn't that what you're afraid they'll do to Sandile?"

"Fine," he said. "I can accept that. So what do
you
suggest we do about all this? Just wait for this Piet guy to call home and
break the news?"

"We confront them. Or, Sandile and Elize confront them."

One thing was clear as Miguel stood there arguing with Jaz, her
fiery eyes saying more to him than any of her words ever could: her opinion had
come to mean something to him, and he could no longer simply decide things on
his own. He was suddenly afraid to offend her, afraid to upset her to the point
where her coins of love—an embrace, a kiss, a soft caress through his hair—would
be forever withheld from him and he would again become a pauper.

Without Jaz, Miguel had begun to feel, only, poor.

As he pondered her suggestion, more taken by how her hair whipped at
her face from the warm wind blowing across it than by the conversation itself, he
had no choice but to give in. What else could he to do? Argue with her to the
point where he'd have to take her home? It wasn't the drive—he'd drive her all
the way if he needed to.

It was Jaz.

He needed her now. More than he could explain to her.

A new thought emerged in his awareness. A new idea came to him like
an undercurrent ripping him from the tide of debate that had carried all four
of them out into a sea of disagreement, and which had all but drowned the last
half hour of their lives.

The thought, was of an emotion.

Just like that, the idea popped into his mind like the light spray
of salty water from a wave crashing against the rocks. And it wasn't the kind
of emotion where the boy sees the girl in a crowd full of faces and she looks
at him with a glint in her eye that could only mean she would be forever and
ever
the one
for him and he'd run through the crowds and wrestle bulls
and give his left arm in exchange for a night with her and then they would both
take a poisonous drink and die together but it was all meant to be anyway so
that was the moral of the story.

No.

It was Jaz.

And him.

On a balcony.

Now.

This, was
real
.

Whatever he did now, he knew, would affect things between them
forever. And the emotion he had started to think about did include a sort of
forever in it, a forever that, he could understand, would maybe not be entirely
comfortable, but which would contain moments just like this one. Moments where
he would be standing in front of her, on a balcony, and the next words he would
utter would either cut her, or warm her.

He looked inside the room. As the curtain billowed, furnishing him a
brief glance within, he saw that Elize had since fallen into Sandile's lap,
resting her head against his collarbone. Sandile was running his fingers down
her hair, looking at nothing.

This is what it was all about, wasn't it?

Miguel closed the sliding door a bit so they'd have more privacy.

"Jaz," he said, "there's something I wanted to … tell
you. Actually, I wanted to tell you in different circumstances than these but …
well … I can't stop thinking about it anymore."

Jaz still had her arms folded and her lips were so tightly pressed
that he imagined he'd have to pry them open with a crowbar.

She said nothing, waiting.

"Jaz … I love you."

Somehow, when he said it, it didn't sound nearly as good as when
he'd thought it, like the words had just fallen out like stones down a kloof.

A pause.

"You what?"

That was not the reaction he'd expected.

She exhaled. "An interesting time to tell me," she finally
said, a mixture of anger and surprise in her voice.

Miguel cleared his throat. It had been a very interesting time
indeed. And now Miguel felt a little foolish, wishing he had a bottle of wine
or champagne next to him to pull out; wishing he had chosen a different moment,
but he had none of these things.
"I know, the
moment sucks," he said. "But I do. And there's something I want you
to understand. I love you with all my heart, but things are ... different down
here. People
die
down here. We all lose our
naivety early. I lost mine—"

Jaz's eyes burst with indignation.
"You're
a fucking asshole, you know that? Is that why you told me—to soften me up
before you broke it to me that I'm naïve?" She was talking quietly now, occasionally
looking inside the room. "Are you trying to tell me that I am naïve and
that you're not? You're so full of yourself." She turned to face the
ocean, her elbows on the railing.

"No, that's not what I meant." And it wasn't. He'd meant only
that ... well ... she hadn't seen the depths to which human passions could take
someone. She hadn't seen the capability of human beings to act worse than the
lowest of animals. Because even a lion kills only to eat. Humans, it seemed to
him, killed for pleasure.

And what he had wanted to say was that ... deep down ... he was just
fucking shitting himself for what could happen to Sandile.

Or to her.

"Then what
did
you mean?" she
asked.

"I meant .... You know what? You're right. That was bullshit
what I said—I mean, the second thing I said—not … the thing about … you know …
love
.
That wasn't"—Christ, he sounded like a babbling monkey—"um, bullshit."

She looked up at him, confused. "What?"

"Jaz, all I know is, I love you. And I love Sandile. And ...."
His eyes were downcast. And he went quiet. He'd screwed this one up royally,
that he knew. So he did the only thing he knew to do. He turned to face the
ocean with her, resting his own arms on the railing, and waited.

In silence.

After a long while, nothing to break the quiet but the sound of the wind
and ocean in their ears, Jaz peeked at him sidelong.

