I can’t help it. I too am craning towards the screen like a flower seeking sunlight. But the face that resolves on the screen is not that of John Coetzee. It is a young woman with tight skin over her jawline and a sleek blow-dry. She introduces herself as John Coetzee’s Australian publicist.

“Good afternoon to you. Professor Coetzee offers his compliments and apologises for not being able to make it today. He is busy writing. I think we can all agree that a new John Coetzee novel is worth sacrificing a panel discussion for.” She smiles to show that this is humour, and a chuckle scampers around the room. “He did send a message, however, based on the journal papers that were sent to him in preparation for this session.”

I almost fall out of my chair in my attempt to get closer to the screen—to miss not one single word of whatever may be coming now.

“He suggests that you stop making use of such dubious lenses for literary criticism as race, class and gender, and rather focus on a close analytical reading of the text itself. He is sure you would find that much more rewarding.”

I glance around the room, looking for any suggestion of the eye-rolling that would have greeted this statement if John Coetzee had made it in his lecturing days. This is not a guess on my part: there were times I was physically present when Coetzee stated that any form of criticism besides that of the traditional New Critical close reading was invalid. On those occasions, he was derided as a dinosaur.

Today, everyone is nodding respectfully, as though he has supplied an insight none of us could have guessed at before.

“Professor Coetzee would also like to say that he doesn’t consider himself to be part of the African diaspora. He is an Australian. Furthermore, Professor Coetzee would like to address himself to one person among you in particular . . .”

I lean forward hungrily, hoping to catch my name.

“Jacob Edelstein, the editor of this journal: Professor Coetzee wishes you could understand how peripheral Africa is to world culture. Now that he has moved to the centre of things, he has acquired insight into the marginality of Africa as a cultural entity. He wishes you would stop focusing on this artistic backwater and concentrate your energies rather on the Anglo-American world, where they would be relevant and appreciated.”

There will be more, I am convinced of it. John Coetzee will have a message for me. Just for me. Some acknowledgement of my existence. A tribute to the contribution that my real-life circumstances made to this stunning change in his fortunes. If I hadn’t been raped, he would not now be a global superstar. Surely that is worth a nod on his part?