Scenarios: Aguirre, the Wrath of God / Every Man for Himself and God Against All / Land of Silence and Darkness / Fitzcarraldo 1517903904, 9781517903909

Table of contents :
Cover
Half Title
Title
Copyright
Dedication
Contents
Aguirre, the Wrath of God
Every Man for Himself and God Against All
Land of Silence and Darkness
Fitzcarraldo

Citation preview

Scenarios

Also by Werner Herzog Published by the University of Minnesota Press Of Walking in Ice

Scenarios Aguirre, the Wrath of God Every Man for Himself and God Against All Land of Silence and Darkness Fitzcarraldo

Werner Herzog Translated by Martje Herzog and Alan Greenberg

University of Minnesota Press Minneapolis  |  London

Aguirre, the Wrath of God, Every Man for Himself and God Against All, and Land of Silence and Darkness originally published in Germany as Drehbücher II by Carl Hanser Verlag. Copyright 1979 by Carl Hanser Verlag, Munich. English translation originally published in the United States by Tanam Press, 1980. Fitzcarraldo originally published in Germany by Carl Hanser Verlag. Copyright 1982 by Carl Hanser Verlag, Munich. English translation originally published in the United States by Fjord Press, 1982. First University of Minnesota Press edition, 2017 All photographs copyright Werner Herzog Film. Courtesy of Werner Herzog Film/ Deutsche Kinemathek. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher. Published by the University of Minnesota Press 111 Third Avenue South, Suite 290 Minneapolis, MN 55401-­2520 http://www.upress.umn.edu A Cataloging-in-Publication record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. ISBN 978-1-5179-0390-9 Printed in the United States of America on acid-­f ree paper The University of Minnesota is an equal-­opportunity educator and employer.

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Contents

Aguirre, the Wrath of God 1

Every Man for Himself and God Against All 61

Land of Silence and Darkness 117

Fitzcarraldo 133

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The texts in this volume have remained completely unchanged, in the same shape they were before shooting started. The films themselves, as one can see, followed a very different evolution. There was no screenplay for Land of Silence and Darkness. The film has but one element, Fini Straubinger, the principal character. So in this case, there is a transcript of the spoken dialogue from the film here. This volume is dedicated to Fini Straubinger. W.H. Munich, 1977

Aguirre, the Wrath of God

CHARACTERS

Gonzalo Pizarro, brother of Francisco Pizarro Lope de Aguirre, “The Wrath of God” Pedro de Ursua, a Spanish nobleman Inez de Atienza, Ursua’s mistress Fernando de Guzman, “Emperor of Peru” Flores, daughter of Aguirre Juan de Arnalte, young Hidalgo Gaspar de Carvajal, a Dominican monk Chimalpahin, an Indian nobleman, called Baltasar Diego Bermudez, Sebastian de Fuenterrabia, and Gustavo Perucho, confidants of Aguirre

DESCRIPTION OF THE CHARACTERS

Gonzalo Pizarro Tall, incredibly lean, his cheeks suggesting that he suffers from some disease of the stomach. Unscrupulous and, like his brother Francisco Pizarro, the typical highly intelligent illiterate. Lope de Aguirre He calls himself either “The Great Betrayer” or “The Wrath of God.” Fanatical, possessed, and with limitless ambition, but extremely methodical in his actions. There is a likeness between his type and late photographs of Kafka, with a black glimmer in the 

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eyes. About forty years of age, taciturn, sinewy, and with hands like clutching steel claws. “Hands,” Aguirre once said, “are made to clutch and grasp.” Unscrupulous, and with an almost pathological criminal energy, yet so utterly human that one could not say, this kind of man no longer exists. Pedro de Ursua A little younger than Aguirre but of a more ancient nobility and, like him, a Basque. Ursua is built strongly, tending somewhat toward corpulence. His greasy face is a bit fleshy, with perceivable shadows from his beard, and constantly seems to betray a sallow and sickly pallor. Physically and mentally very strong, with nimble somewhat uncontrolled movements. Inez de Atienza Between twenty-­five and thirty, noble, giving the faint impression of a madonna. Self-­composed, never losing her dignity even in the greatest misery. Unobtrusive and very devoted. Fernando de Guzman An officer to whom no one paid any attention until, suddenly, through the machinations of Aguirre, he is proclaimed Emperor of Peru. Relatively colorless, of mediocre intelligence and, in comparison to the others, rather restrained in his craving for gold. Guzman is the eldest of the expedition, and his hair and beard already show streaks of white. Strongly boned horselike face. After his promotion, develops a naive vanity. Flores, daughter of Aguirre Thirteen years old, just released from the convent, flowering into a beauty. She is Innocence and, together with Arnalte, personifies a kind of hope in the film. Still almost childlike, like a birch. Her breasts are still small. Juan de Arnalte Still makes the impression of an adolescent Hidalgo. Typical of the sentimental youth, the youthful lover. Even when wounded, he is still graceful. Often fighting an inner battle between military obedience and human impulse. Gaspar de Carvajal Dominican monk, in frock and with tonsure; later on, his hair grows carelessly and gets woolly. Rather young yet, and almost



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rabidly fanatical in converting people. Somewhat like Artaud in the film of Jeanne d’Arc by Dreyer. Chimalpahin Indian noble, called Baltasar. Not yet thirty years old, slender with tawny complexion. Noble features, long blue-­black hair, very graceful movements despite his handcuffs. Very dignified, and makes an impression of deep resignation. Continually wrapped in profound silence and almost apathetic, his gaze directed far off into the distance, dozing. Diego Bermudez Is appointed scrivener. Nimble, cynical, and loyal to crime alone. Versed in expressing himself. Sebastian de Fuenterrabia and Gustavo Perucho Scoundrels craving for gold, depraved and violent, at first glance recognizable as “villains.” Perucho wants only to give the defenseless Indians “a piece of my mind,” and Fuenterrabia boasts: “I don’t booze, I don’t battle, I don’t whore. My only vice is hunting Indians. . . .”

March through the Andes There are snowy peaks all around, majestic crests, and the mountains tower like Holy Cathedrals. Very clear, icy, silent air, frost lying on the hoary ground, all in deep, majestic silence. From the mountain crests, glacial tongues lick down into the depths. Clouds are gathering around the crests, as if coming out of nowhere. The air further above is light and blue, deep down it is a deep purple. Nothing at all is stirring. The huge mountains tower one above the other up to 18,000 feet, in profound silence. All at once, there, in a breathtaking sweep, and with a breathtaking zoom that makes you dizzy, the camera picks out the top of a pass: now, suddenly, we recognize a thin thread of people there in zigzag formation, and we can distinguish hardly any movement. At certain points the thread is broken, then followed up again, winding through rocks, slag, and ice. The dizzying gaze still moves downward into the deep: we realize now that there are hundreds, dragging themselves along, hundreds, one man after

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another. Animals are now distinctly recognizable, some horses, llamas, and, on the glacier, some pigs. They are standing in a long line at the edge of a crevice exhausted to death. The file works its way forward with great effort. Now we are close to them: There are bearded Spaniards in armor bearing swords, and all of them can hardly hold out any longer. Some carry arquebuses and gunpowder, some drag horses along by the bridle, and—­almost unbelievably—­there are Indians carrying two sedan chairs. Then a long, listless line of Indians with long blue-­black hair. They are wearing ponchos and knitted wool caps with ear flaps. They are bound to each other by chains in a ghastly fashion. Spaniards with crossbows beside them, and further down, Indians again, dragging a cannon with heavy wheels, they are half-­dead. Thirty Indians drag the cannon with ropes. Fog gathers around the slopes, enveloping the thread and setting it free again. In the distance, woolly clouds are swelling. No one utters a sound, no one utters a single word, only deep, heavy breathing and panting. A line of panting llamas bogs down, all of them carry heavy burdens. They are gasping and snorting, perturbed, some are sniffing and wrinkling their velvety nostrils. A Spaniard is poking a pig on the glacier, but the pig doesn’t stir. Everything is a unique unheard-­of effort. The pigs are completely done in. Now we behold a Spaniard whose nose begins to bleed from thin air and exhaustion, but he is so exhausted that he doesn’t even wipe himself. From higher up loose stones come rumbling down upon the people, the stones making a rumbling, hollow noise. Suddenly, a call heard from above spreads from one man to another; getting louder, it becomes intelligible, passes on, sinks down, and disappears into the deep. “We’ve made it!” they are shouting and: “Here we are, at the top!” But there are no signs of joy, no one moves faster or quickens his pace. The call resounds in the depths, as if no one understood it, as if it were nothing to no one. Only up on the pass, where there is a pile of stones with flags of faded fabric flapping on it, everything starts to move a bit, then



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the order of the march is disturbed and comes to a halt. The men drop to their knees, and the Indians, bound to each other by their chains, relieve themselves of their burdens, drop to their knees, and with hands folded in front of their mouths, fervently pray. Now we recognize Carvajal, the Dominican monk; he takes his crucifix from his chest, his left hand extending it far out over the land, beyond the pass, and blesses it with his right hand. And now we also catch sight of Aguirre, whose face is marked by the ascent and his unlimited willpower. “We’ve made it,” a man beside him weeps. “Men,” says Aguirre, “that was merely one step.”