Was she smiling?

She was. It was a small one, but an unmistakable smile.

A twitch broke on his lip.

And then she hit him.

"Ow!" Miguel fell over slightly and clutched his shoulder.
"Man!"

She was trying to pretend she was angry, this much he could tell,
but she was also shaking her wrist in pain. Poor girl, she really had no idea
how to throw a decent punch.

"Does that mean I'm forgiven?" he asked her.

"No!" She opened her eyes widely. "But did you really
mean what you said? I mean—the second thing—you know—about … love."

She sounded as bad as he did now.

"Yeah, I did," he whispered. "I've loved you since—"
A lump formed in his throat. He cleared it. "Well, it's been a while,
let's just put it like that."

"I would've expected the statement to have come with a bottle
of wine, or maybe after a night of … you know."

"Yeah. Full of surprises this trip, isn't it? This wasn't how I
had planned—"

She put her finger to his lips, then placed her hands around his biceps
and rose up on her toes to kiss him.

After they kissed, he held her, watching as the last puddles of red
light fell behind the ocean, bringing the entire zone into a gray darkness.

"I love you, too," she finally said.

And that's all he had wanted to hear.

"We've discussed it," said Sandile as Miguel and Jaz
walked back in. "We're going to run away. Screw everyone. It's not their
business. It's ours."

Jaz saw the look of apprehension on Elize's face. She was not ready
to face the world on her own. Sandile was the strong one, not she. She would
end up pulling him down in the long run. And what of their education? What
about college?

The idea seemed like a bad one all round.

"Or," said Jaz, "we could all go together."

"Together where?" asked Elize, eyes puffy and swollen.

"To your parents. We could all confess together. We were all a
part of it. We all lied to them."

"What a world," said Sandile, "where you have to
apologize for seeing someone because of the color of your skin."

"Sandile," said Jaz, "in all fairness to them, you
don't know how they will react. We're apologizing for
lying
, not for your relationship."

"She's right ... boet," said Miguel.

Jaz felt an internal smile. Had Miguel just stood up for her?

"Ach, this is so ...
fucked
!"
said Sandile, rubbing his brow with his index and thumb.

"That's one thing we can all agree on," said Miguel. "Life
has never been pretty down here."

"And now?" asked Sandile.

Miguel: "Now someone puts on a fucking light. Do you realize
we're all sitting here in the dark?!" 

Jaz flipped the light switch and they all waited some more.

"Well, I need some food, so that's what's next for me,"
said Miguel.

Sandile chuckled. So did Elize. "I'm also starving," she
said.

And just like that, they were back on vacation, as if nothing had
even happened.

But it had.

They went to an Indian restaurant where Jaz couldn't decide between
the Biryani and the Butter Chicken. Eventually she went with the Vindaloo—a
lamb curry dish—which Miguel told her was actually of Portuguese origin. She
wasn't sure whether or not to believe him and, when she asked the waiter, he smiled
incredulously and assured her it was definitely Indian. Miguel shrugged his
shoulders confidently.

"The truth is the truth, no matter what people believe about
it," he said.

They ate and drank wine (Jaz was now trying red—a Pinotage which
left her mouth feeling like every cell in it had contracted to form a sort of cling-wrap
where her tongue had once been). The thoughts of what had occurred earlier that
day became more and more distant, as if the crashing breakers outside were
washing them away with the tide; as if it had all only happened in a dream. How
bad could it be, really? The man—this
Piet
—was on vacation like the rest
of them. And he did seem to have had a good time playing touch rugby with the
boys.

Jaz watched Sandile and Elize hold onto each other and feed each
other curry. She had never seen a couple so well suited to one another.
She placed her hand on Miguel's leg. He had
gone for the Crab Masala and now had brown curry all over his hands and lips.
It reminded her of the ketchup and mustard he'd had on him when they'd sat by
the roadside about two months earlier.

How quickly those months had travelled by.

He laughed at the mess and so did she. She wasn't sure if it was the
wine or simply the salty air of the ocean, or the fact that they probably had
nothing to worry about in the first place, but by the end of the night, she
wasn't concerned about anything other than making sure that the four of them
had the best time ever on this vacation. They formed up the plan that Elize
would call her dad the next day and tell him that Miguel had changed his plans
and had met up with them in Durban. At least that would handle the one lie of
having told them that it would only have been Elize and Jaz on vacation.

Then, when they returned to Johannesburg, they would come clean
about the rest of it.

It wasn't the greatest of plans, Jaz knew, but it was all they had.

The restaurant was not far from the B&B—about a ten minute
walk—but on their way back, Jaz noticed the sway of liquor in her blood. It
wasn't enough for Miguel to notice (she hoped) but enough to make her feel the
additional weight of her body on one leg instead of on the other as she walked.

