Jaz & Miguel (17 page)

"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.

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.

Although, that business about a recording pen—
that
had been a
new one for Abbey. He'd never understood much about technology and science and
computers and things, but when he'd heard about the pen that Hugh Grant had used
to record that conversation—bugger, bloody genius! So Abbey went "online"
and asked Google, "How do I find a recording pen like the one Hugh Grant
used to bug the bugger?"

Abbey clicked on a few links and was completely gobsmacked: pens
were far from the only thing available. There was this whole new world of spy
technology which they called "GSM" bugs (fucked if he knew what "GSM"
stood for). The way the website explained it, you could put one of these
buggers somewhere and the bloody thing would transmit sounds directly to your
mobile phone! There were calculators, coins, power adaptors, computer mice, iPhone
chargers, extension cords! The man had been in heaven. They even had covert GPS
tracking devices you could buy these days! Yes, you just slapped them under a
car and then, only when it would get on the move would it transmit.

Best of all, these were all locally produced products—Best of
British, they were.

As a wordsmith, Abbey often felt the need to correct people's
impressions of the Red Top—and particularly
The Daily
. He always
refrained from calling it a "tabloid" knowing that most people
(likely, his counterparts up over in the United States of Abomination—or the
United States of Arrogance) did not fully understand the meaning of the word.
The word "tabloid" derives from "tablet," as in:
small
and easily digested
. And if there was one thing that some people had failed
to acknowledge (and it was indeed
some
only, because the Red Tops were
selling as fast as hot cross buns), it was this: the reason yellow journalism
and Red Tops (fine, "tabloids
"
!) continued to exist is because
of what the wise man himself had stated during those phone-tapping hearings
only a short while ago:
People are not forced to buy our newspapers!

Abbey didn't remember the exact quote word for word, but he had it
filed (along with that autographed copy) in his safe.

He'd watched all three hours, sixteen minutes, and thirty-nine
seconds of that first day's hearings.
Enlightening
was the word he'd used to describe it.

But people want small, easily digested news: a photo of Britney
Spears's crotch as she steps out of a limo, or of Paris Hilton's; a photo of
Kate going down on William, taken at just the right time. Heck, what he'd give
for a photo of Obama scratching his balls! Or of Oprah slapping a
child—blooming priceless I tell you (if it ever happened—which was the other problem).

But, alas, such gems rarely appeared (or were utterly nonexistent)
and, because of it,
The Daily's
news was generally relegated to the same
old hogwash they'd been reporting on for the last half a century: a sex scandal
here, a drug-abuser there.
Bluh
.

How ... bloody ...
boring
.

A picture painted a thousand words, and words—put together in the
right sequences with just the right amounts of finely picked bits of information—were
worth a thousand pictures.

That's why Abbey had decided to go to South Africa. He'd had enough
of the same old boring
shite
(another fine English word—and far more
polite) day in and day out. And as much as he'd come to love
The Daily
,
what he aspired to was something much greater, something truly honorable. And
if there's one thing that
everybody
knew, it's that all white South
Africans are a bunch of racists, all black South Africans a lot of xenophobes,
and every South African policeman a human rights abuser interested only in his
back-pocket—and completely on the take. (He wasn't sure if "on the take"
was the Queen's English, or from an episode he'd seen of
NYPD Blue
, but it had formed a part of his lingo now, so he left it at that).

That
was undeniable. The good old CCB (
Clear-Cut
Broadcasting
—Britain's most accurate news network)
had
reported it, so it was most certainly true. A fine bunch of reporters as them,
there had never been.

Why they'd never accepted his own stories though ....

South Africa was a veld-fire waiting to happen, waiting for the right
shard of glass to be randomly left out in the open, the sun eventually focusing
its rays through it, and lighting that first piece of kindling.

The rest ... would happen on its own.

The first rule of journalism was impartiality, and letting the story
take its course, never getting involved. (He'd learnt that from some Nick Nolte
and Gene Hackman movie that he'd since forgotten the name of).

A saved child does not sell newspapers, and people
do not have to
buy their newspapers
—so there.

Hearst in his day had simply been doing what any good
author
would do: he was writing to an audience. And, so long as the
audience existed, so would the story—and so would the newspaper.

Their job, as journalists, was not to get involved, but to simply
record the occurrences.

And therein was Abbey's problem: he was simply never
there
to record the story!

