Jaz & Miguel (27 page)

In Cape Town, after the program had officially come to an end, the
girls flirted with boys that looked oh-so-bad and oh-so-hot. Jaz met a guy
whose abs were harder than a concrete wall and they made out on the beach for a
bit.

The girls drank Savanna Dry (a cider that Jaz more than loved by
now) and copious cocktails and got tipsy and hung out at a beach party where they
were handing out Hawaiian garlands (ironically) and where the guy she'd been
with also asked for her number. Then, on the second night, she walked on the
beach with him again and he whispered in her ear and nibbled at it (although it
had gotten a bit irritating after a while) and then he kissed her some more and
picked her up and put her on a boulder and ran his hand up her thigh and kissed
her down her neck and to her collarbone.

And she thought of Miguel.

She let the guy touch her and she made all the sounds and felt all
the physical things, but, in the end, had not really felt anything at all. In
the end, she'd actually felt slightly ...
dirty
. The boy became angry
and then hung around and started almost stalking her, but that all faded away when
the girls pitched in and found him some other babe he could get his hands on
and the other girl was willing to go a bit further so he soon forgot all about
Jaz.

Then, later that same night, they made jokes about the brute and all
the other guys they'd met. It turns out that Nita actually did meet someone
with half a brain and a stack of chivalry and they were going to keep in touch
by email. He was also vacationing in Cape Town (although he was from Durban) but
he often went to Jo'burg and, judging by the wistful gaze in Nita's eyes, Jaz
could tell this had the makings of something serious.
Elize accepted the flirts of one or two guys but didn't pursue any
of them, and Thandie got about nineteen free cocktails all night—one kiss for one
cocktail.

They saw Devil's Peak and Table Mountain and tasted Stellenbosch
Wine and felt the cold waters of the Atlantic and swam in the warm ones of the
Indian. They went to Cape Point where the two oceans meet and visited Cape
Agulhas where the local residents insisted that
that's
actually where
they meet. Jaz felt the Cape Doctor (a south-easterly that endlessly ruined her
attempts at any sort of hairdo), strolled along "The Riviera," ate
Cape Snoek
and even reveled in
some appetizing derrières at a nudist beach called Sandy Bay (although none of
them dared actually partake of the beach itself).

And, just like that, as if the time had been no time at all, five
days had come and gone, much like the last five months, and they were back in
Johannesburg.

And then they were at the airport, waiting for her flight back home.

She was leaving, going, not to return for … Years? Decades? Ever?

The girls wept and they promised each other they'd write her and
stay in touch and never forget each other—but did those things ever occur?
Every one of them cried a fountain and Jaz had gone through a box of tissues
but, in the end, all she really wanted, all she really hoped for, was for
Miguel to show up at the airport.

She realized, now, that maybe she'd been rash. She realized that she
should have forgiven him. He'd been in pain. And people in pain do stupid
things.

Just as she had been in pain. And hadn't ignoring Miguel been, in
the end, also a stupid thing to do?

The four of them huddled together as they heard the final call for
Jaz's flight. Jaz's face was wet with tears and she squeezed Thandie's neck so
hard that she thought it would almost break; she opened her eyes and looked,
looked, looked, ..., looked.

Looked.

But Miguel wasn't there.

She thought of all the movies she'd seen where the handsome guy
appears at the airport and how Miguel had been that handsome guy (heck, even if
he'd been a dog, she'd still love him) and that all she'd ever been brought up
to believe was that, at the last moment, right before the end, the man would
always appear.

But still, he hadn't.

And what about that scene with Jude Law and Cameron Diaz in
The
Holiday
? When his daughter says "the three Musketeers" and then
Hans Zimmer's heart-wrenching music comes in and Jude holds Diaz's hand as they
lie in his daughters' tent and you just feel like crying your heart out because
that was what
Diaz's character's
family used to call each other—and you
knew it was a sign!

And what about
Leap Year
, when Amy
Adams ended up in Cardiff, Wales instead of Dublin—that was a sign as well,
wasn't it? She met Matthew Goode—a
hot
bartender in the middle of
nowhere—and they hated each other at first and then everything went wrong but
somehow they ended up in this tiny little house where he cooked for her and then
they were somehow forced to kiss and then they knew they loved each other
because you could always tell from the kiss if you loved someone.

And
Notting Hill
, when Julia Roberts
walks into that bookshop and then they fall in love but eventually Hugh Grant's
character all but destroys his chances with her but then makes a fool of
himself at a press conference all to declare his love for her—and they ended up
together.

Isn't that how these things were supposed to go?

Although the airport was full of people, someone selling buttery popcorn
and Aero Mint Chocolates on the corner, a bustling news-stand on her right—the
busiest place on earth from what she could see—it was nonetheless also the
loneliest.

