I have discovered where he lives. He has taken an apartment on the river on a five-year lease. He is not planning to return to his home in the Bo-Kaap, it seems. I asked at a coffee shop, where the staff confirmed that he was a regular. They were proud to have the Man Booker Prize-winning author patronising their establishment.

His apartment block is only two storeys high. Buildings aren’t very tall in Adelaide. There is no doorman, but rather an intercom system with buzzers on the street side. I wait until a resident arrives with a key. Then I catch the door before it closes behind him and let myself in. The lift belongs to another era. It has a heavy wooden door that smells strongly of furniture polish. I have to brace my feet and lean backwards with all my strength to open it. The buttons protrude from the panel like chunky throat lozenges. I press the one marked 2 and the lift jerks into life. It jerks again when it reaches the second floor. The automatic door slides away and I shove hard against the wooden door to open it.

John Coetzee lives in flat 203. His name is on the cubbyhole in the lobby. It is empty, so he must have collected his post recently. I knock on the door, and he answers almost immediately. I can tell from the flare of surprise in his eyes that he recognises me. He rallies quickly and launches into a charade of not knowing who I am.

“Can I help you, young lady?”

Deliberate provocation. A few years ago, some of the women junior lecturers and graduate students raised a special item at a staff meeting asking that male staff members refrain from addressing them as “my dear” and “young lady” and so forth. The motion was carried, but Coetzee made a point of letting everyone know how risible he found it.

I don’t rise to the bait. Instead I introduce myself, and ask if I may come in. He stands aside to allow me in. He offers me tea, and I accept.

While he is in the kitchen, I take the opportunity to look around. The furniture is new but utilitarian. There are William Kentridge prints on the wall. No plants. No scatter cushions. Pale round stains on the coffee table bear witness to the lack of coasters in his life. The room is dusty and smells faintly of ageing academic. It is a very particular smell—of shoes kicked off at night and feet left to air on the ottoman, of an infrequently washed body and sweat that has become deeply imbedded in the armpits of old shirts, of urine that has splashed onto the bathroom floor and not been wiped up, of flecks from ready meals that have sizzled and splattered in the microwave, turning diamond-hard over time.