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.