Four Thirty In The Morning
1137 Words
4:30 AM doesn't exist in Sunnyside.
At 4:30 AM, Sunnyside is dark. Cold. The streets are quiet, as if the whole neighbourhood is holding its breath.
I was standing outside our gate with a borrowed bag.
Black pants. Too big. Mama Dineo's daughter's pants.
White shirt. Also not mine.
I had ironed it three times last night after Wisdom fell asleep.
No lotion.
He said leave the baby lotion at home.
I felt naked without it. My hands felt dry. Like paper.
Wisdom was still asleep inside, on Mama Dineo's mattress. I kissed him at 4:00 AM. He didn't wake up.
He just whispered, "Mama," in his sleep and turned over.
That hurt more than if he had cried.
A black car turned into our street.
Not a taxi.
Not a Yango.
A Mercedes.
The kind of car that never comes to Sunnyside unless someone important has died.
Curtains began to move.
People were waking up.
The car stopped in front of me.
A man rolled down the window. Old. Black. Kind face. Grey beard.
"You are Palesa?"
"Yes."
"I'm Joseph. I drive for Mr. Stuurman. He said 4:30. Not 4:31."
I got in quickly.
Inside, it was warm.
It smelled like leather and that same sandalwood from his office.
I had never been inside a car that was warm at 4:30 in the morning.
Joseph drove without music.
No taxi shouting.
No people talking.
Just silence.
"First time in a car like this?" he asked, looking at me through the mirror.
"Yes."
"You work for Mr. Stuurman now?"
"Trial. One week."
Joseph made a small sound.
Not quite a laugh.
"Trial. He gives everyone one week."
"Does anyone pass?"
"Anika lasted four days. She cried every day. Before her, Thandi lasted two days."
My stomach dropped.
"Why does he fire everyone?"
Joseph was quiet for a long time.
Then he said, "He wasn't always like this."
He stopped at a red light. The streets were still empty.
"Before, he laughed. He had a wife. Marietjie. Beautiful girl. Afrikaans."
He paused.
"She died two years ago. Car accident."
My fingers tightened around the strap of my bag.
"Same year his father died. Heart attack."
Joseph looked at me through the mirror again.
"After that..." He exhaled slowly. "He stopped being a person. He only became Stuurman."
Widower.
So Pieter Stuurman was a widower.
That explained the winter.
That explained the grey eyes.
I swallowed.
"I'm sorry."
Joseph shook his head.
"Don't tell him you're sorry. He hates sorry."
He turned onto the main road.
"Just do your job. Be on time. Don't ask personal questions."
We arrived at Stuurman Group at 5:15 AM.
It was still dark outside.
But the building was lit up.
Sixty floors of light.
No receptionist yet.
Joseph walked me to the private elevator and pressed 58.
"He's already there," Joseph said.
"Already?"
"He arrives at five. Every day."
"Even Sunday?"
"Even Sunday."
He looked at the elevator doors.
"Since his wife died, he doesn't go home."
The doors opened.
Floor fifty-eight.
Quiet.
Cold.
Dark, except for one light coming from his office.
Pieter was already at his desk.
Black shirt today. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
His hair was still damp, like he had just showered.
He was typing.
Fast.
Hard.
Like he was angry at the keyboard.
He didn't look up.
"You are early."
"Joseph said 4:30. Not 4:31."
Now he looked up.
His grey eyes moved over me.
My white shirt.
My too-big pants.
My face without lotion.
"You left the lotion at home."
"Yes."
"Good."
He stood and walked towards the small kitchen area beside his office.
"You will do three things today."
I straightened.
"One, you will learn how I take my coffee. Black. Two sugars. Not one. Not three. Two."
He opened a drawer and took out a thermometer.
"Temperature eighty degrees. There is a thermometer in the drawer."
He placed it on the counter.
"Two, you will answer my phone. If it's my mother, you tell her I'm in a meeting. Always. Even if I'm right here."
I nodded.
"Three, you do not touch anything on my desk unless I tell you to."
"Yes, Pieter."
He handed me a black mug.
"Make it now."
His eyes held mine.
"Let's see if you can count to two."
I went to the kitchen.
My hands were shaking.
Two sugars.
Black.
Eighty degrees.
I made it and checked the thermometer.
80.
I brought it to him.
He took the mug.
He didn't drink.
He just looked at it.
Then his eyes moved to my wrist.
My rose.
"Your tattoo," he said quietly. "You scratch it when you're nervous."
I pulled my sleeve down quickly.
"I don't—"
"You did it in the interview."
He took a sip of his coffee.
"You're doing it now."
He leaned back against his desk.
He was close enough for me to see the small scar above his left eyebrow.
I hadn't noticed it before.
"I keep seeing that rose," he said.
My heart skipped.
"In my head. Since yesterday."
He looked at my covered wrist.
"I don't know why."
His voice became quieter.
"It feels... familiar."
He frowned slightly.
"Like I held a wrist like that before."
My heart was beating so loudly I was sure he could hear it.
Please don't remember.
Please don't.
He took another sip of his coffee.
Then frowned.
"Eighty-one degrees."
"I'm sorry—"
"It's okay."
Okay?
He said it's okay?
He looked at me again.
For a long moment.
Not like a boss looking at an employee.
Like a man trying to remember a dream he'd forgotten the moment he woke up.
Then his eyes shifted away.
"What's your son's name?"
The question caught me completely off guard.
"What?"
"Your son."
He picked up his phone from the desk.
"Yesterday you said you have a son. Two years old."
My fingers tightened around the strap of my bag.
"What's his name?"
I opened my mouth.
Nothing came out.
If I said Wisdom...
If I said Wisdom...
I looked into his grey eyes.
Those cold grey eyes that had once been warm.
Before his wife died.
Before his father died.
"It's..."
My voice barely came out.
"His name is..."
I swallowed.
"It's Wisdom."
"Wisdom."
He repeated the name slowly.
Like he was testing how it sounded.
"Wisdom Molefe."
Something flickered across his face.
Just for a second.
Then it was gone.
"Nice name," he said.
He looked down at his phone.
"For a strong boy."
His phone rang.
He answered it.
His mother.
I stood there, holding my breath.
Holding my borrowed bag.
My rose tattoo burning beneath my sleeve.
And the man who might be my son's father told his mother he was too busy to talk.
He didn't know.
He still didn't know.
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