“Would you like a glass of water? Or some cheese melted onto bread?”

“No, thank you. Sorry, I didn’t want to put you to any trouble.”

“You apologise a lot. Why do you say sorry all the time?”

“If I occupy space too emphatically, I will be accused of aggression. I have to be accommodating. It is a question of survival.”

“Does it work?”

“No. My existence makes men angry. It’s okay in private spaces, but in public I have to be careful.”

I chew a morsel of bread and cheese and watch her perched on the edge of the sofa. She is careful not to take up more space than necessary. “Are you also the Christ-child?”

“I am too female for that. The Christ-child can be born of me, but I can never be him. The most I can do is bear the new generation. I am a conduit, no more.”

“Do you think John Coetzee considered the possibility that you might be a girl?”

“No. He refers to the child as ‘he’—as a child of this soil. The father in the book asks the daughter whether she loves ‘him’ yet. Referring to the baby, you understand. The possibility that the child may be female is not considered.”

“The redeemer-narrative doesn’t work if you are a girl. Females are not redeemers. The only way it can continue to make sense is if—as you say—you are the conduit that gives rise to a line of redeemers.”

“Am I a vessel then, and nothing more?”

“You are a vessel,” I agree.

“Then I choose not to be born,” she says, as she disappears.

I chew the last mouthful of my sandwich in silence. I can’t blame her for choosing non-existence. Her male self has better prospects than she does. It makes sense for her to pass the mantle on to him.

I contemplate the afternoon ahead, wondering what happened to the energy I had this morning. What happened to the person who was up and showered by six-thirty, who went for brisk hikes in nature reserves on Saturday mornings? She has dissolved like the mirage she was.

My head slips back and my jaw droops like a tired lily. Soon I am noisily, droolingly asleep.

My phone explodes into life, causing my heart to pound in a way that can’t possibly be good for it. I don’t recognise the number. It is a local landline. I am too dazed to ignore it.

“Hello?”

“It’s me.”

It is my father. Something is wrong—I can hear it in his voice.

“I’m at the police station. They brought me here. You need to come.”

My brain labours to process this. Why would they have taken him to the police station, and why do I need to come? Perhaps they want to question us together. But today is Saturday. I must be missing something. My mind hasn’t woken up yet.