March atop the high plateau A vast elevated plain framed by gigantic mountains, the march proceeds. A strong wind blows driving sand before it, the animals huddle close to each other. Nothing but a scant few, very hard tufts of grass grow at this height, with white streaks of saltpeter among them. Clouds are towering one above the other. Now we see a flock of wild alpacas whose fur is being tousled by the wind. They are standing still, noses twitching, full of distrust, then suddenly, the whole flock flees, clustering closely to each other, dust swirling up behind them. The file of Spaniards, closer. Strong as the clouds, the army marches on. A sedan chair is carried along, the Indian bearers carry it in their customary quick-­paced trot, with the other sedan behind them. Flores pushes the curtain aside a little and looks out, as the sedan has been forced to stop because of some timid llamas. Laden llamas behind the sedan, then Indians, neglected and linked to each other, Spaniards among them, armored and carrying heavy weaponry, pigs, and then, more Spaniards. Roughly, they are pushing the Indians onward. The vanguard. Gonzalo Pizarro, riding a nervous horse; he is harnessed and wears a flying cape, lanky and unbelievably lean, giving an impression of intelligence at first glance. Beside him, Ursua, somewhat insignificant, of average stature. His fleshy face has a pale ashen tint. Ursua gives a rather unhealthy impression, sickly but still quite agile and full of energy. Trailing those two,

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some soldiers—­w ild-­looking sorts, filthy—­and we know at once that they are ready to do anything at any time. The Indians, in spite of their rags—­some wear shirts and trousers, many are barefoot or have sandals that are far too flimsy—­leave a much cleaner impression. They are plodding on in deep apathetic resignation, scarcely paying attention along the way. They are so sure of their mutual movements that we realize they have been chained to one another like that for weeks. Among the Spaniards, we now clearly recognize Bermudez, Perucho, and Fuenterrabia; they curse while pushing the Indians who are trying to free a cannon that is stuck in the sand. Llamas trail with strange cages on their backs, which, upon closer inspection, we recognize as chicken coops with hens balanced dizzily inside on their perches, fluffing themselves up, apparently feeling sick from the constant rocking. To the rear of the procession, Aguirre rides and then stops abruptly at a trio of Spaniards who are busying themselves with a fourth man. He has sore feet and is unable to move on; he tries nevertheless, stubborn and silent. “Arnalte,” says Aguirre to a young Hidalgo, “you take his things, and let him carry his sword.” Aguirre digs his spurs into his horse and, riding away, shouts at his men: “Give him a horse, now we need everyone.” Aguirre rides alongside the procession from front to rear; it looks more orderly here on the plain and we can now behold the full extent of their equipment. Only now are we struck by a howling pack of giant hounds running about, gasping and scaring the Indians. Apparently they have been trained for Indians, since every now and then they snarl threateningly and start snapping at the Indians, forcing them to fall out of line. Aguirre stops by his daughter’s sedan and slowly rides beside it awhile. Flores seizes her father’s hand and kisses it. Neither of them utters a word. Mum, Flores gazes back at a dead Indian who has been left along the way. His bare soles are covered with thick bruised skin. Prolonged silence, then Aguirre rides on to the front. Carvajal wanders on foot with a staff in his hand, the wind blowing his frock forward, making it billow and flap. Aguirre sa-



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lutes him with a glance. While moving ahead, Carvajal prays with his rosary without moving his lips. He gives the impression of being a tough methodical person.

Descent into the Urubamba Valley A gloomy valley, densely overgrown with the beginning of the Amazon jungle. The green slopes are dropping steeply downward, following the meanderings of the Urubamba River, which rushes way below. How far the slopes are reaching up cannot be discerned because, further above, the valley is closed in by an oscillating veil of vapor and fog. The slopes vanish in the seething steam up into nowhere. Just the muffled roar of the rapids. From the gathering clouds of steam, hummingbirds whir into the deep. The trek works its way forward. With almost inconceivable difficulty, a heavy cannon is lowered between the trees. The Indians have to fulfill this terrible task. It is so steep, and the slopes are already so densely overgrown, that one can hardly lead the horses down by their bridle. They slip and refuse to be drawn down any further. The two sedans must be borne down empty as Inez and Flores, holding hands, lifting their long skirts, are steadied and supported by Spaniards. Ursua helps Inez and Arnalte, the young Hidalgo reaches out with his hand to Flores from further below. Climbing, Flores almost lends the impression of being a child. All of a sudden, shouts from above, excitement. Twigs are crackling, a crash is heard, and, with a hollow sound close to the women, a weighty cannon crashes down into the deep, cutting a swathe through the undergrowth. A dead pig comes sliding down after it. Far below, the two fall into the rapids of the brown boiling Urubamba. The chained Indians are in peculiar straits, for if one of them slips, a whole row goes with him. The highland Indians are already beginning to suffer at this point; nearly all of them have caught colds and some are just staggering on. We catch sight of a sitting Indian who has been unchained because he is too ill. He is shaking from a fever and draws in his breath with short gasps, like someone with pneumonia. A dog

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sniffs at him, snarling. They confront each other motionlessly, for a long time, and the dog grinds its teeth at the dying person: a gruesome picture. Some Spaniards try to drag the llamas onward, but the animals’ fright is greater. They have planted their feet into the soft moist soil and only permit themselves to be pulled by the neck. They resist unto death. From deep down, cries are discernible through the rear of the waters, but no one can tell what they mean.

By the Urubamba River On a very narrow path, where a horse can scarcely support itself, the vanguard has stopped, all of them holding on to something so they won’t slip into the raging torrent. They seem to be somewhat helpless, with only Aguirre apparently cool and master of the situation. Gonzalo Pizarro pretends to be calm. “For all of this,” he says, “we shall be richer than anyone else before us.”

Night camp by the river Drawn out lengthily along the river, the troops are camping on a stretch of ground that is but one foot in breadth and slopes steeply down. Along the riverbank the flickering fires are drawn out lengthily. Pizarro, Ursua, Aguirre, and the monk are sitting together in deliberation. “When the river widens and is no longer so wild, then we will have made it,” Ursua says. “We shall see,” says Aguirre. Gonzalo Pizarro presses the point that boats must be built forthwith so some of the equipment can be conveyed by water. The animals and the main troops could then move on more easily along the river. Before too long they would have to stop counting on the Indians because the climate would not agree with them. But they could not have possibly foreseen that. A Spaniard tends the fire and serves the men a hot drink, trying simultaneously to overhear something. With a barely perceptible hand gesture Pizarro sends him away. Aguirre contradicts



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Pizarro; very composed, he says it would be unwise, it would be madness in fact, to launch the boats now, the waters would be much too wild, it could not possibly work. Pizarro is rather puzzled, and therefore Ursua comes to his assistance, stating that the leader thus far had judged everything well, it was simply in the nature of his family. “Your Honor,” says Ursua, “where there is a Pizarro, there is Honor and gold as well.” Aguirre is silent. Another campfire. Some wild-­looking figures crouch around it in a very narrow space. The water is gurgling nearby. The Indians won’t hold out much longer, one of them says, as they are so frail that they will perish from something as ridiculous as colds and measles. They’re not used to anything and have no power to resist. “Not even flies die from a cold, have you ever heard flies sneeze?” Perucho asks. They all laugh crudely. A more distant campfire, glowing only faintly. Indians have flocked closely together, we can see just their faces in the obscurity. Dark eyes in the dark. Baltasar, in handcuffs, is with his people and speaks to them very gently in the Quechua Indian dialect. He seems to comfort his people, uttering very soft and subtle words that we do not understand. The Indians cower motionlessly, almost in devout wonder, slowly comprehending their doom. The scene is profoundly serious and sad.

