Landing at the airport in a northerly gale, it wasn’t a matter of jolts and sudden drops. The drama was in the swooping yaw and roll, one wing tilting upward, then the other. I steeled myself for a go-around, but we hit the ground with the standard shuddering roar.
I said to the taxi driver, “Oh, the sea! It’s wild!” In the mirror, his eyes narrowed. “You’re from Auckland? Well, that city’s a mess, isn’t it? The crime, the traffic.”
“But the storm, the waves! It’s marvellous!”
So, I approved? His eyes softened. Well, he confided, not long ago he’d written a poem about the sea for his girlfriend.
This was Wellington, I was here on arts business and so it was fitting that a poet drove me around the edge of the wind-lashed harbour under the stormy black sky. When I ventured from my accommodation, the gale sent me staggering. My umbrella was quickly shredded.
The following day, the sky had cleared, and I walked to my late brother’s house. I mapped my way into the hills, up steep staircases and winding streets. At the bottom of a valley, the wind intensified, coming from all directions. I arrived in disarray and ventured up the driveway. I had expected tenants, but the property was still vacant, and soon I was in the place where I saw my brother for the last time.
This was where he’d tried to make a go of it. There was bright sunshine, emptiness, the gale tearing over the rooftops. I took photos: the vegetable garden where he’d proudly shown me his tomato plants, now tangled and overgrown. The paving stones choked with weeds. Through the window, his books on a table, a lanyard with his work ID photo, a box containing his shoes. Sunlight on the wooden floor. This was the place where he died.
I sat in the yard for a long time, then I toiled back through the valleys and hills. I walked around the streets, noting changes. Describing his city, my poet chauffeur had said, “After so many layoffs there’s a quiet vibe.”
Next evening, I was hunched in a bus stop on a windswept peninsula sending a furious WhatsApp message. I had Ubered out here while arguing with my father. Now I sent him a conciliatory message, ended it with xxx, and ventured on to the road. There was sea below, bush all around. I found the address and entered a large house, beautifully decorated, full of paintings and sculptures, with wide decks and a view of the water. It was an Arts Foundation event; I was here to talk about the Katherine Mansfield Menton Fellowship. Also speaking was the writer Victor Rodger, resplendent in a pink and white suit.
Among the crowd were writers Greg O’Brien and Jenny Bornholdt, and that prominent character of the Covid era, Professor Michael Baker. Since his “Big House” days in Parnell, I’d followed his progress, from the wilderness years with the chickens (his campylobacter campaign) to the heyday of Covid. “Tell me about new threats,” I said cosily. “Bird flu? Ebola? Bioweapons?”
I had told the hosts I was a hermit, yet I richly enjoyed this gathering in a stylish house with the arts people of Wellington. The conversations were fascinating, full of unexpected angles. I met a person who’d written a book under a pseudonym, fearing the country being criticised might take revenge. There was a person who wanted me to explain the codes hidden in the children’s tales in my novel Soon. I heard stories, anecdotes, details of diverse lives. I drank only water, valued the gift of clarity, gave silent thanks for the privilege of listening.
