She frowns at my obtuseness. “We’re talking about literary fiction, not rhetoric. By omitting the actual assault, Coetzee creates a performative situation in which his text mimics the very tendency of Western society to turn a blind eye towards rape. It is a powerful critique of exactly what concerns you.”

“Becoming the thing you are attempting to criticise is not the same as criticising it. It is an act of collaboration, not of censure. Besides, it is not as though mainstream culture has ever shied away from graphic descriptions of rape.”

“Precisely!” She pounces. “Would you really have wanted your ordeal to become the next instalment of torture porn by an acclaimed male writer? John chose to spare you that. He didn’t allow your assault to become a spectacle.”

It occurs to me that she can’t have it both ways. Either he was trying to make the violence of the rape extra powerful by turning it into a kind of howling black hole in the middle of the text, or he was being sensitive and sparing my feelings by toning the whole thing down. It also occurs to me that the blindness of her loyalty is of such an order that I’m not going to change her mind on this.

“And what about me?” I ask. “The Lucy character. The bearer of light in the text. I’m a bit of a lacuna too.”

“What nonsense.”

Prof. September reaches back to take a copy of the book down from her bookcase. As she flicks through it, I catch a glimpse of the title page. Coetzee’s handwriting spiders across the recto page. He has signed it for her, and included a dedication:

Dear Essie,

Thank you for believing in me all these years. You knew I could do it, and you were right. I am indeed a very great man, as you realised all along.

Yours etc John Coetzee

No, it says:

Dear Essie,

I couldn’t have done it without all your house-sitting over the years.

PS: Have you seen my Samsung charger anywhere? I swear it was in the house the last time you stayed over.

Regards,

John Coetzee

Actually, it says:

To my dearest Essie,

You have been such a comfort to me over the years, both in the bedroom and out of it. Your nurturing gave me the strength I needed to create this book.

Obviously, I couldn’t mention you in the dedication, but I’m acknowledging you now. One day you can sell this at auction for a fortune.

With fondest wishes,

Your John