I look up and see Eugene walking into the restaurant. He looks around until his eyes stop on my face. He smiles, and suddenly I can breathe again. The vice has been released. I suck in air and smile back. From now on I will associate his face with relief, with a release from strain.

I stand as he approaches, keeping a close watch on his face and posture. Handshake or kiss? Handshake or kiss?

I don’t know him. He’s a stranger. We should shake hands. I’ve never met this man in my life.

I do know him.We have chatted online. We should kiss. I know things about him that his mother doesn’t.

As he reaches me, he stretches out his hand. Handshake it is. But when I clasp his right hand, he brings his left in to enfold my hand, pulling me towards him for a double cheek kiss. A handshake and a kiss. I underestimated him.

I expect him to sit opposite me, with the broad planks of the refectory table between us. Instead he sits next to me, straddling the long bench so that he faces me.

“You don’t have a drink yet. Can I get you a coffee? Or some tea? They do a great chai latte here.”

“With soy milk?” I wrinkle my nose.

He misinterprets my expression. “With locally sourced organic rice milk. Don’t worry . . . it’s grown on land that has been given over to farming for the last three hundred years. We’re not talking rain forest here.”

I ask for a double espresso and a glass of water. The server brings me a menu from their water bar and invites me to choose my preferred brand. I ask for tap water, thereby earning a smile of approbation from Eugene.

“I’m not saying the Patagonian Valley Stream isn’t awesome, but the food miles on those bottles is appalling. Good for you!”

The server brings my espresso and Eugene’s flat white, and a bowl of kale chips for us to share.

“So . . . John Coetzee.” He gets straight to the point. “Your white whale.”

“My white whale. Does that make me Ahab?”

“It does.”

“And you are . . . Queequeg?”

“I haven’t said I’ll help you yet.”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t think Coetzee the man is relevant here. Your quarrel is with his book. Your engagement should be with his book only.”

I put a sliver of kale into my mouth and feel it shatter. A strange brassican bitterness, overlaid with salt, is released onto my tongue.

“The intentional fallacy? That’s a little high-school English, isn’t it?”

“Doesn’t make it less true.”

“But it isn’t true in this case. This book affects me because it is based on my life and because it was written by someone who knew me.”