On the riverbank Several days must have passed, for the Spaniards have built boats, ten in all, and they are completely laden with equipment. The boats are somewhat primitive and colorless, they seem bulky but solid. On each of four boats they have fastened a cannon, plus sacks with provisions and casks with powder. Chutes have been fashioned from wooden planks and lead directly into the whirling brown water. Everyone is ready to set out and awaits a sign from Gonzalo Pizarro. A little further downriver we distinguish about twenty carelessly made graves, each of which bears a cross made of two sticks tied together. Indians are cowering there. Apparently these are the graves of Indians, for their number has

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diminished considerably. The Indians look callously up into the seething mist. They turn their heads like a single man and look up high into the clouds. “It is time,” says Pizarro. The boats are launched, but then a catastrophe. After only a few feet, the first boats capsize and sink in the violent rapids. Utter confusion on shore while the boats shatter. In the water, Spaniards fight for their lives, pulled down by their heavy armor, coming up again for brief intervals. The cannon sink with the provisions while a powder-­filled cask spins in a whirlpool. A dog jumps into the water. Seven out of ten boats are shattered; the remaining three fight against capsizing while being pulled forward furiously. They disappear beyond the first bend in the river, drifting along, rocking, the crew struggling wordlessly. We realize that, inevitably, one mile further on, they will drown as well. For a long time the camera takes an interest in the raging waters. Our ears catch the excitement shot through with wild shouts. “God have mercy on our sins!” we hear Carvajal cry.

March along the river Steep slopes, disappearing above into clouds of steam, the heat has increased. The number of men has lessened considerably, just fifteen Indians have survived, and some of these are recognizably sick at first sight. Baltasar still looks quite strong. There is only a lone pig left; it keeps sinking into the soft, boggy ground up to its belly. Then a dead llama in the jungle, over which thousands upon thousands of fire ants fly. Clouds of flies are buzzing about. There are but a few dogs left, but they seem to have grown wild rather quickly, and scarcely stay close to their group any more. With their swords and knives, the Spaniards labor their way through undergrowth and liana labyrinths. They are soaked through with sweat, and thick swarms of mosquitoes are dancing around every single man. Damp foliage everywhere, wet with rain, closing as the men pass in their wake, like water. Then a boggy place where the horses can hardly move on;



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they refuse to budge. Some Spaniards advance into the smacking morass, dragging the horses behind them by the bridle. At the edge of the bog luggage is piling up. On the opposite side of the bog stands a man with a horse, and both are infested with leeches sucking away at them. The soldier is trying to get rid of the leeches with a little salt. No one is talking, it is a silent frightful fight for every inch. From the river Urubamba, which is visible now and then through the foliage at their side, a deep roaring sound rises only to be thrown back by the walls, thus sounding like an endless waterfall. This and the wicked whirring of mosquitoes. There, suddenly, a peculiar scene: two Spaniards are embracing a tree, weeping. One of them, deeply enraptured, kneels down and kisses the trunk. Among all the enormous trees overgrown with lianas, this tree seems rather insignificant. Somewhat surprised, a few Spaniards gather around the two who are so moved that they cannot utter a word. Pizarro approaches them with Aguirre. “What’s the matter here?” asks Pizarro. “Cinnamon,” sobs one of the two, “this is a cinnamon tree.” There is silence once more, as if everyone were ashamed. “Fetch Baltasar,” says Pizarro. A larger gathering of Spaniards crowds around in a circle. Baltasar is thrust forward and the Spaniards push some Indians after him. Pizarro now delivers a brief public address, which, apparently, is meant to encourage his men. From Baltasar, who speaks almost without an accent, we learn that the famous king named El Dorado, who reigns over an immeasurably rich land of gold, is said to live where the cinnamon trees grow. After him the land was named El Dorado. The houses are said to be covered with golden tiles and the king is so lofty that only his subjects wear clothes, while he himself is dressed in gold dust every morning. In the evening he steps into a lake and the priests rinse him clean, and every time the gold is lost, but the country has so much that no one cares. By Pizarro’s cross-­examination we realize that he already knows the whole story behind the title, and that his men actually know everything also, so this speech is merely intended to

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strengthen their self-­confidence and to encourage them. The Indians are questioned by Baltasar, and their answers come quickly, as if learned by heart. Indeed, upon setting out the Spaniards seem revived. For once they appear to bear their burdens with a more joyful heart, as if it were but a day’s march to El Dorado. Inez and Flores sit beside each other in their sedans. “If I become Queen,” Inez says, “you will be the first lady in my court.” Flores smiles a bit self-­consciously. “I shall do whatever my father tells me to do,” Flores says. The sedans are lifted up and forced through the thicket, swaying. In this jungle the sedan chairs seem to be a sign of civilized schizophrenia. Aguirre, leading his horse by the bridle, is beside Ursua. He speaks with him confidentially, and we gradually discover that he will try to conspire with Ursua against Pizarro. He complains about some mistaken decisions Pizarro has made. He, Aguirre, had always maintained that Indian sheep or llamas were useless, and that one could not have the whole load of equipment fall on them. Now all of them, mere superfluities to begin with, were all dead. They could no longer count on the Indians either, as the air didn’t agree with them down here, and almost all the pigs had perished in the mountains. They must begin rationing the provisions more carefully, for it was not at all certain that they would reach El Dorado in one week’s time. Ursua, feeling reassured, agrees because he had thought and said similar things himself, and because Aguirre confides in him more than in their leader, Pizarro. “We are simply in need of a man like Francisco Pizarro,” Aguirre says. “Gonzalo Pizarro isn’t even his shadow.” He says this in such a way that Ursua must think that he, Ursua himself, has the makings of the leader within him. They drag their horses along. Teeming heat, mosquitoes all over, the everywhere putrid humidity. Pearls of sweat are forming on all faces. The buzzing of the mosquitoes is unbearable, and then the roar of the waters and the shrieks of the parrots. The jungle bares all its sounds. The sun can scarcely pass through to the dim decaying ground. Dogged penetration, step by step.



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Large camp Located where the land is a little flatter and allows for some space, there is a large chaotic work camp active in the jungle. Several big trees have been felled and the thick undergrowth cleared away. Bundles of accouterments are scattered about, some howling dogs are tied to branches, five or six smoking fires are burning at once. The clay soil is dank and sticky. The two sedans stand somewhat apart, and a small screen has been erected to protect them from wayward glances. Some beautifully decorated court dresses made of velvet are hanging on a line with a few lace petticoats. A strained silence reigns over the entire camp. Little movement among the men. From the disorderliness of the camp we can deduce the incipient process of dissolution. Clumps of equipment are lying around carelessly in the mud, filthy cages filled with hens are jammed between branches, shields and weaponry are strewn about, a young Indian in a hammock is dozing toward death, motionless. Only five of the horses are left. They seem to be the one thing attended to with extra care. The horses have been groomed and are covered with blankets. The saddles and bridles, too, are kept sufficiently dry and tidy on the tree limbs. A hollow crash and crackle and rustle becomes audible now near camp. A huge tree sways very slowly to one side sighing, then faster it falls down lengthwise in a tumult, taking everything with it; a second one follows and directly after it, a third. Now we hear the hacking of axes and the sound of saws. One tree falls after another. The camera shows a great fascination for the falling trees.

Great gathering in the camp The Spaniards are sitting in a circle fully armored, some chained Indians behind them and, set off a bit to the side, the two sedans. Inez and Flores, however, have removed themselves and are listening from a distance. In the center of the circle stands Pizarro, who is giving a speech to his men. He tells them they can’t go on like this, the provisions are nearly exhausted and everything was

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getting scarce. One could not yet talk of starvation but some of the men had been doing so the past few days. The terrain was so treacherous that they could hardly proceed, and it was not to be expected that they would reach a populated region in the near future. Therefore, he and his camp foreman Pedro de Ursua and his lieutenant, Lope de Aguirre, had made the following decision, which had already been drafted by the scrivener into a legal document. They had resolved to build a raft, to man it with men led by Ursua, in order to explore the territory ahead of them and to search for means of subsistence. According to reports from the Indians, they were now approaching some hostile Indian tribes as well, which would endanger the situation. The crew on the raft would have the task of returning within two weeks at most to the main camp here, either by land or by water, and if they hadn’t returned by then, it would be concluded that all of them had lost their lives. In such a case, which they hoped wouldn’t happen, the remaining expedition here would try to turn back to find refuge in regions where Christians lived. They would place a great deal of hope in the fate of the exploring vanguard, and, naturally, they were hoping to obtain precise data pertaining to the status of the gold country. Baltasar, who was indispensable as an interpreter, was sent with them for that reason. Maybe they would even find traces of the expedition under the valiant captain Orellana who had vanished three years earlier. He did not intend to flatter anyone, and none who were omitted from the party should feel neglected, but he did mean to stress that he had chosen the best of the available men; they were the flower of the Spanish crown and the strong arm of civilized Christianity. God had also given them the most reverend Fray Gaspar de Carvajal for guidance so that he might bring light into the night and darkness of Creation here, and preach the true creed. They had come to the agreement that the two women would travel with the vanguard, although he did not want the responsibility as it was clearly stated in the document, wishing instead to save it for a different decision; but they would try to make their living situation as pleasant as circumstances would allow, nevertheless. Inez had declared that she had sold all her belongings in



