The great author of Missing Persons (Harper Collins, $35) travelled to the Auckland Writers Festival on the 131 bus from Te Atatū. He waited at his usual stop, opposite a Pātaka Kai food pantry (someone had put six grapefruit in it), wearing the black suit he got tailored in Hong Kong. He tried to think of spontaneous things he would say to entertain the audience at his afternoon session. He wondered about the connection between the solitary writer who sat down in silence and agony to compose the book, and the sociable fellow who was about to leap on to the stage alongside another author, a forensic pathologist from America. He wanted to think of himself as an artist but knew the best he could ever be was a ham. He tagged on to the bus. It took him to Queen St, and he walked to the Aotea Centre, where he waited backstage.
The famous author of Missing Persons (his 10th book) flew to the Dunedin Writers Festival, and made straight for the Best Cafe on Lower Stuart St. It was his favourite restaurant in the South Island ever since Sgt Pepper's Steak House in Christchurch closed down. It opened at 6pm and such was his excitement that he arrived at 6.01pm. He ordered a cup of tea and blue cod, which came with a plate of buttered white bread. The tea was nice and hot and the cod was delicious but he doubted he'd go to the Best Cafe or accept invitations to appear at the Dunedin Writers Festival without the plate of buttered white bread. The next day he appeared onstage alongside another author, a journalist who had written a book about the methamphetamine trade. He wore his two-button black suit.
The beloved author of Missing Persons (a collection of true-crime stories) was driven from Dunedin to Arrowtown to talk about his book for two hours at an event staged by the Arrowtown Creative Arts Society in front of an audience who hated his guts and wanted him dead, but the fee was extremely generous. The rich are different to you and me. They live in Arrowtown. He said to them, "Just as a matter of interest, can we have a show of hands from those who believe in the death penalty?" He looked out on to a great many hands. He tore into them and called them filthy names. One man, a former prosecutor from Nevada, stood up and made a speech in which he advocated that evil-doers should be "culled". He was a lot more popular with the audience than the author. But there were also quite a few laughs, and later on he received an email from a nice man at the Arrowtown Creative Arts Society, who wrote, "The feedback from your event was very good. Amongst the things people enjoyed was that it was a bit 'sparky' with some quite strong disagreement…" When he returned from the South Island, he took his black suit (the stitching on the jacket lining read, "Specially Made for Mr Steve Braunias") to Te Atatū Menswear for drycleaning.
The blathering old rent-an-author of Missing Persons (number three on the bestseller list, briefly) flew to Napier as the guest of the Hawke's Bay Readers Writers Trust, and appeared onstage alongside another author, a forensic pathologist from Zimbabwe. He wore his only black suit. The event was held at the Paisley, his favourite venue in New Zealand; it has armchairs, bookcases, posters of Led Zeppelin. He probably said some of the same spontaneous things he had said on stage in Auckland, Dunedin, Arrowtown, and was about to say at upcoming writers festivals in New Plymouth, Nelson, Tauranga. So much talking! Would he ever stop talking on stage about his books? Would he ever find time to write his books? But he was always flattered and honoured to receive the invitations. He met interesting people in the signing queue for Missing Persons after each event. He usually wrote, "I hope you enjoy these gloomy stories." When they handed him the book he sometimes wondered about the solitary writer who had composed it in silence and agony, and who was a better, finer, more admirable fellow than the ham who appeared on stage but tried, really tried, to tap into the spirit and sensitivities of his former self, the one who did the work, which was the only thing that mattered. After the Napier event, he went to dinner with his girlfriend. She writes books, too, and appears on magazine covers.
Next week: Diana Wichtel
