He forges ahead with visionary plans. I’ve given up trying to straighten out the misunderstanding that has stretched its tentacles like an octopus into every aspect of the topic. I shrug and nod in agreement when he asks me, “Are you prepared to write me a treatment of your story? I assume the content isn’t copyrighted; it really happened, no? So we won’t have to purchase the rights?”

Just to Astrid, I say, “Sorry my location is exotic too. But for sure there’ll be a lovely role for you to appear wearing a flower behind your ear and topless,” and get a look in return, a look that a woman at the turn of the century would have coupled with a sharp rap from her closed fan—

and with all that going on, I have failed to notice that Nagel has left the room, fuming mad, presumably. It’s too late to run after him. I don’t find him in his garden house either, and he remains invisible for the next few days. I respect his anger and wait for it to cool down. It’s pointless to explain that it truly was not my intention to poach on his territory. He won’t believe me anyway: what strengthened our friendship from the beginning was his frank distrust of me. Christa is equally skeptical of me as a screenwriter. “Not a very respectable job.” What else should I do? What could I do? Write ad copy for Witte’s laundromats? He’s hinted there might be a job there for me.

• • •

Handwritten note:

For later:

The history of film projects during reconstruction:

Either: The producer has an “ idea” for the subject matter—a title—doesn’t matter where it comes from. The first thing he does is secure all the rights. So he also owns what the screenwriter thinks up and writes under that title. At best, the producer pays for the treatment written on the basis of a short synopsis, which is never paid for.

Or: The screenwriter suggests his own subject matter. Again, the first step is a synopsis. With luck, it gets expanded into a treatment. Since other writers, the producer himself, usually also a dramaturge working for the financing bank, the actor chosen for the lead, to say nothing of the presumptive director and in Stoffel’s case, the producer’s wife, all also get involved, the treatment gets so worked over and discussed to death that the screenwriter who initiated it can’t claim any rights to it.

At this stage, the final product, the movie, is completely secondary. What’s important is the “project.” At the latest with the treatment, it begins to have substance, i.e., negotiations with the financing bank have begun. According to whether they take a positive or a negative turn, the treatment gets changed, that is, gets made more palatable for the money people—the banks and distributors. And even if a screenplay finally gets written, it only serves as a basis for negotiations to extract more money. The screenwriter doesn’t get paid until final acceptance, i.e., hardly ever, since in most cases the “project” is not completed—nor does it need to be, for the producer has in the meantime gotten together enough money to keep himself and his company afloat. To cover the monies obtained for this project but not spent, he starts a new one.