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order to follow Pedro de Ursua, and that she would rather give up her life voluntarily than not to be by his side; and she had proclaimed this with such grace and self-­assurance that one could not help but let her go with them. As for Flores, Aguirre had prevailed in his wish to keep her under the protection of her father’s arm since she was still in the first flower of her youth. All of this had been decided, and as a symbol of their agreement they now would sign the document that had been formulated today, three days before the New Year. Thus they would be able to present it to the Indian Council upon their return. Pizarro is given the document and sets it on a small improvised table, where pen and ink are already lying at his disposal. Pizarro withdraws a small metal plate from his pocket on which his signature has been carved. We watch how Pizarro copies his name with the pen in a clumsy hand. Then Ursua, Aguirre, and some of the officers sign, and at last, the Dominican monk.

Departure of the raft There lies the river in the first morning mist, a solid raft afloat upon it with the two sedans standing in the middle, and a roof of bark fastened to four poles. The heavy tree trunks are held together by metal hooks, all else being fastened with cords and ropes. Coarse tow-­ropes hold the raft to the bank of the fast flowing river, and in spite of its weight, it rolls slightly with the pressure of the waters. The raft is loaded to the brim with equipment: armor, weapons, barrels, a cannon, and even a horse, standing to the side. Then, cages with hens, provisions, sacks with corn and seed, fuel, rope, arquebuses, and some pans. The Spaniards are trying to get a second horse aboard over some wooden planks, but despite having its eyes shielded, the horse resists with all its might, rearing up so high that the men consider it too dangerous. “Let it be,” says Aguirre, “it has its reasons.” “One horse will certainly be enough to frighten the Indians,” says Ursua. Already the raft is fully manned, there is barely enough room for forty men. They are all crammed close to each other. At both

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the front and rear of the raft stands a man with a clumsy oar, which serves to maneuver the raft. The cars are lashed with rope to a fork of smooth wood. At dawn, Carvajal, the Dominican monk, is on board reading the Mass. He gives Holy Communion to those on board first, and then to the kneeling Spaniards at the riverbank who are left behind. Deeply devoted and enraptured, the last surviving Indians are taking it on land. The main rope is hacked through with a sword; it is a laconic, nearly speechless farewell. Baltasar has come to the edge of the raft and kneels before the last of his people, his bound hands folded. The Indians are clapping their hands on their mouths in anguish and despair. Now, with a jerk, the craft frees itself and begins drifting very swiftly. “Now it goes up,” cries Pizarro. “Now it goes down,” says Aguirre. There is steam and seething mist over the tropical slopes, and the day proceeds.

On the river The raft is drifting rapidly now, pushed forward from bend to bend unimpeded, turning round in circles repeatedly, the landscape slips by speedily. The raft moans and groans, and the waters of the river Urubamba are rushing sluggishly. The jungle slopes continue to rise up infinitely, although not as steeply as at first. Clouds are gathering over the canyon. The oarsmen work hard and incessantly, but in these wild waters they can barely manage to keep the raft in the middle of the river. Sometimes it drifts close to the shore where twigs and lianas and exposed roots dangle over the water, and the men on board must lower their heads and steady themselves in order to avoid being pulled overboard. There are some rapids that turn the raft with a jerk on its axis, intimidating the men somewhat, including Ursua, who wants to prove himself leader. “For every hour,” says Aguirre, “we would need a day on land.” The raft drifts onward and, upon hitting a sandbar with a jolt, some bundles of accouterments are lost. Hands stretch forth vainly to catch some of it again. Only Perucho lifts a bag filled



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with provisions on board, using a fork for propping up arquebuses. Some tree trunks have dislodged themselves dangerously and rub against each other with a groaning sound. Water is slapping the trunks. The men have to be careful not to trap their feet between the trunks. Creaking, the raft again hits sandy ground. Inez and Flores have sat down anxiously in their two sedans, which are standing close together. Inez is holding Flores’s hands in hers, both await their fates patiently. Ursua approaches the pair to lend encouragement. Once they had escaped the worst torrents, they would be safe. And, as things appeared, there were no more torrents expected further down. The Indians had asserted this unanimously. The men gaze ahead eagerly, anticipating something around every bend. “Beyond this bend will be a house, perhaps,” says Fuenterrabia. And while everyone maintains an incredulous silence, he adds that this could easily be the case. All at once there is confusion and chaos on one side of the raft, because the horse has taken fright and is rearing up. In its excitement, it steps halfway onto a barrel, which makes it rear up even more. It jerks its head hard as foam gathers around its mouth and flanks. Some of the men try to save themselves from the mad trampling hooves by moving to the narrowest space, thereby adding to the general confusion. The horse is on the verge of leaping overboard, simply refusing to calm down. Two men succeed at last in getting hold of the bridles and pushing the horse backward onto a less congested spot. Its forelegs get caught in some of the ropes, which are cautiously untied by Arnalte who courageously attends. Arnalte succeeds in becalming the horse completely. Baltasar is sitting all this time close by the dangerously trampling hooves, petrified with fright, and in his terror, unable to move whatsoever. Flores has noticed Baltasar’s paralysis and takes a few steps toward him from her sedan. She attempts to draw him aside a little, but the terror of the Indian is still too deeply rooted. Some of the Spaniards laugh at him cruelly, saying the Indian is more afraid than a girl, that he is shitting in his pants. Flores suddenly starts to cry. “Baltasar,” she says, “it’s a good horse, it’s only frightened.” Baltasar looks at her in strange wonderment. “But it’s a stallion, and they call it Clodoaldo,” says Flores.

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Sandbank in the river It is a blazing-­hot noon, and at a point where the river has broadened a bit the raft has hit a sandbank. The current is still very strong. Some distance away, a few alligators are lying on the white sand of the sandbank in motionless avidity. Several Spaniards have stepped into the water and are trying to free the raft with poles. Others poke at the water with their poles to chase away the alligators that might come close. A blue-­black thunderstorm is brewing on the horizon, the pitch-­black clouds towering heaven high, lit up already by flashes of lightning. The thunder is not yet audible. Excited screaming of birds in the jungle. “Heave-­ho,” cry the men on board, and when the raft half-­f rees itself they cry, “Come on!” “Come on, come on,” cries the parrot, which Perucho has taken aboard with him. The bird flaps its wings and ruffles its feathers. The horse is standing there, frightened by the violent movements of the poles, nervously tramping on its narrow space. Chimalpahin, whom they call Baltasar, is sitting a short distance away, and with faraway eyes he gazes at the clouds. All has become deathly still, but no one notices because of their work. Only Chimalpahin is looking about right now. The birds in the forest have become mute, no wind is blowing, and yet the flashes of lightning are already visible. Quite casually we catch sight of an arrow sticking in the wood as if it belonged there. Then suddenly, an outcry. Screaming, a soldier stands up with a start, an arrow stuck in his calf. And at the same time, the alligators disappear into the water with a hollow splash. Shouts break out, wild movement. “To arms!” shouts Aguirre above all else. He roars at some soldiers, who have lost their heads and jump about helplessly, to go ahead and fire. Ursua and Arnalte, together with some Spaniards, have armed themselves with shields and thrown themselves in front of the two sedans. Wild excitement and, what nobody notices, no more arrows. The sultry forest lies motionless as the first shots thunder from the arquebuses, which are supported by the gunner on iron forks. “What are you aiming at?” someone shrieks. “Fire, you ass!” bel-



