In October, Murnau received from Else Lasker-Schüler a short and heartbroken letter that had taken over two years to find him. Paul had died of tuberculosis in Berlin. At the point of death he had requested that she step behind the bed curtain so that he could die alone. Lasker-Schüler’s handwriting had deteriorated so badly in the attempt to write the letter that it took Murnau countless rereadings to extract some of the details. She was, she said, making an effort to recover some of what she’d cherished, and was making lists in her letters to friends. He’d collected clocks, and had scrutinized the workings of the little wheels for hours, the way a machinist watched his contraptions. When still in his high chair, he had sketched a blackbird and had said, “I’ve drawn a crow that steals meat.” His favorite word had been Persia. His favorite breakfast had been an egg beaten with sugar. Of his sketch pads, Karl Arnold had once said, “He doesn’t draw; he swims across the paper.” However bitterly she and he had argued, they’d always known that they’d be sitting beside each other that evening at the movies.

Murnau spent the whole next day trying to compose a telegram. All he could conjure up were Paul’s sad eyes. And then his mother, distracted and anxious, jingling her jewelry in somebody’s face. When he once had voiced impatience with both of them, Hans had answered, “Is it really so hard, every so often, to sustain a thought for somebody else?”

The Flahertys left without saying goodbye. Crosby kept to himself, disappearing for days at a stretch. Murnau found himself with energy for neither work nor Mehao, who accepted his impassiveness and simply sat in the room with him, hands together on his thighs. He seemed to recognize that they were grieving. “Kare-peka,” he said. It’s all right.

Another boy took to following them around. He was thirteen years old and told Murnau through hand signs that he wished to see his ship.

In November, Mehao finally became concerned enough to lead Murnau into the jungle late one night. He made clear that he wanted to show him something.

For a while they kept to a road of crushed coral. Pal came along, trotting beside them.

They passed villages spotted with yellow light. Those who’d recently lost relations kept kerosene lamps burning to turn the spirits away. Now and then bicycle riders passed them, indistinct ghosts with tinkling bells.

They left the road for a grassy track. The canopy overhead prevented even starlight from providing illumination. It was so dark that Murnau was without opinions. He was completely in Mehao’s hands. Unknown things brushed and swept against him.