She saw the twinkle of understanding in the girls' eyes—and they
knew who she was waiting for. "He'll come to his senses," said Elize.
"He'll email you in Seattle. And then maybe you'll come back!"

Email. Right. She'd never gotten that from him, had she?

It had been for the best. In truth, Jaz didn't want to come back.
And she didn't even really know why. She'd miss her friends, but there had been
so much sorrow here—and she felt she needed to get away from that sorrow, those
memories, thoughts of Sandile, Miguel, Durban.

Mozambique.

That just made her cry. So with another "Ahhhhhh" amongst
the four of them and yet another group hug, and yet
another
final,
final
call for her flight, Jaz turned and ran, her friends waiting behind,
shouting from a distance—which was ever getting bigger—that they loved her and
that they would never forget her.

And then ... Jaz was alone.

And had it not been of her own choice?

And why exactly was she running? Or, was it running
away
?

Jaz rushed through the security check, the staff allowing her to go
first because she was so late, and she hustled with all she could for the
boarding gate. A woman stood at it, closing the retractable belt, and all the
while, as Jaz ran and looked at it—the final step she would need to take to
leave this place—that same thought tugged away at her mind:
Why
was she running?

Because, whether she had walked or run or jogged or simply floated
away from Miguel or Johannesburg or even South Africa, in her mind she'd been
running away from something ever since that day when Sandile had been shot.

And it wasn't Miguel she was running from.

Nor was it love.

She stopped, catching her breath as she leaned on her knees.

The Emirates flight attendant called out frustratedly to her, "Miss,
you need to hurry! The boarding gate should have closed by now!"

Out of breath, a twitch came to the corner of Jaz's lips—the twitch
… of an epiphany.

She realized that, of all the things she'd learned in the University
of Life down in Sunny SA, there was still one lesson she hadn't quite aced, one
exam she'd hopelessly failed at—an F-
minus
, in fact.

The lesson of
just fucking
growing up!

Because, ultimately, wasn't that what this was all about?

"Miss! Please, we need to leave!"

Jaz inched forward, almost as if commanded like some Pavlovian dog
to enter that airplane and go to Seattle to Mommy and Daddy.

Where she'd be safe.

And where she wouldn't have to run ... from
loss
? Or was it
fear
of loss?

"Miss?"

And there, she realized it—what she had been running from.

"I'm sorry," said Jaz. "I'm sorry, but I'm not
leaving."

She turned.

And as she walked back, she found herself picking up pace. Her walk
became a speed-walk which became a rapid jog which became a full-on rushing
drag-race
sprint
for dear sweet life itself, because now she wasn't
running
from
, but running
to
something!

And she slammed past the throng of people surrounding the security
checks as if she'd just arrived from Seattle and appeared—brave and ready to
face life and all it had to throw at her—in Johannesburg.

But the concourse was empty.

The girls had left.

And Miguel was still not there.

There were few things more peaceful than sitting on a Xai-Xai beach,
beer in hand, and watching the sun sink behind the ocean. Miguel thought back
to the time he'd been on this very spot almost three months earlier, drinking
wine and kissing Jaz until only darkness had wrapped them, the bronzed glow of
the sun having long since been swallowed by the horizon. September 13th, 2013.
He remembered the date. Just as he remembered that they'd met at Wits campus (that
hilarious hand outstretched in his direction) on July 5th, 2013. He also remembered
Thursday, September 19th, 2013, the day Sandile had died. And Miguel remembered
the day he almost cost Jaz, Thandie, and his father
their lives by acting like a complete ass and attempting to fight stupidity
with hate.

Stupidity and hate are bad opponents. He knew this now.

And then, as if God himself (the real God, not that idiot on Claim
Street) had taken a hand, or as if an angel had meddled in things far greater
than Miguel could ever have controlled, Jaz's life was spared, as was his
dad's, and Jaz's best friend's, Thandie.

Miguel knew, with every bone in his body, that he owed someone a
favor for that one. And whereas he still was neither religious nor irreligious,
he couldn't help but feel that some greater power had gotten involved that day;
and even if it hadn't, he knew inside him that, for him to ever gain even an
iota of self respect back for himself—for what he'd almost done to all of them—he
needed to pay it back.

"Patrão!"

Why does he always insist on calling me that?!
"Joãozinho, I told you, I am not 'patrão.' I am not anybody's
'boss.' I am Miguel," he said to João (otherwise known as Joãzinho—
Little
João
—to all the other kids in the
Sandile Mabuyo Instituto de Educação
, because he had such a small body for a twelve-year-old).

