Nosferatu

by Jim Shepard

  The contract with Colorart was by all indications meaningless. Flaherty had sent seven cables before an answering cable, unsigned, had confirmed the bankruptcy. I imagined some melancholy functionary, the last one at his desk, taking pity on him.

  After a sleepless night, I spent my first morning in Tahiti in the telegraph office. I might as well be in Mazatlán. Cables to lawyers, cables to banks, cables to Viertel and Garbo imploring them to run various errands. The crisis was averted only when I finalized the arrangements to finance the film myself, from the remainder of my savings.

  Flaherty was informed. His gratitude seems insufficient.

  The next item of business is to pay off the crew, and the other debts already outstanding. Strained meetings with Flaherty, who is penniless. He acts as if he’s the Artist and I’m the Producer. I know the tone. David attends looking exhausted and hungover.

  My savings will not extend to cover the company’s salaries. Even Flaherty’s friends back in America are, of course, without a cent.

  Nearly everyone has to be let go, including the unit manager and the laboratory man. Even Bambridge and Eddy the cook. Money is set aside to cover their passage home, with the wan promise of additional compensation later. Only Floyd Crosby, the principal cameraman, will stay and draw pay. The rest of the crew will have to be recruited locally.

  Flaherty says he can run the laboratory himself, and train native assistants. Crosby will do the trickier sailing, with native help. David will take over as unit manager, and assistant to all of us.

  ****A desolate afternoon spent trying to nap in Papeete’s Grand Hotel, the Hotel Montparnasse. Noisome and cacophonous even at midday. The toilet in the hall features a courteous little notice in French: “Will uncertain gentlemen please avoid the floor?” Judging from the floor, the adjective refers to breeding rather than aim.

  We are forced, for the time being, into the Montparnasse. Even with a breeze, the Bali’s cabins are too hot at midday. I share my room with an oversized brown-and-yellow spider, both of us enervated by the heat.

  At twilight they took advantage of the cooler air for a meeting aboard the ship. Fourteen tons of equipment unloaded from the freighter were heaped under waxed tarpaulins and a makeshift shelter near the docks. That included the lighting generator, the spare cameras, the toolboxes, two projectors, the endless crated cannisters of raw film, and all the apparatus for the developing laboratory.

  Had Flaherty looked into the possibilities for the safer storage of such materiel? He had not. What were the possibilities, Murnau wanted to know. Flaherty outlined a few. The best option seemed to be an unused portion of a copra trader’s metal-roofed warehouse. Flaherty promised to approach the man the next morning.

  After the meeting, Murnau went off by himself for a cheap meal and a cheerless walk. Papeete looked like a dismal metropole of the South Seas. Automobiles and omnibuses roared along the shore. The streets were lit by electric lights. Cinemas and dance halls and cabarets and Chinese restaurants blared their music out into the moonlight.

  What have I done? he asked himself.

  Later, to cheer him up, Flaherty led him to the other end of town, where a dilapidated movie house with a sheet of corrugated metal for a door advertised on its display board a film called Sæur Angelique, “Directed by F. Murnau.” Flaherty found the announcement funny. What did it mean? There was no way to know. The movie house, Flaherty said, had apparently been closed for some time.

  Over the next few days, Murnau’s spirits began to recover. In the mornings he took breakfast—limes with sugar, a mango, a roll, and a pot of black coffee—on the Montparnasse’s veranda, facing the peaks of Moorea. By seven o’clock they were flooded with morning light.

  The crags and slopes of the volcanic islands of Oceania seemed to him so steep and wicked-looking that the coastlines, with their pale lagoons, looked gentle by contrast. There was always a scrap of mist around the peaks, and that unsettling below-the-horizon boom of surf on the invisible reefs. The population seemed to live entirely on the fringes of inaccessible slopes, so the villages appeared small and crowded.

  Their materiel was safe in the copra trader’s warehouse. The cost was a dollar a week, payment deferred. The trader had accepted two bottles of whisky as down payment.

  Crosby had been spending his days in the warehouse with the film stock, trying to account for ten thousand feet of negative that probably had never been loaded aboard in San Pedro.