He wasn't there when Jennifer Lawrence tripped while getting her
Oscar (celebrity embarrassments being a tabloid staple). He wasn't there when
the London riots started (he would've given his left eyeball for just one good
shot of that one). And he wasn't there during the xenophobic attacks of May,
2008 in South Africa. And, because he was never at the right place at the right
time, never able to capture that photo—that
story
—he was still simply
Jonathan P. Abbey, freelance reporter for
The Daily
, and not Jonathan P. Abbey, Media Mogul (ok, he'd settle for
Jonathan P. Abbey, Chief Editor).

At forty-two years of age, this was simply not acceptable.

Abbey felt ...
old
.

The last time he'd been shagged (four years before—also the last
time he'd been in South Africa) was only because the girl he'd been with had
needed a break—an
in
—with one of the major
British newspaper chains. Abbey had told her the truth. He was indeed British,
and he did indeed have some influence with British newspapers. Not once did he
lie. And she—just as readers have the choice to buy newspapers—had been perfectly
within her rights to not have gotten involved with him. (She gave a fine blowjob
that one she did).

He hadn't lied. Abbey never lied. He'd gotten expert (in all his
years of experience) at merely having a knack for
selecting
his truths.

A picture paints a thousand words. If only he could get the right
picture, at the right time, of the right thing, and pretty it up with the
Queen's English all around it, so as to add meaning to that picture—all of it
factual, of course. He remembered that incident in South Africa in 1994 when a
man was caught on camera being shot at point blank. The headline read: SHEER
BLOODY MURDER. Now that was bloody news (no pun intended). That was blooming
reporting if he'd ever seen any!

And the people lapped it up. Ah, yes, there was one other thing he
did hate: those fucking newspaper readers. They'd believe fucking anything if
you just worded it right. It gobsmacked him how unintelligent the world was,
unable to decipher the difference between a story with a slant, and just a story.

But was there ever a story without a slant?

So they had to dodge lawsuits and defamation suits and watch their
journalistic codes of ethics and all that bollocks—newspapers were still
selling. And so long as people bought them, there'd be Red Tops (
not
"tabloids"!)

He'd gotten good at that in all his years: of telling the story with
just the right facts so as to get a predetermined idea across to the reader—just
as he'd once told that same plumpy red-head student who'd bonked him, just
enough so that she'd have a certain idea in her mind about who he was.
(Technically, she was graduating a month later, so could one really call her a
student?)

He pondered, while he sat now on the plane headed for O.R. Tambo
airport in Johannesburg, where to begin, where to sow the seed and ask the
right questions that would get people thinking—or get the story moving of its
own accord (because the story had to happen of its own accord, of
course—impartiality, first rule, that movie with Nick Nolte and Gene Hackman).

Then, like a flash of lightning, he thought of it: the university! He
wriggled in his seat with excitement. What fond memories he had of that
red-head: such dreams, such passion, such … innocence. But she wasn't really the
reason he'd thought of it (and he was sure she would be gone by now—unless
she'd started teaching, but he strongly doubted that).

University students—
all
university students from
all over
the world
—were always such fertile ground: dizzy from the rarefied air of
idealistic views, malleable to new ideas, always questioning the norm even if
that norm has moved civilizations forward for centuries, convinced they can
change anything and everything that is wrong with the world one political
protest at a time.

Naïve.

Trusting.

And if that failed, there was always The Price (another thing
students normally were, was broke). But he was hoping he'd be able to avoid
spending any more of his hard-earned sterling. As it was, he'd already spent a
pretty penny on all those "GSM-thingies" and that GPS tracker.

Honestly said, Abbey was pleased about his talents. They weren't
even talents at all, they were learned skills. And he'd worked hard to acquire
them. All those years of being teased at school, being called "the devil
himself" because of his wiry red hair that never seemed to stay flat,
looking much like it had been frizzled out with a curling iron and never given
the chance to rest again. He'd been teased about his thick glasses, and the
fact that he used to pick his nose (who didn't pick their nose when they were a
kid?!)

Devil! Devil! Johnny is a devil!
(They
used to call him
Johnny
at school, and although he didn't love it, he did
prefer it to
The Devil
).

He knew it was because of his hair—red being associated with hate.
That was certainly it. It was
not
because of the red blood of the girl
he'd pushed on the floor when he was ten and then kicked once she was on the
ground. (And she'd been teasing him after all—the
prat
).

She'd deserved it.

The way he remembered it (and the way he told it) the name-calling
had started before that unfortunate incident—not after.

She'd provoked him.

How was he to know her head would've cracked when it hit the ground?