Once more the gagmen had been set to work. Fox sent conciliatory memos. Murnau terminated his contract. The film was taken over by an honest man with no imagination and reissued under a different title. When Murnau wrote him with seven pages of modifications he thought might save the picture, he never received an answer.

The day it had been taken out of his hands, he sought refuge by himself in a Mexican restaurant. The one other patron in the place—seeming to have a notion that the tall, freckled, miserable man occupying the opposite booth was distraught—had a pink-colored drink with a miniature paper hat sent over. The teetotaling Murnau removed the hat and lifted the drink every so often, in order to indicate his appreciation without sipping.

Since the collapse of the film, his kidneys had resumed causing him great distress and any time in the sun made him feel faint.

Then Berthold Viertel had come in with a familiar-looking blond boy in tow, whom he introduced. David had Hans’s mouth and hair, as well as a similar way of standing, like an adolescent wishing to seem barrel-chested. They chatted about Murnau’s work, which caused Murnau to perk up a little.

He perked up a little more when he realized that David’s brother was that Flaherty. The patron who’d sent over the drink seemed discouraged, as though he’d missed his opportunity.

Murnau had long admired Flaherty’s work. He asked an hour’s worth of questions, all of which David answered straightforwardly. Flaherty was still working on the Mexican film. For the first time, David was assisting.

After leaving the restaurant, they walked to a deserted triangle of park and settled on a bench beneath a eucalyptus tree. The smell seemed to revive the discussion. Viertel sat quietly alongside the two new friends, content to listen. Sap on the seat slats ruined Murnau’s trousers.

Flaherty turned out to be four years older than Murnau. Did the brothers have any new plans, for after the Mexican project? They did: David had been preparing to go away that very week to Tahiti, to assess the possibilities of filming a feature there.

Murnau at that moment felt as if he’d become aware of great gears above them swinging together, the teeth sliding inexorably into place. Once he recovered, he described in a low voice how he’d dreamed of doing the same thing. This did not seem to impress his audience. He added that he’d read about the South Seas since discovering Stevenson as a boy. They smiled. His dizziness had returned. He’d had to call for his car.

David left for Tahiti two days later, and Murnau hadn’t seen him again for three months. During that interval, he worked listlessly on new projects. Fox sent over scripts that had been defaced and rejected by other contract directors.