ROGER KOPONEN SITS himself in a chair upholstered in a coarse, perspiration-inducing fabric and squints. The spots hanging from the ceiling of the conference center’s main auditorium are shining right into the eyes of those onstage. For a moment all he sees is blinding light; he forgets that before him and his two author colleagues sit four hundred curious readers who have packed into this auditorium to listen to their favorite boozers’ thoughts on their latest works.
Roger understands that the event is important in terms of promoting his book. He understands why he would bother to drive four hundred kilometers in heavy snow to spend the night at a serviceable dump slapped up on Savonlinna’s main square, its mediocre fast-food restaurant on the ground floor dolled up with tablecloths and table service. But what Roger doesn’t understand is why the good people of Savonlinna would bother to show up on a night like this. Even though his books have sold millions of copies worldwide, he is never going to be an idol besieged by shrieking fans. Few people ever reflect that musicians and authors do very similar work—same shit, different package—but only the former inspire middle-aged women to toss their panties onstage. But people still show up. The majority are seniors, tilting their heads slowly to one side and then the other. Aren’t they tired of the sportscaster-style banalities and superficial analyses authors spew about their own work? Apparently not, as it appears to be a full house: not a single empty seat.
Roger’s latest psychological thriller, launched the previous spring, is the third and final book in his enormously popular Witch Hunt trilogy. His books have always sold relatively well, but the Witch Hunt series blew up. No one anticipated this sort of megasuccess, least of all his agent, who originally held a skeptical view of the entire project, or his former publisher, whom Roger dumped prior to the publication of the first installment due to their lack of confidence in its prospects. But in the space of a few years, translation rights for the trilogy have been sold in almost thirty countries and more deals are in the pipeline. Although he and Maria were doing fine before, now they can buy themselves whatever they want. Suddenly all possible luxuries and pleasures are within reach.
The evening goes predictably; Roger has heard the questions hundreds of times during his promotional tours and answered them in four different languages, intermittently modulating his cadence, intonation, and minor details with the exclusive aim of keeping himself awake amid the fog of bright lights and forced laughter.
“Your books are quite violent,” a voice says, but Roger doesn’t look up from the pitcher he’s using to fill his water glass for the third or fourth time. He hears this a lot too, and there’s no denying it: brutal murders, sadistic torture, sexual violence directed at women, and nightmarish dives into the depravity of sick minds are described in Roger Koponen’s works in graphic detail.
“It reminds me of Bret Easton Ellis, who has said he processes his angst by writing detailed depictions of violence,” the voice continues. Now Roger shifts his gaze to the man sitting halfway back in the auditorium, microphone in his hand. Roger raises the glass to his lips and waits for the man to ask his question. Instead, there’s an awkwardly long pause as the man collects his thoughts.
“Are you afraid? Is that why you write?” the man finally asks in a flat, reedy voice. Roger puts down the glass and takes a closer look at the balding scarecrow of a man. Surprising and interesting. Almost brazen. Now, this is a question he has never heard before.
Roger leans in, bringing his mouth closer to the flexible microphone on the table. For some reason, he feels a pang of hunger at this instant. “Am I afraid?”
“Have you written your own fears into your books?” the man asks, then lowers the microphone to his lap. There’s an annoying smugness to the guy. There’s not a hint of the jittery respect, the certain reverence fame brings and that Roger has grown accustomed to.
“Right,” Roger says, and smiles thoughtfully. For a moment he forgets the person posing the question and allows his gaze to wander across the sea of faces. “I think that something of the author always finds its way into the work. You can’t help writing about what you know about or think you know about. Fears, hopes, traumas, things left undone, and then of course the things you did and justified to yourself too easily . . .”
“You’re not answering the question.” The gaunt man has raised the microphone up to his lips again. Roger feels first surprise and then irritation cutting through him. What is this, a fucking interrogation? I don’t have to listen to this shit, regardless of the circumstances.
“Could you please be more specific?” Pave Koskinen, the ineradicable literary critic who organized this event and is serving as moderator, has intervened. He no doubt feels that he has handled his role with panache and gusto but is now afraid that his star guest, the red-hot thriller writer who has written three international bestsellers, will take offense.
But Roger raises a pacifying hand into the air and smiles self-confidently. “I apologize. Perhaps I didn’t understand the question. Do I write about what I’m most afraid of?”
“No. The other way around,” the man says in an unusually cold tone. Someone in the front row coughs maddeningly.
Roger hides his confusion behind an idiotic smile. “The other way around?”
“Yes, Mr. Roger Koponen,” the man continues mechanically, and the way he utters Roger’s name is not only sarcastic, but vaguely chilling. “Are you afraid of what you write?”
“Why would I be afraid of my own books?”
“Because truth is stranger than fiction,” the thin-faced man replies, then sits back down. An awkward silence falls over the room.
TEN MINUTES LATER, Roger takes a seat at a long table covered with a white tablecloth in the lobby, which is abuzz with people and chatter. The first fan in the line of those hoping for an autograph is Pave Koskinen. Who else?
“Thanks, Roger. Thanks. And sorry about that one knucklehead. You handled it beautifully. Unfortunately, not everyone is blessed with social skills. . . .”
Roger smiles. “No worries, Pave. There’s one in every crowd. The only thing any of us is responsible for in this world is our own behavior.” He registers that Pave has lowered all three books of the trilogy to the table for signing. As he scrawls out something ostensibly personal along with his name on the title pages, he glances up at the snaking line in front of him and silently notes that the thin-faced crackpot is nowhere in sight. Luckily. He wouldn’t necessarily be able to handle a face-to-face provocation as diplomatically.
“Thank you, Roger. Thank you. We have a table reserved at the hotel restaurant at nine. They make a mean rack of lamb.” Pave smiles and stands there in front of Roger, clutching the books to his chest like an eager schoolgirl. Roger nods slowly and lowers his gaze to the table, a prisoner who has just received his sentence. It shouldn’t be hard for Pave to realize that Roger would rather retreat to his room. He has come to despise the banal chitchat and forced wine swilling that as far as he can tell has zero impact on sales of his books. He could just as easily decline the invitation and allow himself to be branded an asocial asshole.
“Sounds great,” Roger says wearily, twisting his face up in an almost credible smile. Pave Koskinen nods in satisfaction, revealing teeth that are more or less white, thanks to new crowns. He seems unsure of himself.
Then he steps aside, making way for the winding centipede of book-cradling readers.