It catches fire. The agent’s tweets—with my blogs attached—are retweeted thousands of times. In the space of twelve hours, five news websites run op-ed pieces questioning the propriety of what Coetzee did. Many attempts are made to reach him for comment, but he remains silent. His agent, who sowed the wind with her tweets, now reaps the whirlwind of being fired from representing him.

The next morning, an enterprising journalist tracks him down at his favourite coffee shop in Adelaide. This provokes him into an unwise outburst. “I made that bitch famous,” he says, Kanye-style. But what is acceptable in rap culture sounds tone-deaf coming from the mouth of white South African privilege.

Public sentiment turns against Coetzee. He becomes the poster boy for misogyny. His brand is damaged, and no one wants to be associated with it. At first, it is his more minor awards that get taken away from him—middleweight literary prizes that have little resonance in the court of public opinion. Then copycat fever catches hold, and no one wants to be the last to take their award away.

When the Man Booker committee caves and announces that they are rescinding their prize, The New York Times runs a story on it. I get a request from the managing editor to write an op-ed about the whole thing. An op-ed for The New York Times.

Coetzee was nominally in hiding before. Now he goes into hiding for real. It used to be an open secret that he lived in Adelaide. His agent always knew how to get hold of him. He would pop up at selected literary festivals and other glittering events celebrating the elite of the Anglo-American literary world. He could always be persuaded to give a talk if the event were sufficiently five-star.

Now his agent doesn’t know where he is because he doesn’t have an agent any more. There are sightings of him in the Cape Town area. Unconfirmed reports say he is living rough in the Bo-Kaap.

As John Coetzee’s star wanes, so mine waxes. I recover from my agoraphobia and start dressing normally. I get my job back at the university, and within a few years I have tenure. On the same day that I receive my letter of tenure, I finally succumb to Eugene’s repeated entreaties to marry him. We have two children—a girl and a boy.

When I turn thirty-eight, I achieve the necessary mental balance to write my own novel about my experience. It is the ultimate act of taking back one’s power, of reclaiming one’s narrative. The Man Booker committee votes unanimously to give me the prize that year, and when they do, they explain that it is not just any award they are giving me; it is Coetzee’s award.

* * *