Steve Braunias on a wandering German aristocrat

Volker Pilgrim, aka Max Melbo, in 2019.

Max Melbo rides again. I recently wrote quite a long story in the Weekend Herald about the mysterious life of a wandering German aristcocrat who devoted his last years to poverty and a kind of homelessness in Auckland, where he slept in a series of youth backpacker hostels and lodges across the city. He was born Volker Pilgrim and changed his name to Max Melbo when he fled Germany to live in Australia (Melbo was in honour of Melbourne), later settling in New Zealand. He died in March a few days short of his 80th birthday. Brian Rudman emailed me to suggest this could make a story I'd like to write. He was right. In fact, I was deeply moved by the life of Volker, aka Max. I wished I had met him and the least I could do was respect his memory. I discovered he was an author of considerable renown in Germany and last year signed a contract with a US publisher for his first book in English. I wondered: what will happen to the book? Death is always inconvenient.

Max Melbo, as he was known to his friends in Auckland, had a gift for friendship, but also exercised a baffling prerogative in suddenly cutting himself off.

He rarely talked about himself or the fact he had been a bestselling author of non-fiction books on subjects including sexuality, parenting, and a medical derangement that turned Hitler into a psychopath. One book was on vegetarianism. In Auckland, he was a regular customer at Harvest Wholefoods in Grey Lynn. "I'm sitting here crying and feeling like an idiot," wrote Eve, who hadn't known he had died. "Mr Pilgrim was one of my favourite customers. He left such an impression on me. As a vegan myself, it's easy to spot the other vegan customers with only fruit and veges and tofu, etc in their trolley. A very sweet man … What a life and what a gentleman." The US contract was for a book called The Vampire Man.

Max Melbo was the name he used for only one of his books (on Louis XIV). He had profound ideas about divided selves; he kept Volker Pilgrim as his identity as an author. A novelist from Christchurch read the Weekend Herald story, and emailed, "I was really moved by the pathos – and the extraordinary story of his life as a whole. I can see writing a novel based on his life … Your story has kept my mind racing since reading it. It's perfect for a novel – certainly in my style." I really hope he writes it. I also really hope The Vampire Man will be published, and I've spent the past several weeks in discussions over email and phone with the US publisher. I spoke with production who passed me on to marketing, who passed me on to the publisher, who passed me on to something called "the compliance department". The problem was that he left no will nor a literary executor. His death was worse than inconvenient: it was not compliant.

Volker Pilgrim's East German passport.

Max Melbo left nothing of value. He kept heartbreaking collections of pencils worn down to the stub. The artist Dick Frizzell read the story, and emailed, "A grim reminder not to let my pencils get any shorter." But all the pencils were sharpened to a point; they were ready for work, poised to write. I urged the US publishers to honour the contract and publish The Vampire Man. The publisher wrote, "It was waiting for many inputs from author, so after clearance, we would still have to spend another four to six months for the book to get published." I pointed out, "The author is dead. He will not be contributing any more 'inputs'. What you have is all you will ever have."

"Max Melbo aka Volker Pilgrim," read the subject line of an email from Jessie. She read the story and was sure she'd met him – and remembered at 2am that night where it was. She interviewed him when she presented a TV programme about the Mini in 1999. She had a copy of the tape; would I like to see it? I shot over to her place and watched the 11-minute show – the Mini was celebrating its 40th anniversary – and the star of it was a vox pop with an elderly balloon seller at the bottom of Queen St, the one and only Volker Pilgrim, holding helium balloons illusrated with pictures of Teletubbies. He looked so happy and innocent and clear-eyed. I told Jessie about my problems trying to get the US publishers to honour the contract for The Vampire Man. She said she worked for a law firm and would be happy to help. She, too, was moved by the life and times of Volker Pilgrim, and wanted to do the right thing by him. That night, I got an email from the publisher. "We would like to inform you that we have resumed the production process of the book." I can't wait to read it.