When they got to the room, Miguel opened the door and flipped on the
light. Jaz leaned on the wall, watching him as he sauntered over to the sleeper
couch which had not yet been opened.

"Wow, what a day. I'm exhausted," he said, sitting back and
putting his palm to his forehead.

Jaz eased the door closed so it gave a gentle click, as if closing
it too hard would wake her mother and father up. But mom and dad weren't here.

Jaz was alone.

With Miguel.

In this room.

And the ocean outside.

She realized, also, that wine was an aphrodisiac, and that it
probably also raised body temperature. She fanned her shirt.

"I'm just going to freshen up," she said.

Miguel nodded, his eyes already closing as he put his feet up on the
table.

In the bathroom, she saw that the sand and wind had beaten her hair
like a slave master, leaving it looking disheveled and scraggly. She tasted the
salt on her lips and washed her face, imagining how the salt on Miguel's skin
would taste as she kissed him down his neck and to his nipples.

She hadn't quite decided if she'd sleep with him or not on this
vacation. Most likely she wouldn't. But she did feel the need to let things
happen as they did.

And she had come to trust Miguel. She knew he wouldn't hurt her.

Miguel's eyes were closed when she got back to the lounge. He hadn't
pulled out the sleeper couch yet. She ruffled through his bag, pulled out his
iPod Touch and unplugged the headphones. She dimmed the lights.

She put on Norah Jones's
You Turn me On
(the very first
song—Jaz had noted—that Miguel had burned onto his
Best of Jazz
CD) and,
as it played in the background, she eased herself down next to him and moved
some of his curls from his forehead.

He was so quiet when he slept.

As she began to kiss him on the neck, she felt his breaths become
deeper, taking a second longer to inhale each time as he slowly roused.

She slid her hand under his shirt and rubbed her fingers across his
abs, feeling the years of sport in them. Miguel inhaled deeply.

He moaned.

His eyes shot open.

Without pause, he turned and threw her to her back on the couch
below him, burying his lips into her neck, kissing her down her collar-bone, to
the top of her chest, rubbing his hands against the sides of her waist, their
motion pushing her dress up to just above her thighs.

Not a word was said. As it was always with them: just comfortable
silence.

Jaz's breathing grew deeper and her eyes closed. She eased her legs
open and felt Miguel's pelvis fall between them. The sounds of the ocean were
suddenly clearer, the crash of waves seeming to pull her farther and farther
into a lustful sea which had now all but engulfed her thoughts and emotions,
taking her into its grasp, drawing her away.

Their breathing synced as they moved back and forth like a boat on
an undulating wave.

Jaz's legs curled around his butt and locked him there. Every groan
he made seemed to be followed by a breaking wave, as if the two were a syncopated
rhythm, each time getting faster, faster.

Faster.

The backs of his jeans
abraded her calves as
she kept him against her, his buckle rubbing against her lower abs to the point
where it grazed her skin. Her dress had slid to above her hips now, Miguel's
hands wrapped around her waist as if they were moving her body for her, toward
him.

She pulled herself closer, closer, grabbing at him by the flanks of
his shirt as if the two of them could only get nearer by actually becoming one.

She heard herself whimper.

Her legs tightened more.

Miguel groaned loudly, the sound carrying for a second and then
subsiding into a faint, repeated moan.

She pulled at his lower back, digging her nails into him and pushing
herself against him until he finally let out a long roar.

She gave out a final yelp, her body shuddering and the back of her
head digging into the couch as her thighs tightened convulsively around his
waist so much that she no longer knew if his sounds were from discomfort or from
pleasure; and then a crash of the ocean behind them, and her legs relaxed.

She exhaled.

They slept like that the rest of the night, on the couch, Miguel
shifting over onto his side, Jaz wrapped in his arms. The next night—both with
neck and back pain from the couch—they decided to take the bed instead, just
like a couple that had been together forever.

Like lovers.

But they weren't lovers. Jaz had yet to see Miguel in the nude. And
he had yet to so much as take her shirt off, their nights of passion quickly falling
into the rut of nothing more than the regular friction of clothed lovemaking.

It was clear to her that she wanted to be with him—maybe even
forever. It was not clear that she wanted to stay in South Africa. Maybe
he
would leave, move to Seattle with her. Maybe they could think about it later once
she'd decided on what to major in back home.

They'd work it out, surely.

But as the days (and nights) rolled by, Jaz began to feel the weight
of the problem like a thirty-ton anchor, the sun rising and setting with a
speed comparable only to wildebeest stampeding across the African veld. Their
time together was racing by, December approaching with the inexorable unavoidability
of a tsunami.

Miguel was holding back—this much was obvious. And she could not
force him either. All was up in the air. Jaz was drowning in a whirlpool of questions
that had grown to a magnitude that was simply too much for her. And, just like
the situation with Sandile and Elize, she chose, for now, to ignore it.

Just for now.