‘They’ve decided to do it, Lomba. Our part is to cover it. That is all,’ James says, not looking at Lomba. He has swivelled his chair to face the window, through which he is now staring. Lomba wonders why he appears so interested in the demonstration, and why he wants him to cover it – ordinarily this is a job for the political-desk guys; Adam, particularly.

‘I usually write on arts and literature,’ Lomba says stubbornly, deliberately addressing himself to Joshua. He wants to hear what James will say; he wants to know if this is an order. But James says nothing, he continues to stare out of the window. Now Joshua seems to realize that there is a subtext to the discussion. He looks uncertainly from Lomba to James. He says, ‘Mr Lomba, we felt that because you once lived with us and knew our problems…’

‘He will come,’ James says, abruptly swivelling round. ‘I’ll convince him. He thinks politics is for barbarians.’ The two laugh. It is an order.

Lomba waits till the young man leaves, then says, ‘I am waiting, sir. Convince me.’

The laughter suddenly leaves James’s face and he sighs. He shakes his head and stands up. He comes round and rests his arm on Lomba’s shoulder. He says softly, ‘Tell me, have you finished your novel yet?’

Lomba shakes his head, wondering at the shift of subject.

He has been working on the novel for over three years now, but somehow a satisfactory denouement has eluded him.

‘But let us assume you’ve finished it. Let us assume it is a good book, potentially great. Let us say you’ve found a publisher to publish it – we are talking theory now, because in reality you won’t find a publisher for it, not in this country.’

Lomba stares woodenly ahead, at James’s empty seat. James goes on relentlessly, whispering his words into Lomba’s ear. ‘You won’t find a publisher in this country because it’d be economically unwise for any publisher to waste his scarce paper to publish a novel which nobody would buy, because the people are too poor, too illiterate, and too busy trying to stay out of the way of the police and the army to read. And of course you know why paper is scarce and expensive – because of the economic sanctions placed on our country. But forget all that. Say you found an indulgent publisher to publish your book, someone who believes in this great book as much as you do; and because you are sure your book is good, you’d want to enter it for a competition – and what is the most obvious competition for someone from a Commonwealth country? Of course, the Commonweath Literary Prize. But you can’t do that.’

‘And why not?’ Lomba asks. He stands up and moves to the window, away from James, so that they stare at each other, the table between them, like antagonists.