The
Sandile Mabuyo Instituto de Educação
wasn't much of an institute in terms of a building—an old,
dilapidated wreck with cracks in every wall and a roof that leaked in about
seven places—but it was every bit an institute in its function. They had over twenty
students now—a miracle, considering it had only been running about a month. But
getting students was not a problem—sadly so. The only qualification necessary
being that the student must have lost his family in some way or another, the
problem was not in finding students, but in securing funding. Miguel had his
father to thank for that—at least for now. And he also had him to thank for the
weeks he'd taken out from work to help Miguel get the building into some sort
of inhabitable condition (seeing as Miguel would be sleeping under that roof
with the holes—literally); not to mention that he'd lied for Miguel, telling
everyone he was working in the Mozambican branch and saying nothing about the institute
(there
was
no Mozambican branch—only a bunch of ships and docks and
contract workers that sometimes needed to be checked on and which Miguel did
happily to keep the worry off his father's mind).

Who needed to know? It was nobody's business. The institute was
between Miguel and whomever he owed for sparing Jaz, her best friend, and his
father's life that night.

João stood looking at him now (actually, stood looking at Miguel's beer).

"What, I don't deserve a break?" said Miguel guiltily.

"I did good today, didn't I?"

Miguel grabbed him and put him on his lap, rubbing his head and feeling
the rib of the thick scar where he'd been hit with a machete only two years
before—and survived. Hair would never grow on that scar for him. "You did
great, Joãozinho. Now you only have to do it backwards."

João's eyes turned and stared at Miguel widely with shock. "Backwards?!"

Miguel laughed. "No, not even I can say the alphabet backwards.
I was only kidding."

It was clear that João had come to Miguel only to get a little more
praise for his achievement that day. And, why shouldn't he? It was a big deal
for him to recite the alphabet out of memory. Miguel was proud of him. João
smiled at Miguel and then, as if he hadn't even been there, ran off again.

Secretly, João was a hero to Miguel—such a capacity to survive, and
the ability to smile, still, despite the odorous brunt of hatred which had hit
the boy's life so fiercely all those years before, and taken
everything
from him. Literally, everything. (Miguel—he realized now—at least still had his
father).
João gave Miguel
strength. All of the kids did. He knew that he needed them more than they
needed him.
Anybody can teach
kids how to read. But who can touch a life so powerfully that, without even
trying, they give you the will to live another day, another week, an entire
lifetime?

Miguel had needed that strength. He'd needed it badly.

He still needed it.

It was ironic, thought Miguel, being here. Had it not been Sandile's
idea after all? It was as if, even from beyond the grave, the guy was still
doing what he had always done: guiding Miguel's life so that it had, every day,
just a little more meaning than the day before.
Imagine how much it would
change if the majority of these children just learned to read
.

Those had been
Sandile's
words, at that breakfast, spoken
blithely as a random thought.

After that night in Hillbrow, and the days of beating himself up and
reveling in self-loathing (a useless emotion, he had come to realize), the idea
had suddenly come to him, like a flash of bright light in the murky waters of personal
hatred.
So he moved to Mozambique. His father set up a
fund from his business to feed the institute (which taught only reading—English
and Portuguese) and now it was his father who came over to Mozambique—every
weekend, in fact—with food and goods. Miguel looked forward to seeing him every
Saturday. The man looked much better—as if doing something for others had caused
him to somehow forget the demons of his own mind. His skin had picked up in
color, business was improving, and if Miguel had not known any better, he would
even say his father was secretly seeing someone on the sly.

His dad never mentioned it, although he did blush when Miguel
brought it up once. But Miguel respected his silence.

Watching his father, Miguel surmised that there is only ever
one
.
Whether it is "
the
one," or simply "the
first
one," there would always be that person who, for whatever
inexplicable reason, would forever be considered your "other half"
or, plainly, "the one"—even if he or she is no longer with you.

Jaz was both his
one
and his
first
one
: the
first one he ever loved.

She always would be.

What was she doing today? December 11th, 2013. Had she flown back
home already? Would she be flying home tomorrow, next week, at the end of the
year? Was she at the airport right now?

He finished his beer and got up to go to the institute. He loved the
sound of the ocean as he went to sleep. Maybe that was a bit of Jaz that he
kept with him—remembering all that time they'd spent together by the beach.

But this was home now. A new life. A new start. He saw no reason to
return to South Africa. He kept a bed up in the garret and had taken to reading
paperbacks—even some Portuguese ones. He never did get another Kindle—too many
memories.

If Miguel had gone through with what he'd wanted to do to Tsepho
that night (it pained him to think of how close he'd come), he would've never
been able to look his brother in the eyes again with any sense of pride—in this
life or the next.

It's funny, he thought, how things worked out that day in Hillbrow.

The hand of God.

Miguel was paying it forward.

He owed someone.