Before the boy had come to get him that night, he had made another attempt to revise the ending of the film. He had written a rough version of the farewell note the woman would leave for her lover before being taken away for good to satisfy the tabu.

I have been

so happy with you.

Far more than I deserved.

The love you have

given me

I will keep

to the last beat

of my heart.

Across the great waters

I will come to you

when the moon

spreads its fate

on the sea.

Farewell.

He was shoulder to shoulder with this Polynesian boy. The boy’s smell was on his lips. The sun was a few degrees above an orange horizon. The final image of the film was already set in his mind, a shot on which he’d decided months ago: the image of the tabu woman’s lover, a lone swimmer in pursuit of her boat, swimming until he drowned.

The sun rose above them. Mehao leaned his dark head back and listened, taking pleasure in his friend’s inscrutable sounds. Murnau talked to his father in German, and to Pal in English. He apologized to Mehao. He apologized to Hans. He recited aloud from memory from de Bougainville’s journals, on the discovery of Polynesia: “We found, companies of men sitting in the shade of their fruit trees. They greeted us with signs of friendship. Those who met us on the road stood aside to let us pass by. And everywhere we found hospitality, ease, innocent joy, and every appearance of happiness amongst them.”

Riga, 1915

RIGA, 1915

7. July 1915
Somewhere in Lettland

My Dear Murnau,

Your last letter hurtled me out of a clear blue sky and into a rain cloud—or something very like one. My apologies for the delay in answering. I’m pleased you liked your packet of gifts. Lately I’ve been taking pleasure in being a poor correspondent, something I might indulge in completely were I a pure artist, which is to say, an eccentric. What a prospect!

We lie here on the riverbank, the location a military secret, and to the south all is forest and marshland. There are swarms of gnats.

I meant to write you yesterday, but today is hazy and dreary, and the glory of inspiration is long past.

I’ll try to apply myself to some of your many questions. Mother’s fine, though reading between the lines I can see that she’s having her heart difficulties again. I’ve heard from various members of the New Youth; they sent along a review praising some tense “futuristic” lyrics by various dirty little boys, and sneering at my naïve stuff.