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lows Ursua wildly. Then, as if by themselves, the thunderous shots cease and the men become sober once again. One of them declares aloud that since there were no more arrows, the enemy was probably very few in number. Ursua asks whether anybody had seen one. No one can remember. The wounded man is seated between two bundles, cursing; they have already extracted the arrow from his blood-­g ushing leg. The arrow wanders from hand to hand while the wounded man is seeing if he can still move his toes properly. Ursua orders them to continue firing into the forest for the sake of security and to chase away the enemy. The mouths of the cannon roar and smoke and in between, deep silence. The thunderstorm overhead refuses to draw close; in the distance its mute flashes are still flickering. In the feverish swelter, with shots still being fired, the men succeed with a strenuous effort in freeing the raft. As the raft drifts on, there is just enough time for the men to be pulled onto the tree trunks. But some of the trunks have nearly come apart and some of the ropes are almost totally frayed. Several men on board are trying to reattach two trunks with iron clamps, all this makeshift at most. The current is no longer so strong, however, and the steep slopes of the canyon now widen a bit. Dense swarms of malignant mosquitoes are swarming around the men on board. The jungle has regained its voice. Voices of birds and monkeys squabbling in some tree tops, thousands of other sounds. The men suffer in the broiling heat. The towering clouds are now approaching, almost continual flashes of lightning and the distant grumble of thunder. Rain suddenly floods down, hot and heavy, hardly ever in single drops, almost entirely in a solid mass. Everyone is instantly drenched and they hardly attempt to cover their heads with their shields. All is soaked, the dresses, the bundles, the provisions; we behold a Spaniard, whose armored sleeve serves as a drainpipe. Thunder and lightning are very near now, the horse shies with fright and the jungle is one dull roar. The water in the river seems to boil, steam issuing forth from the surface. All on board are cowering,

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motionless, while lightning flashes incessantly. Heavy crashes of thunder echo out from the steep slopes. Inside the sedan, soaked through as well, Inez is sitting, praying mutely with a rosary. Aguirre is beside his daughter’s sedan, holding a shield in front of the curtain so that not too much rain may penetrate within.

Campsite on a sandy spot The raft has been tied to the shore in a flat sandy place, objects lie scattered about in the sultry sun to dry. Steam is rising everywhere. Several fully armored Spaniards have positioned themselves against possible aggressors by facing toward the jungle, some take a few cautious steps into the steaming wilderness. The trees are still dripping profusely. The horse is on shore eating leaves. Some Spaniards are digging in the sand for turtle eggs. The curtains in the sedans are pulled up to dry; Juan de Arnalte politely spreads a mat on the sand for the women, then he withdraws again. Lively activity everywhere. Perucho is alone on board with his parrot, trying to teach him the term “El Dorado.” The Spaniards have constructed two charcoal kilns on the sand, using thin tree trunks and strong branches. Both pyres are smoking away, with the men paying close attention so it doesn’t start smoking too heavily. If too much smoke develops, they deaden it by covering it with sand. Ursua, Aguirre, and Guzman are walking through the camp, carefully inspecting every object. They pick up some pans and a short chain, then they collect the iron forks from the arquebuses. “You have to make yourself wooden forks,” says Aguirre to one of the men. Gradually we realize that they are searching for iron. They even remove the horse’s shoes. The ground is soft here, anyway, Ursua reflects. Even the iron work on the handles of the sedans is taken off. A brief discussion arises around Baltasar, as to whether or not they should remove his handcuffs. Ultimately Ursua is against it, because he fears that Baltasar might flee into the jungle. Proud Baltasar sits entranced, not listening to what they are saying.



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Camp, early morning The raft is completely cleared now, all the luggage being scattered about in the sand. The piles of charcoal are gone, and in one spot the Spaniards have built an improvised forge. A stone serves as an anvil, and from a coarse piece of leather the men have made a simple bellows, on which two men alternate working. The Spaniards are busy forging iron clamps and nails. It is very tiresome work. There is a peculiarly tense atmosphere in the camp, no one dares to talk out loud. Furtive glances are cast aside; at a distance, Ursua and Aguirre are quarreling, barely able to restrain themselves. The men eye one another wordlessly while working. Something is in the air. Ursua calls the men together, most of whom already sense what is happening, and he declares, reminding them of his authority as Major General, that he has decided to return. It probably would take two weeks to get back to the main camp by land; they had seen from the raft how difficult the terrain really was, and by land the danger posed by the hostile natives would increase. Aguirre, his most intimate friends gathered around him, curtly explains to Ursua that he will not follow this order, for their task was to explore the territory and supply themselves with food, and so far they hadn’t achieved either of the two since nothing of importance had been encountered yet. In two days the powerful current had moved them so far away from the starting point that, under these circumstances, a return seemed senseless, as they would have exhausted all their provisions by the time they reached the camp and, furthermore, they would put an additional burden on Pizarro’s shoulders by consuming his food. Things have progressed to such an extent that there was nothing to do but advance; and why had he, Ursua, given orders to forge nails if he didn’t intend to mend the raft completely. That is not the only ambiguity he has shown. Aguirre calls upon the men, in the glorious name of the Spanish Crown, to continue their expedition at their own risk. He recalls Hernando Cortez in Mexico who, once he had sailed, had also received orders to return, but Cortez

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defied the order, and today he has riches and glory. Now it lay in their own power to alter the course of history, now it awaited their mighty grip. The men are moved, and despite Ursua’s order to be quiet, Aguirre continues talking to the men in strong inflammatory words. Most of them are indecisive, and only Aguirre’s closest friends, Bermudez, Guzman, and Fuenterrabia, give the impression of unity. But Aguirre knows that secretly he speaks from the heart of the majority. Ursua is utterly enraged, and makes the mistake of ordering two men to seize the rebel Aguirre and put him in chains. The two timidly lay their hands on Aguirre. At this moment, happening so quickly that one hardly realizes how it came about, Fuenterrabia’s musket explodes with a thunderous burst and, hit from the shortest of distances, Ursua falls flat on his face in the sand, mortally wounded. A wild commotion breaks out, Inez comes flying to the scene, Aguirre’s men grab their arms. The horse gallops to and fro, trampling the sand. “Stop! No fighting!” thunders Aguirre at the mindless ones. He succeeds in subduing the initial panic, no one really knows whom to fight. Inez kneels beside Ursua who has turned to stone, and Carvajal the monk has pressed a small crucifix into his hands and listens with his ear close to the mouth of the dying man who is trying to say something. But Ursua is unable to utter a word, and rapidly his last ounce of life dies away. Flores runs about, completely upset, trying in vain to find bandages. An officer rises up against Aguirre and commands several men to kill Fuenterrabia and Aguirre on the spot. The men hesitate, looking for support. “Execute him,” says Aguirre with an icy voice. He makes a hardly discernible movement of the head. Bermudez, Perucho, and Fuenterrabia kneel down and aim at the officer, who first steps back a bit, but then, courageously, advances toward Aguirre, sword in hand and resolved to do anything. Almost simultaneously, shots are heard. The officer is thrown back a ways, he is dead on the spot. The white sand surrounding him soaks up the blood. “Anyone else?” asks Aguirre.



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Camp, toward evening Evening’s mood has spread over the sandy place. Mosquitoes are dancing in the last rays of sunlight, a few big butterflies are staggering by, drunk with the jungle. At the edge of the jungle, but still in the sand, two graves have been dug side by side, adorned with wooden crosses. Paralyzed with pain, almost without willpower, Inez kneels before Ursua’s grave. She is kneeling as if she has not yet awakened from her bewilderment. All of the Spaniards have gathered at the raft. The objects are still strewn about the landing place, and the raft is completely empty. The men are discussing whom they should take as their leader, and Aguirre, who leads the discussion, realizes that the others fear his boundless ambition and untamed energy and knows that his time has not yet come. All of the men have taken the precaution of appearing with arms, as the situation is not unequivocal yet, and everyone distrusts everyone else. As a matter of course, Aguirre proposes that Fernando de Guzman be elected Major General. Guzman is of lofty descent and one of the most experienced fighters ever to have fought for the Spanish crown in Peru. Aguirre distinctly believes therefore that no party will form against him. Guzman is extremely frightened and tries to keep the burden at bay, but Aguirre continues steadfastly to single out Guzman’s merits, recalling the conquering of the fortress Sascahuyaman. Guzman must accept this high honor, but as he still resists, the Spaniards try persuading him from all sides to accept their wishes. They would willingly serve then under his able guidance, and further, they would appoint Lope de Aguirre as his deputy, since he had coolly analyzed the situation and expressed all of their innermost wishes. Only in this way would they all achieve riches and honor. Who is for Guzman, asks Aguirre. All raise their hands and, over the head of Guzman, they appoint him Major General. Who is for Aguirre as his deputy, asks Perucho. This time, too, all raise their hands; tributes resound and the council begins to dissolve. At a distance, on the edge of the sandbank, Inez is visible, kneeling, her face as white as the sand; she is confessing to

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Carvajal, the monk who stands beside her. Carvajal is wearing his shawl, and has put one end of it on Inez’s shoulder. He listens patiently while she apparently tries to get her life clear, she looks waxen and calm. They remain there for a long time, motionless, the two of them. The sun has already disappeared behind the mountain slope. Carvajal gives her his blessing and Inez rises, fully composed, as if she has summed up her life. From the jungle, sounds of a million beings are audible.

