The Garnet Bureau
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Darling Viola
The news reached me yesterday—Sydney all aglow with it, the publishing people positively incandescent! “Falling from Grace” has done what they seldom dare name aloud: it has moved hearts while moving units. I confess, it’s rather thrilling to find our quiet correspondences rippling outward into parlours and bookshops you and I shall never see. They imagine it’s family loyalty stirring the sales—how quaint—but I know what they truly respond to is your tone: that wonderful suspension between irony and ache, the way you make a confession sound like a confidence shared over tea, not a lecture.
They are, of course, already speaking of the “next volume.” I begged them not to rush it. They flutter so at the scent of success. I told them your stories bloom slowly, by lunar method, and cannot be forced to daylight before they’re ready. A pause, I suggested, would lend grace to grace. (They took notes.) Still, it thrills me to see the instinct of enterprise meet the integrity of art—it is almost alchemy, and you perform it without seeming to notice.
The thought of your arrival with the Royal entourage has caused a mild hysteria here. One hears rumours of luncheons by the bay, of receptions strung with wisteria, of artists positioning themselves strategically near the steps of the Opera House. I shan’t pretend indifference. There remains a charm—the shimmer of collective awe—when the pageantry passes. I shall ensure I am somewhere close to the velvet rope, waving discreetly, neutral tones, garnet lipstick only. It will be delicious to compare notes beneath the polite roar.
We must, of course, meet while you are here. There are matters practical and matters personal that beg discussion. I’ve already set aside a few evenings—something quiet, overlooking the water, where we can talk freely of the work and drink something suitably fizzy. You know I am, at heart, your fiercest advocate, though I sometimes arrange truth into patterns more flattering than pure; it is how I protect us both from dull comprehension. What the world calls “promotion,” I call translation of devotion.
Write and tell me when your party sails. I’ll make the arrangements myself—no delegation, no intermediaries. Between us, I think your publishers realise they handle something rarer than a bestseller. They are a little afraid of you, and that’s just as it should be.
With wicked pride and unwavering loyalty,
Gwendolen Anatroccolo, Sydney, 1988
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