The second time Coetzee and I came face-to-face was at my interview for the one-year rotating post of junior lecturer. As is common in job interviews, there came a time when the panel asked me if I had any questions to put to them. I asked if there was a chance of the post being extended into something more long-term. Coetzee responded by asking whether I was happy with the maternity-leave provisions in the contract or whether I would wish to see them extended. The message was clear. He wasn’t about to award a permanent post to a young woman who would be popping out babies at the first opportunity.

The third time was in the general office of the English Department. The main attraction of this office was its laser printer. Those members of staff who were too poor (like me) or too cheap (like Prof. Coetzee) to buy their own printers were allowed to send documents to the office printer. You had to be light on your feet when it came to collecting your document, or you might find it thrown into the recycling bin or scattered around the office.

On this day, I had sent a reading list to the printer. As soon as I pressed send, I jogged along the corridor to the office to pick it up. I found John Coetzee staring at the printer with an air of puzzlement as it spat out twenty-five copies of my second-year reading list.

I readied my politest smile as I walked up to the printer. This was the most senior member of the department, after all. He made no eye contact. Only when my print run was finished, and I reached into the tray to collect my reading list, did he speak.

“This printer is for the use of staff members only.”

“That’s right,” I agreed.

“Staff members of the English Department.”

“I know.”

There was a pause as he stared at me.

“I’m a junior lecturer.” My voice came out higher and younger than I wanted it to. “In this department.” You interviewed me, I wanted to add, before self-respect stopped me.

The accusing stare didn’t lift. The printer lurched into life again.

“Look!” I said. “Here comes your document now.”

Up to that moment, I had been under the impression that I was making a mark on the department with my diligence and enthusiasm. The bigwigs were noticing. If I made myself indispensable, my contract might be renewed at the end of the year. The realisation that a senior professor was unaware of my existence put paid to that delusion.