Night camp by the river Several fires are burning, and along the edge of the jungle armed guards are watching. They have positioned themselves in pairs. Around the fires, the evening meal is almost over. Some of the Spaniards are baking a few milky translucent turtle eggs, which are covered with a soft skin, in the faint, glimmering ashes. Subdued conversation, the men lying leisurely and expectantly, trying to protect themselves from the mosquitoes. Aguirre walks calmly between the fires, talking quietly to individual groups of Spaniards. Bermudez, Perucho, and Fuenterrabia are whispering to each other. It looks as if something has been planned for the coming day. Juan de Arnalte is sitting by the sedan with Flores, whispering to her of his mountains at home and of his brothers and the waterfall behind his house. He seems to be homesick, and Flores is aware of this, listening to him patiently and with great interest. Aguirre disturbs the two. He sends Arnalte away, he should go and sleep, for at midnight he will have to watch. This New Year’s Day was the beginning of significant events, this will be a meaningful year, all of them will alter the course of history. When Aguirre is alone with Flores, he tells her to inform Inez that he, Aguirre, will not do her any harm, on the contrary, he would treat her as a lady of honor. She was compelled only by the course of events to follow the expedition further, even if this did not agree with her wishes. We notice that Aguirre has inhibitions that keep him from talking to Inez personally.



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Camp, early morning Everyone is already up and stirring. While the last iron clamps are fastened to the trunks of the raft, the Spaniards start reloading the raft. At the same time, some men are making a square in the sand with some poles and commence construction of a small wooden dais. Aguirre gives the orders here, whereas Guzman, who is suffering somewhat from diarrhea, supervises the work at the raft. Guzman disappears into the sultry damp jungle and returns with a not-­too-­happy face, trying, however, to keep his dignity. Aguirre speaks of an important council that must be held before they leave. Guzman is flattered, for he knows the council is for his benefit. The Spaniards are standing in the square now, leaving a free space in the center. Aguirre delivers a gripping speech to his men using very strong words. The time had come to take common fate into their own hands, only the brave are helped by fate, it casts off the cowardly. It was necessary to legalize all further undertakings, and so he and Guzman had mutually decided to appoint Diego de Bermudez scrivener. It was necessary now to decide for themselves, or else once they had conquered El Dorado, they would have to relinquish the fruits of their efforts to the undeserving. It was therefore necessary to free themselves from the bonds of the Spanish crown, and to proclaim their leader Emperor of Peru and Dorado. Would they agree to that. “Yes,” cry the enchanted men. A tumult erupts, exultation. Aguirre has directed this farce almost in the style of an operetta. Aguirre pushes Bermudez and Guzman forward. He declares that overnight he had already formulated a document with Bermudez, which he now wants to read to them, in order to ask them for their approval or disapproval. “Caesarean King,” reads Aguirre, “by the grace of God, through our Holy Mother, the Holy Roman Church, named King Philip the Second of Castile, we, the undersigned, have, until yesterday, the first day of the year 1561, after the birth of our savior Jesus Christ, regarded ourselves as your servants and subjects, after we have moved away from your servant Gonzalo Pizarro more than two hundred leagues within two days. Fate, the help of God, and the labor of our own hands

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have driven us down a river, called by the natives Urubamba, in search of a new land of gold, and we have decided to put an end to the quirks of our Fate. We are the Course of History, and no fruit of this earth shall henceforth be shared. We rebel unto death. We solemnly declare—­and our hands shall be torn off and our tongues shall dry up if this is not so—­the House of Hapsburg to be devoid of all its rights, and you, Philip II, King of Castile, dethroned. By dint of this declaration thou art annihilated. In your stead, we proclaim the noble knight from the city of Seville, Fernando de Guzman, Emperor of Peru and Dorado. Flee, flee from here hence, O King, and may God protect your soul.” The Spaniards rejoice, and after the incense has been lit, Carvajal intones the Te Deum. The men wave their weapons overhead as Aguirre leads Guzman to a shabby improvised throne in the center of the square. A seat on the podium has been upholstered with one of Flores’s velvet gowns. Guzman feels exceedingly honored, though half resisting still, and has objections to the kind of throne it is. “What is a throne?” growls Aguirre in his ear, pushing him forward. “A piece of wood, covered with a piece of velvet.” Guzman takes his seat and Aguirre, the first to kneel down, seizes his hand and kisses it. The other men follow his example, one pushing behind the other. Then everyone signs the document except the two women and Baltasar, who have no right to do so. The men fire their muskets and start hailing Guzman, who accepts this homage gravely, although obviously suffering from a belly ache. Now they all form a great operatic tableau, and with ritualistic gestures, Guzman is led by Carvajal and Aguirre from his throne to the earth. Guzman boards the raft with solemn steps and, among the universal rejoicing of his people, gives the signal for departure.

On the river, mouth of the Ucayali The river has broadened a bit, flowing more slowly, the mountain slopes recede undramatically. The raft is drifting calmly, but with-



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out delay. On the riverside, whole trees and overhanging limbs are dragging in the water. On the right-­hand side a wide hidden valley opens up, and coming closer, we behold the mouth of a big river carrying yellowish-­brown water, and upon which drifts a striking number of fallen branches, even whole trees, their roots outstretched toward the steaming sky. And there, fully bloated, a dead tapir as big as a mule floats past the Spaniards’ raft. The river to the right is apparently larger. For miles, the darker waters of the Urubamba are not mingling with the waters of the Ucayali, which carries large quantities of clay. In the middle of the already-­ gaping river runs a clear and colorful line of demarcation. The Spaniards are very curious, and they beckon information from Baltasar who, however, is unsure about this. No information had reached the Incas from such a faraway realm, but he did know of a big river to the south called “Ucayali.” Following Aguirre’s instructions assiduously, Diego Bermudez is employed in making a rough sketch as quickly as possible before the raft has drifted past completely. The men suffer under the oppressive sweltering heat, sweating without being cooled. The raucous quarreling of the monkeys carries from the jungle across the waters, growing to such an extent that the parrots join in, as if they were asking for silence. We can distinguish some movement in the tree tops, and in the dense foliage, the squeaking proceeds from tree to tree. Since passing the mouth, the horse has become restless, although there is no obvious reason for this. The stallion jerks his head and shies from something we do not see. The Spaniards aboard are listening, but they cannot discern a thing in the motionless jungle. The trees mysteriously mask their own trance. The horse nervously stamps at the ground, its dance creating disorder in the ordered assembly surrounding it. One Spaniard, shoving hastily, pushes another one and his helmet gets lost overboard. Hands are stretching out for it, but the helmet has swiftly sunk. The horse is jumping now, and gets bundles of equipment between its hooves, which makes it shy away even more. A man has taken hold of the bridle and yanks it down, but the stallion fights back with all its might. One half of the raft is in an uproar.

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Chimalpahin is particularly perturbed, and Inez, praying with her rosary in the open sedan, briefly glances up from her trance. It takes a long time for the horse to calm down, and just when it seems to be tranquil once more, it jumps forward with a mighty leap right into a group of Spaniards who are preparing a meal over a small fire they have lighted between some stones. Sparks fly about and chaos breaks out. “The powder!” someone cries out, horrified, and now we catch sight of a powder barrel, where some spilled gunpowder is swiftly igniting in the direction of the bunghole. Panic-­stricken, everyone flees to the edge of the raft, two men fall down and jump overboard. Aguirre advances coolly, and almost provocatively he slowly lifts the barrel up and throws it into the water. There it glimmers on, drifting forward somewhat faster than the raft. Everyone on the raft has thrown himself to the floor, with Aguirre alone standing, serenely assessing the scene. Chimalpahin is sitting, unconcerned. A dull heavy detonation follows with a pillar of water shooting up in the air and splattering over the raft. Then, massive waves, the vessel rocks and sways, and a deep silence settles over the water and over the jungle. All voices have hushed. The two Spaniards who had fallen overboard and were clutching the edge of the raft are pulled up onto the dryness by helping hands. The horse seems restful now, but the excitement of the men lasts a long time. Slowly, order returns. A long, long view over the passing jungle. The forest is steaming dreamily, not one leaf rustles. Butterflies are dancing in the open air. Damp impenetrable labyrinths of leaves, exposed roots and trees, strangled to death by lianas. A cloud of whirring hummingbirds rises high, hovering motionless above the treetops. A hundred thousand strange sounds. The water flows lazily, caked with clay. Only very far away, in the background, mountain slopes overgrown with jungle are visible. Clouds are piling up everywhere, as they do before a thunderstorm.

