William Boyd - The New Confessions

And so we continued working throughout the summer beset by more than the usual delays and technical hitches. The embossed film stock was notoriously fragile and the Tri-Kamera presented us with understandable teething troubles. The list of problems was endless and of little interest now, but it will give you some idea of the conditions under which we had to work if I tell you that, after a day’s filming, Horst, Leo and I drove to Geneva — where the nearest lab that could develop the embossed film was to be found — to examine the prints of the previous day’s shooting. More often than not we discovered some defect, some bubbling or flaking in a negative, that necessitated reshooting. The entire cherry-tree sequence, some two and a half minutes in length, took us most of July to film. By the end of that month I realized we were in serious difficulties. I received an angry cable from Eddie pointing out that the ratio of film shot to film used was running at approximately eighty to one. In other words I was shooting eighty minutes of film to produce one minute of screen time. A ratio of thirty to one is regarded as generous. Fifteen to one is not impossible. Somehow this news leaked out and it is from around this time that vicious stories began to circulate about profligacy, extravagance, and manic perfectionism. After a particularly scurrilous and savage attack in the trashy Das Grosse Bilderbuch des Films , I even traveled back to Berlin to reassure Eddie, and calm him down.

We were now over budget. We were behind schedule. But what was being produced was extraordinary. It is true to say — and it is one of film’s bizarre strengths — that the last category can always overrule the first two. There is no contest in the struggle between real Art and Accountancy. Audiences are indifferent to balance sheets. Eddie knew this, but our other investors were less happy. Julie had been released in 1926. We were now approaching the last quarter of 1928 and no film was in sight. Unbeknownst to me, Eddie had been obliged to buy out Goldfilm’s interest and was renegotiating his deal with Pathé. The Confessions was fast becoming a Realismus project, pure and simple.

Delays meant we had to postpone our Les Charmettes filming yet again, and we traveled to Grex in Switzerland to shoot the Geneva scenes. The huge set — the city walls of Geneva — had been standing unused for two months and Leo was contractually obliged to dismande it by the end of September.

Doon had been with me all through this exciting but exhausting summer. I was immensely grateful. I think she sensed my grief over Hereford’s death was deeper than I showed and, indeed, I doubt if I could have carried on if each evening I had not been able to return to her. At Annecy she was called upon to work from time to time (we spent a frustrating week trying to reshoot her first encounter with Jean Jacques but the Tri-Kamera kept breaking down); however, at Grex there was nothing for her to do and I sensed boredom settling in. Curiously, I seemed to calm down once we reached Switzerland even though our problems in no way diminished. Perhaps it was the countryside. What I liked about the landscape was the way every possible bit of arable land was cultivated — some vineyards looked no more than twelve feet square, tucked in odd corners made by the angle between a barn and a cliff face, or set on a largish edge on a mountainside. It was this immaculate husbandry rather than the grandeur of the views that reassured me. It indicated, I thought, a determination and sense of purpose consonant with my own and I began to relax.

In this mood it was easier for me to take a weekend off when part of the Geneva city wall collapsed and filming had to be suspended while it was rebuilt. Grex was not far from Montreux, so I suggested to Doon that we spend a couple of nights there. But she wanted to go up to the mountains, so we drove up one of the valleys, ascending steadily from the lakeshore, zigzagging through the woods up into the thin air of the mountain plateaus. We spent the night in a small village (I forget the name) in a hotel made, it seemed, entirely from elaborately carved, densely knotted wood. We were even served a meal of ham, gherkins and potatoes on carved wooden plates. We both found it somewhat oppressive. Doon said it was like living in a sinister fairy tale. We decided to leave on the Saturday morning and return to the lake for lunch.

It was a sunny morning but cool. A level bank of cloud obscured the lake completely, as if we were shut off from the world below. We were happy as we motored easily down the tight bends, laughing about the monstrous wooden hotel.

Rounding one corner we passed a broken-down car and a man — the driver — tried to flag us down, but we were by him too quickly to pull up in time.

“He looks so cold,” Doon said. “Stop for him.”

I braked, came to a halt some fifty yards farther on and got out. I waved the man on down to us. A smallish fellow, he started jogging thankfully towards us. Then, suddenly, he stopped, glanced back at his car and then leaped off the road and began to run down through a meadow towards a copse of fir trees. It was then that I recognized him. To Doon’s astonishment I took off in pursuit.

I ran speedily down the slope through the thick dewy grass, arms windmilling backwards to keep my balance. I soon gained on my quarry, whose city shoes seemed to give him no purchase on the slippery ground. He fell several times and I caught up with him sprawled face down at the edge of the trees.

Eugen P. Eugen was soaked through and shivering. He stood up and plucked leaf mold and pine needles from his natty suit.

“Mr. Todd,” he said. “How pleasant to see you again.”

“Why are you following me, Eugen?” I asked. I was calm. I knew I could deal easily with whatever doltish blackmail was coming.

“Your wife hired me,” he said, with a mild grin. He looked down. “My shoes are ruined.”

“But you can’t work for her, ” I said angrily. “ I hired you.”

“Herr Todd”—he spread his hands apologetically—“a fellow has to make a living.”

He told me that Sonia had contacted him a fortnight earlier (I have no idea what alerted her: it could have been any of a dozen inept cover-ups); he had come down to Annecy and followed us to Switzerland. He had already sent two long reports back to Sonia detailing her husband’s infidelity. Eugen told me all this with perverse pride, as if it were evidence of his efficiency — a talent, so the implication seemed to run, to which I could also testify. As he elaborated on the contents of his reports, I closed my eyes. Some kind of bird was singing noisily in the trees. I could feel the dew seeping up through the soles of my shoes as if searching for the sensation of fatigue and random remorse that was spreading downwards through my body, its source — seemingly — some gland located in the crown of my head. Sonia had known for almost two weeks. What was waiting for me in Berlin?

I was roused by Doon’s call from the road. Eugen and I looked round.

“Ah, Miss Bogan. Magnificent actress,” he said.

I thought I should feel more animosity than I did for Eugen. I tried to summon up a rage — unsuccessfully.

“Shut up, you little bastard,” I said with no conviction. Then I shouted “Coming!” to Doon and set off back up through the damp lucent meadow towards the road.

“Herr Todd.” Eugen slipped and slithered behind me. “Could you possibly …? I’d be extremely grateful for a lift back down to the lake. These hired motors—”

“Sorry.” I strode on.

“Don’t worry, Herr Todd. I quite understand.”

Sonia waited until I returned to Berlin in October. In the interim we did not communicate. The sun was shining and there were still some bright autumnal leaves on the birches in the garden at Charlottenburg. I got out of the car, a full cargo of guilt slowing my steps. The house was partially cleared. The carpets were gone but the pictures still hung upon the wall.