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By Root 1925 0

it would cast John in too ridiculous a light. Because who but a total dummy would order the woman he is supposed to be in love with to take lessons in lovemaking from some dead composer, some Viennese Bagatellenmeister? When a man and a woman are in love they create their own music, it comes instinctively, they don’t need lessons. But what does our friend John do? He drags a third presence into the bedroom. Franz Schubert becomes number one, the master of love; John becomes number two, the master’s disciple and executant; and I become number three, the instrument on whom the sex-music is going to be played. That – it seems to me – tells you all you need to know about John Coetzee. The man who mistook his mistress for a violin. Who probably did the same with every other woman in his life: mistook her for some instrument or other, violin, bassoon, timpani. Who was so dumb, so cut off from reality, that he could not distinguish between playing on a woman and loving a woman. A man who loved by numbers. One doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry!

That is why he was never my Prince Charming. That is why I never let him bear me off on his white steed. Because he was not a prince but a frog. Because he was not human, not in the fullest sense.

I said I would be frank with you, and I have kept my promise. I will tell you one more frank thing, just one more, then I will stop, and that will be the end of it. It is about the night I tried to describe to you, the night at the Canterbury Hotel, when, after all our experimenting, the two of us finally hit on the right chemistry, the right combination. How could we have achieved that, you may ask – as I ask too – if John was a frog and not a prince?

Let me tell you how I now see that pivotal night. I was hurt and confused, as I said, and beside myself with worry. John saw or guessed what was going on in me and for once opened his heart, the heart he normally kept wrapped in armour. With open hearts, his and mine, we came together. For him that first opening of the heart could and should have marked a sea-change, the beginning of a new life for the two of us together. Yet what happened? In the middle of the night John woke up and saw me sleeping beside him with no doubt a look of peace on my face, even of bliss, bliss is not unattainable in this world. He saw me – saw me as I was at that moment – took fright, hurriedly strapped the armour back over his heart, with chains and a double padlock, and stole out into the darkness.

Do you think I find it easy to forgive him for that? Do you?

You are being a little hard on him, if I may say so.

No, I am not. I am just telling the truth. Without the truth, no matter how hard, there can be no healing. That’s all. That’s the end of my offering for your book. Look, it’s nearly eight o’clock. Time for you to go. You have a plane to catch in the morning.

Just one question more, one brief question.

No, absolutely not, no more questions. You have had time enough. End. Fin. Go.

Interview conducted in Kingston, Ontario, May 2008.

Margot

LET ME BRING YOU up to date, Mrs Jonker, with what I have been doing since we met last December. After I got back to England I transcribed the tapes of our conversations. I asked a colleague who was originally from South Africa to check that I had all the Afrikaans words right. Then I did something fairly radical, which I am hoping you will approve of. I cut out my own interjections, my prompts and questions, and fixed up the prose to read as if it were an uninterrupted narrative spoken in your voice.

What I would like to do now is to read through the new text with you and give you a chance to comment. How does that sound?

All right.

One further point. Because the story you told was quite lengthy, longer than I expected, I decided to dramatize it here and there, for the sake of variety, letting the various people speak in their own voices. You will see what I mean once we get going.

All right.

Here goes then.

In the old days, at Christmas-time, there would be huge gatherings on the family