  There had been some good news. After the break with Colorart, Murnau and Flaherty had needed to evolve a new story to free them of legal worries, and after three days of collaboration, had settled on the idea of the tabu as the film’s centerpiece. The basic premise had come from Flaherty’s experiences in Samoa. Murnau was excited by the possibilities: an impossible love, stalked by the same implacable transgression that enabled it.

  After work in the afternoons they would cruise out into Papeete’s crowded harbor. Beneath the green volcanoes, the water was a numinous blue, hardly sea-colored at all, with stunning depths and shallow coral shelves knobbed and ribbed like bones, rippling with fish. The water like candy-colored liqueurs in glass bottles in bars, lit from below. And at the end of the day, the sun now behind them, Moorea’s mountains loomed dark and spiky, backlit. Local myths claimed them to be the dorsal fins of giant fish. To Murnau they looked more sinister than that, and more alluring. He imagined himself up there, spread across those waterless peaks.

  Early in the morning when the town was just stirring, he continued to pursue his discreet inquiries concerning Spiess. He ran into Flaherty on one expedition, and afterward imagined that Flaherty regarded him with suspicion.

  To save money, they moved eleven kilometers out of town, to the old Governor’s Residence. The Residency supposedly had all the comforts of a club. In this case, that included a bulletin board, a modest liquor cabinet, a map of the world on Mercator’s projection, and a flyspecked portrait of Clemenceau over the bar. Still, it was out of Papeete, and it did feature the most spectacular view available on any veranda in the tropics.

  Their fellow guests, French officials and Scottish merchant clerks, spent their time gossiping about the four moviemakers whose plans had come to such obvious grief.

  The house was commodious. All day long, wide, louvered doors stood open and allowed the trades to blow over the bare floors. On weekdays the garden was filled with convicts, who set aside spade or barrow and touched their hats like old family servants whenever guests would pass. On weekends the convicts were gone. Dogs of all sizes took their place, sprawling wherever there was shade as if in the aftermath of battle. Pal kept his distance.

  Behind the Residency, a ruined wall overhung with acacia encompassed the European cemetery. Flaherty gave Murnau and David a tour. There were a few Germans here and there. One slab chipped in half read Veidt. Flaherty made a joke about The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, and wondered if such projects always attracted homosexuals. Murnau let the comment go for a moment, then announced flatly that Veidt was a friend.

  ****8 July. Disagreements with Flaherty starting to become more serious. Flaherty claims that I Europeanize the Polynesians. I claim he cannot purge Nanook from his head. I try to make him see that the South Seas make unnecessary the epic virtues on which he seeks to build his stories. This is not the Arctic. The sea is not a relentless enemy. The land here is so rich that “farming” is beside the point. Here, love is the source of conflict. For me, the collapse of the old ways is part of the story; for him, it’s the whole story.

  David stays out of the debate, perching unhappily on his nearby camp stool while we fight. Sometimes he seems to be quietly stupefied. He and his brother have the same wide foreheads and bankers’ frowns. At times it’s as if Hans has returned, only to disapprove of me.

  Crosby also sits in, hatless in the sun. He brings to the table a general impression of powerlessness and gloomy fatalism. He has always just washed his hair, which is thinning and blond.

  Aft
er three days of argument, Flaherty banged the tabletop and announced that he wanted to stop talking about love. He wasn’t interested in my private fantasies. He was interested in these islands. In the silence that followed, Crosby lowered his head to the table and moaned, “It was at that point that their difficulties really began.”

  I lay in bed afterwards, sleepless as usual, thinking, I left bitter dispute behind in Los Angeles so that I’d find it here, in the most beautiful place on earth?

  ****9 July. Rain.

  ****10 July. More rain. Impasse with Flaherty. He and David gone on a three-day expedition into the interior. Yrs truly not invited. Squirreled myself away on the Bali with my South Seas volumes: Stevenson, Loti, Nordhoff and Hall. Trying to cheer myself with the thought that it’s also possible, despite my pessimism, that inspiration will find me—I notice I’ve begun to find myself quoting Stevenson’s language.