Lunch on board Food is distributed on board, but we realize at first glance that the food is being severely rationed. Not one of the men murmurs, we



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even notice one storing away a small supply of fruit for worse occasions. The Spaniards draw water from the brown river and drink it in a manner that suggests they quit caring quite some time ago. The horse is feeding on a heap of twigs and leaves amassed in front of it. Its forelegs are fettered. Aguirre, eating deliberately, sits among the men. Before starting on his own ration, Juan de Arnalte has politely served the ladies, who apparently have been given a little more. The women have made themselves comfortable in their sedans. While they are eating, the eyes of the men keep wandering secretly to the middle of the raft where, under the cover of a little bark roof, Guzman feasts as always. A table made from a little box and covered with a clean cloth is placed before him, and Guzman is the only one to receive proper cutlery. He has appointed a man cupbearer, who stands behind him and is not yet allowed to eat. Such a large quantity of food has been piled up in front of Guzman that one knows he cannot eat it all by himself. The men on board are silent, full of animosity, the happily feasting Guzman is unaware of this. With a graceful gesture he lifts the mug, and the man behind him pours brownish river water into it. Guzman obviously relishes his new role. Flores has left her sedan and carries part of her food to Baltasar, who has been given hardly anything, and who has only begun to eat slowly with his fettered hands after a long interval of introspection. Flores climbs over some luggage until she reaches him. She sets a bowl before him. Baltasar slowly glances up, awakening from his trance. Flores climbs back to her sedan without anyone taking offense. A strange silence reigns over the raft when, suddenly, the jungle petrifies. All sounds have died as if by some blow, with deathly threatening stillness spreading. A few men grow wary and listen, Aguirre glances about as only Guzman continues feasting joyfully. A man drawing a bowlful of water bends backward. The man beside him slumps back with a weird expression, his morsel of food getting caught in his throat while he sinks into the river, legs upturned. At the same time the water commences to boil and seethe, as if the man were made of red-­hot iron. There is a furious battle in the water, and now we

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recognize the piranhas, an enormous swarm of ravenous rapacious fish. The man with the bowl tries to grab hold of the sinking man but misses him, and the piranhas snatch him with teeth like razor blades. The oarsman to the rear succeeds in pulling up with a pole the man’s armor, which had been drifting in the seething water. A hand sticks out of the water and two Spaniards grope for it hastily, momentarily withdrawing a bony arm that was eaten until nothing but skeleton remained. Only the hand is still where the hand should be. They are paralyzed with horror on board. The hand wears a ring and bears a scar on the outside. The boiling spot in the water is left behind, the raft drifts on. A view of the jungle, nothing perceptible, nothing stirs, still no sound. On board the men have jumped up amid a confusion of highly excited voices. Inez and Flores turn aside, shuddering. One man alone sits motionless by his bowl, a pensive expression on his face, his fork sticking on his food. He is leaning against a cluster of luggage. Perucho’s parrot has heeded the excitement. He screams “El Dorado.” In his agitation, Fuenterrabia nudges the sitting man with his foot, and his fork falls to the floor with a clatter. Fuenterrabia is startled and turns around. “What?” says Fuenterrabia, attracting the attention of the other men. “He’s done in,” one of them says. The Spaniards push the sitting man a little, ever so gently, but the man is dead indeed and bends forward incredibly slowly. Now we notice a dart sticking in the nape of his neck, it is barely as big as a knitting needle and feathered behind with a ball of twisted cotton. Carvajal, the Dominican monk, is the first to regain his composure and extracts the dart from the neck of the dead man, carefully laying the corpse on the floor of the raft. The dart, in closeup. It wanders from hand to hand, inspiring awe. The tip has been sharpened like a needle and thickened with a piece of bast cord. A sticky milky liquid coats it. “Poison,” says Fuenterrabia, and “Poison,” says Bermudez. “To arms!” shouts Aguirre. “Fire your muskets!” Confusion arises once again as the Spaniards fire about wildly



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with their muskets, throwing themselves down behind their shields for protection. Here, all at once, the jungle seems to regain its voice, birdcalls are heard starting up again. “Come on, come on,” Perucho’s parrot croaks. The rolling gunshots are dying, and clouds of bluish smoke drift over the raft. How could this have been possible, Aguirre asks his men, who have calmed down a bit. Yes, how could this have been possible, Guzman repeats, his napkin still stuck in his collar. Judging from the size of the arrow, reflects Perucho, it must have been a midget bow about nine inches long. He could not understand, however, how one could shoot so far with a bow as small as that, extending his hand to show. They had been at least a quarter of a league away from the riverside. But Fuenterrabia objects, saying that the arrow had no notch in back for a string, and besides, it was much too thin. Everyone tries to solve the riddle, Chimalpahin is unable to provide any information either. They are still oppressed by the alluring calmness of the jungle, and try to deaden their fright by way of their intense involvement with the blow-­dart.

Dusk over the river The raft drifts downriver. With a slow beating of oars on both sides, the men are keeping the raft in the middle of the river. We see the raft from a distance of about three hundred feet. Incense is rising, and all of the Spaniards have gathered on one end of the raft, kneeling. Carvajal prays as we hear their singing drift over the river. Two men now lift the corpse, which is sewn inside a linen shroud, and let it slide slowly overboard. The monk makes the gesture of a blessing. The raft drifts onward, calmly, and disappears. On both sides of the river, the jungle is already very dark.

Day on the river, sultry day Aguirre stands at the front of the raft, gazing ahead expectantly toward a great bend in the river. It is an oppressively hot day and Aguirre’s clothes are sticky with sweat. The men around him look noticeably more depraved, the clothes of one of them starting to

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rot. The men take hardly any measures to protect themselves from the mosquitoes that besiege them relentlessly. All have obviously lost weight. We catch sight of a Spaniard, nibbling meticulously at the stalk of a manioc root without caring about the dirt. At the rear end of the raft, the men have constructed a little outhouse on a boom above the river, which consists of four poles with canvas stretched between them. There, Guzman loiters about, apparently suffering severely from diarrhea. He keeps the place occupied most of the time, still trying, however, to look awe-­ inspiring. In their sedans standing side by side, the two women are suffering gravely from the damp heat. Flores fans herself feebly with a delicate laced fan, unable to cool herself. Beside her Inez sits peacefully in a beautiful velvet dress, praying with her rosary. She does not seem to notice anything around her any more. Little is said on board, all of them are craning their necks in order to detect something beyond the next bend in the river. Slowly we see that around the bend, the river alone is stretching out further, and to the left and to the right, there is nothing but dense jungle. Bermudez, standing near Aguirre, appropriates the document with which they solemnly take possession of the land to the left and right. Guzman is summoned to sign the document, and then Aguirre also puts his name underneath it with a flourish. He writes Lope de Aguirre; he intends to add something else, which, however, he ultimately omits. At certain spots the river is now about four miles wide, then it narrows a bit again before flowing onward ever so lazily. Islands appear more frequently, some are so long that one cannot guess how far drawn out they are. For this reason the river often forks out in several branches. Sandbanks rise up clearly out of the brownish water, as clouds like cotton balls drift overhead. Inez and Flores are seated next to Baltasar, who is speaking calmly, now and then pushing his hair from his face with both hands, which are still bound together with handcuffs. Baltasar talks about the downfall of his people and of his childhood, speaking very softly. They had experienced bolts of lightning and plagues and earthquakes, but what has happened to them now is much greater. His name was Chimalpahin, and his surname



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was Quauhtlehuanitzin, meaning “the one who speaks.” Only his closest relatives, plus the Inca and his family, had the right to look at him, all others were forced to look at the floor before him. “That is the way Nobility declines,” says Bermudez bitingly, having listened to them from nearby. Baltasar slowly glances up, keeping silent. “So speak, go on,” growls Fuenterrabia, “and don’t shit in your pants.” Perucho wants to know how big the golden daggers of El Dorado are, whether they are bigger than the ones from Peru: this big, or this—­he spreads his hands and indicates two imaginary sizes, and since he knows that Baltasar cannot spread his hands, he starts howling with laughter at his own joke. More men laugh as Baltasar maintains silence, quite abstracted. “Quiet,” says Aguirre, “we still need him.” Flores sits weeping to herself. Fuenterrabia tells her that she shouldn’t blubber, it was only an Indian, after all. We take a close look at two Spaniards. They are both sitting right at the edge of the raft, and neither seems to want to fully expose himself to the Indians’ poisonous darts out here on the brink. Therefore both struggle slowly, silently, to take the better place away from the other, since it apparently promises superior shelter. They observe each other malevolently, and every time one of them gets a little inattentive, the other nudges him over a bit. Such jostling seems to have ensued for days, for the hostility of the two is gnawing.

