She shakes her head, her braids dancing around her face. “No. Because I am not in your position. I can only be in my own position.”

“You have been brought up on the farm under the aegis of Petrus, have you not? Did he teach you to consider the domestic sphere as your particular responsibility?”

“Of course. The boys have their duties in the fields, and the girls have their duties in the fields and in the house. While the boys play their games in the evenings, we prepare the food, serve it, and clean up afterwards.”

“So it is not Uhuru, this life that John Coetzee conceived of.”

“It is a life of great racial harmony and belonging. Everyone has their place. Everyone has their role. Everyone is at home in this country.”

“But it is still a place of gender inequality.”

“My creator didn’t see that as a problem that needed addressing.”

“Do you mean God?”

“I mean John Coetzee.”

I stand and stare at the toilet bowl, detergent in one hand, toilet brush in the other. When I look around again, the child is gone—and with her, my enthusiasm for cleaning. I bundle up the books and leave, locking the door behind me.

* * *

I stop at an ATM machine to draw money on my way to the police station.

The first person I see when I get to the station is the lawyer, Abigail Nkabinde. She stands as I arrive and walks towards me, blocking my progress with her body.

“Hello, Ms. Nkabinde. Are you here to see my father too?”

“He told me you were coming to see him, so I came here at once. I will accompany you on this visit.”

“That’s not necessary. He asked me to come. He asked me to bring him some things. I’ll give them to him and then leave.”

“Nevertheless.”

There is a subtext here that I don’t understand. I wasn’t looking forward to seeing my father alone, but I am looking forward to seeing him in the company of this woman even less. She has the air of a guard dog, but whom is she guarding? Do I need protection from my father, or does he need protection from me?

She seems to feel that elucidation is required because she says, “Unless I am with you to smooth the way, it is unlikely that you will be permitted to give your father anything at all. I am here to help.”

I don’t believe this. I don’t think she left her office close to rush hour on a Monday afternoon simply to smooth the way. I pretend to believe it.

“Give me the cigarettes and the money you brought for your father.”