Jaz & Miguel Read Free Page B

itself, Miguel figured that it would always be a good idea
to keep some extra dough lying around the house—just in case.
     
    Die Arend (Afrikaans for "The Eagle"—another
mystery in Miguel's mind, an eagle being the symbol of Americanism and not "Afrikanerism,"
if that was even a word) was a relaxed pub about fifteen Ks from where Sandile and Miguel lived. Sandile lived in Bedford
Gardens (not quite at Millionaire's Row—that was in a place called Bedford view ),
and Miguel lived in Germiston, an area equally thick in Afrikaans as well as
Portuguese people—although most porras in the
area spoke Afrikaans as well. ("Porra" was a word acceptable amongst
some of the Portuguese for themselves, although not appreciated when used by
outsiders—an endless source of confusion for Miguel as to why people would
refer to their own cultures and races using the very words which denigrated
them). Miguel, however, even though fluent in both Afrikaans and Portuguese,
rarely spoke in either—English being his preferred form of communication.
    The pub was sparsely "decorated" with nothing but a pool
table in the middle, a clock with lights around its dial (that looked like it came
from Vegas or like it had been made from one of those Nevada Motel signs he'd always
seen in the movies) on the farthest of the plain-brick walls, a speaker in one
corner so some guy could plug in his electric guitar if he wanted to, two or
three drinking booths, and a nondescript counter just as you got in (which
currently had three very sorry looking souls bent over it). It was frequented
by your local bums, drunks and men who hadn't shaved in about seven years.
    Sandile got a real kick out of going there.
    Miguel did not appreciate it.
    They went there for the pool, both being average players, although
Sandile had gotten slightly worse since he'd gotten glasses (an endless source
of jests from Miguel since then). There were other places to play pool, but
Sandile liked to "show his black face" in places like this one.  It
was for this very reason that Miguel did not particularly enjoy being at Die
Arend very much. It was true that some South
Africans had not moved on with the times—the locals of Die Arend most certainly included. Sandile believed (semi-mischievously) that
if he simply appeared over and over and over again at a place, they would soon
start considering him part of the furniture or something.
    In a way, he'd been right, the racist comments had indeed eased off
the more they'd gone there. Part of the reason was that many of the men in there
knew Miguel's father and respected him, so they let Sandile ("Senhor Pinto's
son's kaffir friend") be for the most part. The comments bothered
Miguel more than they did Sandile. It was like the guy was running some fucking
social experiment or something.
    Racist fucks.
    "So, boetie ,
keen on IHRE?" asked Sandile after firing off a break shot which pocketed
the solid yellow, solid blue and green striped balls. A gentle smile of
accomplishment broke on his face.
    By now Miguel's attention was solidly on the table although he'd
heard Sandile's question. "You gonna choose a group?" Miguel asked,
referring to the table (they played by old-school rules—and then only
slightly—never naming a ball to be pocketed, always calling aloud a group if at
least one ball of that group had been pocketed at the break).
    "I choose solids. But you ignored my question."
    Miguel leaned over the table and aimed for the orange-stripes into
the corner pocket. "I didn't ignore it," he said, one eye closed. He
fired, hard, and missed. "I was taking a shot."
    Sandile waited. "And?"
    Miguel chalked his cue. "Actually ... yes, I am excited."
He felt an involuntary smile pull up at the sides of his lips. He'd not wanted
to give anything away. He was mourning after all. Who was Sandile to take that
away from him?
    But Sandile noticed, and he smiled with him, leaning down over the
table and firing the purple-solid into the right corner