  ****11 July. Miracles—!

  Where to begin? Yesterday while the rain drummed down, I heard a thumping on deck. I came up the companionway and there on the other side of the weather sheet stood a boy, streaming water. He’d swum out to see me. He felt no fear. He spoke a little French.

  He refused tea but accepted hot water with lemon and sugar. He seemed to relish it. I gave him one of my sweaters. He had perfect teeth and glittering eyes. A coconut palm was tattooed along the length of his spine. The palm’s crown flowered across his shoulders.

  His fingers were small and graceful. He was a foot shorter than me and gave his age as seventeen. He was from Fatuhiva, an orphan.

  I had only one lamp lit and the wind picked up. He noticed the Nordhoff and Hall open to an illustration of native customs and he rose, keeping his head low in the cramped space, and danced the taprita in slow silence. It was a dance in which the body moved more than the feet, the hips rolling sideways and forwards with perfect freedom. He took off my sweater, rolled it up, and pressed it between his legs with both palms. I was speechless.

  ****Conscious of the need to step carefully. I want to conjure up and imprint the memory. I want for myself, for the future, a promptbook.

  ****I said, in English, “You are very beautiful.” He looked at me the way he might watch a wave roll in. He joined me on the settee berth. He touched his fingers to my ear to register how much I was trembling. He turned my face to his. He raised his lips close, so that I could feel his warmth.

  He was still. The rain had stopped. The fittings were dripping and the rudder creaked. He had the most grace of anyone I had ever seen. I closed my eyes and gave myself over to him. He cradled my face with his hands. He lifted me with surprising ease.

  ****Writing this at 3 a.m. Moonless sky outside the hatch.

  Tahiti is the New Cythera, the abode of Venus. When Venus rose from the sea, she stepped ashore (according to Hesiod) at Cythera. De Bougainville was right: this is the world before the Fall. All the creatures associated with Venus are found here: the dolphin, the tortoise, and the gentlest birds. The frigate birds are so tame they have red streamers trailing from their legs to keep them safe from hunters.

  ****2 p.m. The curtains drawn and pinned. Rocking in and out of sleep as if in a fever. The boy calls himself Mehao. He’s indicated he will leave at nightfall. He dozes on the floor with one foot in the linen locker. His gentleness and insatiability are revelatory. He holds my sex in his hand as if born to do so. When it slips from his grasp, I make sure it finds its way back to him.

  I notice that for these notes I’ve reverted to German, as if for greater security.

  ****Amazed at what I’ve written down. For some sort of delectation later.

  ****12 July. 6 a.m. Nightmares about Hans. Horrible stomach upheavals. Mehao gone.

  In the one I remember best, Hans again discovered my betrayal, and again I saw his face. Then the scene changed to a vegetable garden in bright sun.

  Some straightening-up of the cabin. The smell of the last twenty-four hours is overpowering. I breathe it in like a tuberculosis patient. I can’t bring myself to rig the windsail to air it out.

  Overwhelmed by that familiar sense of ugliness and corruption. The portrait of Hans in his uniform is in the sea chest in the overhead locker, wrapped in oilskin.

  Weeping.

  ****9 a.m. A foray at regaining control. The attempt begins with a good washing, on a rope hanging from the stern. Miniature fish nibble at my toes. Even at the apex of my self-disgust, some part of me begins musing about Mehao’s whereabouts.

  Bora-Bora 25 July 1929

  Mother!

  I’ve no excuse for being such a bad correspondent, despite the chaos and excitement of the last few weeks. Mea maxima etc.

  We’ve arrived. All in all, with the good luck and the bad, with the most wonderful days and the stormy, squally days, we’ve had a glorious trip which none of us will ever forget. It’s been the fulfillment of a happy dream, surpassing all expectations.

  The trans-Pacific sail was a triumph. If you could have seen your Wilhelm as sea-captain! All our ports of call in the South seas were French possessions, and in none of these places had the German flag been flown since the war. We’d been warned that the natives might act strangely, as the war was still alive with them. But instead, wherever we appeared we were received with hospitality of a sort that only one who’s been to Polynesia can realize.

