His writing has prompted both his critics and colleagues to view the art form’s capabilities with greater precision. With his script, we’re halfway there; we need only determine how to pull off the miracles envisioned. The script pages for the scene in which the doorman steals back the uniform of which he’s been stripped:

FADE IN: The front of the hotel at night.

CLOSE-UP: feeling his way through the revolving door: the old man.

In his hands, the uniform.

He listens behind him, like a wary thief.

But suddenly … what’s that?

Light flashes from a lantern.

It’s swaying in the wind,

while now the old man gets ready to run. And …

WHILE THE CAMERA RUNS IN FRONT OF HIM,

He starts convulsively squeezing the uniform. And …

SINCE THE CAMERA IS MOVING MORE QUICKLY THAN HIM:

Soon he’s silhouetted against the hotel.

STILL MOVING, THE CAMERA RETURNS TO HIS FACE.

Does his stained conscience rule him?

And now! What fear!

The hotel! Growing and growing, larger and larger!

And while he’s now running, panting—

Do tentacles stretch out behind him?

Will they want to overwhelm him?

Here his knees give out,

And he falls against a wall.

HERE THE CAMERA CATCHES UP WITH HIM.

LONG-SHOT: The hotel in darkness.

LS: Here he remains.

Panting horribly.

He squeezes the uniform against his chest.

What had he seen back there?

What in the bulk of the hotel had threatened him?

WE SEE FROM HIS POINT OF VIEW:

The hotel.

It stands there serenely, in the peace of the night. And now,

LS: The Old Man

Still gazing in that direction.

Ever panting.

And then, what’s this?

It’s a guffaw, or a cackle!

Is he completely crazy?

Anyway, he has the uniform!

He even has the cap, which he puts on.

Now he gets into his overcoat. Adjusts it.

All the same, he still pants.

He finally relaxes,

And now, stroking his beard, smoothing it,

He is once again the Doorman.

And meanwhile …

THE FRAME FADES QUICKLY TO BLACK.

I work away from the quiet stasis of my study, in the cafés bordering the Grunewald. I sit at outdoor tables surrounded by chaos and take notes in English, which provides a soothing sense of privacy that the noisy talk can’t disturb. I drink milk from tall narrow glasses that don’t stay cold. During breaks, I consider the red freckles on the backs of my hands. My spine and eyes ache. The time is impossible to determine. The chestnut shadows wheel across the gravel. I organize my notecards into piles by category, leave money on the plate, and meander home, thinking, This is what freedom is. This is how I should always have lived.

Every Saturday, a visit, alone, to the circus. Hans’s ponies. I feed them carrots during intermissions. A day or two of immobility afterwards; listless work or none at all.