She decided to tell Marion Hartley the entire truth about the story.

‘He would like that, I think. Like to have people see him driving around … roaming the veld. He was very much at home there,’ Marion Hartley said. ‘Thank you.’

As Saskia hung up the phone, she thought to herself, why not? Why not also print the stories of the Amazonian feminists and UFO abductions? Why not have Emil Coetzee exist wherever people wanted him to? It was so much better than the alternative.

In the months and years to come, Saskia found herself writing articles on every theory about Emil Coetzee and every sighting of him that came her way in a series she titled ‘Where’s Emil Coetzee?’ It became so very popular that it even had the full support of the editor-in-chief.

The ‘Where’s Emil Coetzee?’ story that became the most widespread over time was the one Saskia received and reported with characteristic fidelity from Machipisa, a man who identified himself as Emil Coetzee’s gardener. Machipisa said that his baas’s ghost came down every morning for breakfast wearing a navy-blue and khaki morning gown with navy-blue slippers, opened the fridge, and helped himself to the mature Cheddar cheese. Although bad enough, this was not the worst of it: the ghost, according to Machipisa, had three bullet holes in his chest – all oozing blood.

Spokes

SPOKES

It was the kind of day in which a man chooses to walk his bicycle instead of ride it, and so Spokes walked his Raleigh all the way to the Mpopoma Public Library. Once outside the library, he carefully removed Wives and Daughters from his messenger bag, and then entered the building.

As always, the library was filled with people, young and old, all eagerly reading books, magazines and newspapers. Most of the people – young and old – greeted him and asked after the health of Mrs Moloi as soon as he walked in. Spokes removed his fedora, greeted them back, and asked after the health of their loved ones. He allowed the exchange to be the lengthy process that it always was before taking his place at the back of the queue. As always when he stood at the back of the line, people protested, and as always he firmly stood his ground – both these things (the customary recognition of hierarchy and the refusal to take advantage of it) were expected and necessary to the equilibrium that existed within the Mpopoma Public Library.

‘Did you get your man?’ the head librarian asked Spokes by way of greeting as he, with impressive alacrity, took the novel from his hands, removed the sign-out card from the adhered sleeve, stamped the return date and then filed the sign-out card away.

‘Not a man this time,’ Spokes said in response.

‘Women! Can’t trust them,’ the head librarian said as he placed the book on the neat pile of returned books. ‘That’s why I sleep with one eye open.’