Shaking Hands with Justin Cartwright

I went to the Franschhoek Literary Festival determined to meet Justin Cartwright. I was going to shake his hand and the two of us were going to talk about his books. I would share my insights with him, and he would find them fascinating.

We would end up collaborating on a new bestseller. Bulbring and Cartwright. Like Ben and Jerry; Laurel and Hardy. It was simply a handshake away.

I spot him at a cocktail party the first night I arrive talking to a woman with moist eyes. She is doing most of the talking. I stand awkwardly on the edge of her breathless monologue wishing I had a tray of snacks in hand to give my presence some sort of legitimacy. And to stuff a cocktail sausage in her mouth so I can get my handshake in.

He gets dragged away by Christopher Hope before I can do my big introduction. Just for that, Christopher will never get to shake my hand.

I find solace in the company of Aparna Swarup, the artist and wife of the Slumdog author and diplomat. I shake her hand several times and avoid being introduced to her husband whose poor hand I decide needs a break from being quite shaken and shook up all night.

Later, he whose name will be linked with mine on the Booker short-list passes me on his way out. I launch into an emotional praise song of Masai Dreaming. I tell him of how I postponed the heartbreak of reaching the end of the book by making tea. Of how I would read a few more pages and then make a wee. I am not as eloquent as I planned.

I conclude from his glazed expression that he thinks I’m a deranged poet. He escapes me before I can explain that I am in fact not Lebo Mashile, she of rhyming chiming thrusting bosoms and open hand shakings to the heavens. I simply want to thrust out my hand and shake his, the way I had shaken Lebo’s earlier (she who is lovely and not deranged).
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