Chapter 3 - Workshop, Ma

CHAPTER 3: WORKSHOP, MA

The border at 05:40 smells like diesel and frost.

Palesa queued behind the taxis with her passport and her cover story. Workshop, Ma. CPD points. Mme had looked at her over the reading glasses and said, "Mm. Take a jersey" — which could mean anything, and therefore meant everything.

The stamp came down like permission for something no workshop had ever offered.

Six hours. A garage pie in Kroonstad. One voice note at the halfway mark: "Drive safe. The potholes after Ventersburg are personal." She laughed alone in her car like a mad woman and turned the radio up.

She reached the platinum belt just after midday — koppies, headgear, ore trucks — and drove straight past the turnoff to his town. Felt it pull at her sleeve like a child wanting attention.

Because the workshop was real. That was the worst part. Four hours of dispensing regulations in a Sun City conference room, chandeliers above, her phone lighting up on the desk like a small, persistent sin.

KHOTSO: How is the glamour?

PALESA: A man is presenting a slide called "Schedule 5: Common Errors."

KHOTSO: Leave him. I'm funnier.

She took notes like a good pharmacist. She reapplied her lipstick like a bad one.

By five she was driving back to Rustenburg, the sun low and gold in her mirrors. The guesthouse shower took the conference off her skin. The wine-red dress took no persuading at all.

He was waiting outside the grill, leaning against his bakkie, and the photos had been honest about everything except scale.

"You're real," she said.

"Mostly." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I rehearsed three openings today. They've all left me."