  While the idea was to cruise as far west as possible, until west met east, we’re also, of course, hard at work on the picture. It’ll be called

  TABU

  A Story of the South Seas

  and is based on the paradise-like conditions of some of the islands here. To keep the spirit of the thing, we’re staying away from white actors and professionals. All those chosen, whether half-caste or native, have never been in front of a camera before. You know and understand that for a dramatic story this will be quite an experiment—but I’ll enjoy doing it, and I hope to catch some of the true unspoiled Polynesian spirit, which, if we succeed, ought to be well worth the harder work.

  We’ve gathered our cast from some of the remotest corners of these island groups, after testing hundreds of people. We believe now that we have the very best, and we start shooting soon. I’m sending some photographs of our main characters. We think that while they have all the qualities of the pure native appearance, they’ll still appeal to a white audience. Personally, I think that with their charm and grace, they’d be a sensation if they entered European or American studios.

  I’m also sending along some pictures of the trip. On the back of each I’ve given a short indication of what it is and where it was taken. You might want to contact Kurt Korff at Ullstein’s; if he wants to publish any in Illustrierte Zeitung or Querschnitt, I expect you to drive a hard bargain! All pictures must carry the note “Murnau-Flaherty Production,” marked on the back of the print. One, you will notice, features the painter Matisse.… If you sell any, please have the money wired to the address supplied.

  I wish I could provide even the slightest sense of the beauty of this world. The photographs won’t. It’s been the wonder-drug for all my ailments. My kidneys have been on their best behavior. I’m even sleeping!

  There’ve been many challenges but they’ve all been swept away by the joy. I have many new friends. Everywhere the light and air invigorates. Everywhere the smell of the flowers—especially the tiare, a tiny white gardenia that the girls and boys wear in the hair and touch to their lips, and then their pelvis, before handing to you—intoxicates. And the trade winds, the trade winds, all night and all morning, never cease to blow in Tahiti. In this life, one feels there’s no work, and no worries; the shining days go by in games and dancing, bathing and fishing, and the night innocently brings all lovers together.

  Are you surprised at such a fulsome letter? See how I’ve changed!

  When I think I’ll have to leave all of this, I already suffer the agony of departure. I’ve been here less than a month and I don’t want to be anywhere else. The thought of Los Angeles or Berli
n is repulsive to me. I want to be alone, or with a few rare people. When I sit outside my bungalow in the evening and watch the waves break one by one and thunder on the reef, I feel terribly small, and wish I were home. But I’m never “at home,” anywhere. I feel this more and more, the older I get—not in any country, nor in any house, nor with anyone.

  I hope you’re well. My best to Bernhard and Robert. As for Father—every day I think of him with sadness. The remorse I carry around since childhood is that of the landholder’s son who in disobedience to his father’s wishes left the estate in alien hands.

  But all of this is just to let you know that I’m well, and to prod you into sending as much news as possible. Warmest wishes to you, from your most loving

  Willi

  By the 25th of July, Flaherty and Murnau were barely speaking. At times David acted as an intermediary, and Flaherty occasionally came round to the veranda and they sat together in morose silence like an old married couple. Flaherty was miserable and angry about the final version of the film’s story, but it was Murnau’s money, and Murnau’s picture.

  By that point it had become a simple tale of love in the face of the curse of the tabu. As a concession to Flaherty, the story had been set against the contrast between the lovers’ paradisical atoll and the “civilized” island of the merchants and missionaries. Murnau, too, saw the latter as a sad place steeped in alcohol and jazz. Flaherty kept insisting that the death of a people was their real subject; that they couldn’t turn back the clock. They had to film what was there.

  Murnau’s reply was that Flaherty hadn’t worried so much about that in his earlier films. Hadn’t he invented activities for his noble primitives in both Nanook and Moana? Hadn’t he in both films taught the natives fishing techniques they’d long ago abandoned?

  Murnau’s questions, David had later remarked, had been one of the low points in their negotiations.