Late afternoon Part of the crew is sitting drowsily on board, the others are stretching their necks, straining to see what is coming around the next bend. Heavy lukewarm rain is falling steadily. The men are talking about El Dorado and how it could best be conquered. If the capital had walls that would be bad, of course, for they had no heavy equipment and a siege would require many more men. “El Dorado, El Dorado,” Perucho repeats to his parrot continually, but it croaks and says: “Come on.” Perucho has now provided a perch for his bird, upon which it plays about. Yes, says Perucho proudly,

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a parrot lives to be ninety at least. His was surely eighty already, and it only had a bald ass. We can clearly determine that rust has formed on the men’s armor and that, due to the humidity, the clothes of many have started to rot. Most of them have sore spots around their necks from the rubbing of the armor and the continuous flow of salty sweat. A few seem to be suffering from fever, and they always feel cold in spite of all the heat. Guzman has apparently gotten the fever on top of his diarrhea, for he is always wrapped in a blanket. Aguirre is sitting with Bermudez working on a map, and he adds some legal notes along the bottom. Bermudez wants to submit it to Guzman for his signature, but Aguirre merely says, “The Emperor has diarrhea.” The two men eye one another knowingly. There were but a few bags of corn left and very little food besides, Bermudez allows. They must reach the country of El Dorado soon, or else someone would have to think of something else. Aguirre had noticed that Guzman had secretly held him, Aguirre, responsible for the difficulties with the provisions. The salt was used up completely, and some men had already complained of muscle ache because of this. Aguirre stands there, musing. The rain has abated and is only drizzling slightly. Perucho sits with his parrot in a circle of Spaniards building castles in the air, how well one would live, and how many servants one would have. They would henceforth build all their cannons of gold, and fire golden balls. The men start naming the provinces and distributing them, and they discuss the offices that they would then hold. Perucho already imagines himself governor. He speaks of conquest and siege, and his motto is: “Billowing sails, holy oaths, and ready arms.” The men are gradually talking themselves into a state of agitation. Fuenterrabia, busy with his hens, interrupts them, calling over to say that they would finally show the Indians what a rake is. Carvajal interjects and scolds the men for forgetting that there were other things to be done. Actually they were the heralds who were conveying the light of Salvation to these savages. “Rubbish,” says Fuenterrabia, who has just appointed a hen governor of a cornfield, “there will be hundreds of thousands after us.” Perucho



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thinks that this is grossly exaggerated. There were but three or four thousand in Peru after so many years, precisely the right number to live a comfortable life. Only in this way would one enjoy it. “I have a feeling that they’re watching us,” a man in the circle suddenly says. Everyone listens momentarily, the jungle is full of sounds, a fact that reassures the men a little. The steaming trees stand gloomily, nothing stirs at the jungle’s edge. There, there he had seen something; he thought he had seen a man. Where, ask the others—­they have seen nothing. The two soldiers fighting for the best-­protected place are attacking one another more vigorously now, shoving each other back and forth. “Here, from this crack on, you are forbidden to trespass.” “Quiet,” says Aguirre, and from then on the battle proceeds in silence. Aguirre commands them to be in constant readiness and to leave the arquebuses loaded. But the Spaniards still consider themselves comparatively secure because, as Perucho says, the jungle is singing. Danger would arise only from the silence. Fuenterrabia is seriously engaged with giving out names and positions to the hens in the cages. His loaded arquebus is leaning beside him. Each of the hens was supposed to receive a whole cornfield, and once they had chickens, each chicken would get an Indian for a servant. Almost whimpering, he declares one of the hens his favorite and announces that he shall crown it. For this he takes a piece of silver wire, which he unravels from his powder horn, and working with painstaking precision, he starts to make a little crown with it. Fuenterrabia is exceedingly proud of his skillful work and responds morosely as the others jeer that the queen would be the first to be plucked and cooked. He tries the little crown out on the hen, but it is still too big and the hen just struggles, flutters and squawks. Suddenly there is dead silence all around. “I don’t hear anything more,” Perucho says. The river is divided by an island into two large arms of equal size, and now the Spaniards are in one arm trying to get to the middle of the river, as far removed from the riverbanks as possible. The jungle lies in horrible silence, maliciously still, the woodland waiting. Guzman gives the order to

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open fire, and the Spaniards shoot wildly into the foliage. Entire branches are torn off by the balls and tumble down. A man possessing only a sword has crept in terror beneath a blanket to protect himself. The whole raft is enveloped in gunpowder smoke. Shot after shot roars into the forest. But there is still no sound from within. The horse has been roused by the shots and starts galloping about the raft, frightened and panicky, its forelegs fettered. It jumps over a row of gunners and slams into Flores’s sedan, where Juan de Arnalte courageously throws himself in front of the horse, forcing it to retreat. Everything on board is in turmoil. A musket goes off, ripping to shreds half of the roof of bast in the middle of the raft. Luggage is lost and now drifts on the river. A sedan has tumbled over, and Arnalte holds Flores protectively in his arms; she is very frightened. Slowly calming down, the horse is pulled at by several men who are holding it to the deck. It stomps wildly about and kicks a man who goes flying several yards. The man rises but immediately sinks down again. Two men try to help him up, but they soon notice he is dead. “That’s enough,” Guzman says. The horse must leave the raft. Aguirre has examined the dead man and explains that he has died not from the horse’s kick, but from a tiny dart that must have hit him an instant later. It was still sticking in the back of his hand. All at once the birds in the jungle start singing again, the sound passing through the woodland like a shock. One of the men on board remains sitting beneath his blanket, teased now by his comrades for his cowardice, and only after a great deal of persuasion does he appear, hesitantly. He sees Aguirre, Carvajal, and some of the others taking care of the dead man, and requests momentary silence to make sure that the sounds of the jungle had revived once again.

Dusk over the river The raft has been tied to the shore, but the jungle is so dense and the overhanging branches jut out so far that first they had to hack a little swathe amid the dripping leaves and twigs with their knives. Over the smooth river the sun is slowly sinking low.



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The waters are flowing sluggishly, without a sound. Millions of mosquitoes are dancing in the night. Hacking with their knives and swords the Spaniards carve a small clearing of just a few square yards in the jungle. Creepers and foliage are impenetrably interwoven everywhere; the undergrowth is utterly impenetrable. Aguirre declares his belief that what they are doing is a mistake. It was irresponsible to abandon the only horse they had merely because it easily shied and meant danger for them. Your Honor should simply keep in mind what a significant part horses have played in the conquest of Mexico and Peru, for the Indians had never seen such creatures before and, therefore, entire armies had fled in precipitous panic just because of some horses. But Guzman pretends not to listen to him. He apparently wants to accept this challenge of power and is willing to show that he can hold his own against Aguirre. Aguirre talks to him directly, but more so to all the men, and explains that even if the horse were to be of no use in the near future, that is to say, if the country of El Dorado was still farther away than they had thought, it certainly would provide a very important service to the crew as a lifesaving article of food, since by that time all the provisions would have been used up. “Now that is enough, the horse must go,” says Guzman, attempting to imitate Aguirre’s own assured tone of voice. Aguirre hesitates for a few seconds as Perucho moves toward his musket, seemingly devoid of any ulterior motive. “Your Honor, the sun is going down,” says Aguirre. Seen from the raft. Without talking, and somehow touched, the men are standing on board gazing upon Clodoaldo, the stallion, who has been taken ashore. He has just enough space there to turn around once comfortably; everywhere around him he is enclosed by the jungle labyrinth. Evening’s glow is spreading over the clouds in the sky. Like veils, the dancing gnats are waving. The horse paws the ground on its spot, flaring its nostrils as if it sensed something. From out of the jungle, plaintive cries of monkeys emerge. At the last moment before departure, Flores plucks a few leaves from a limb and places them in front of the horse. The tether is cut and the raft slowly frees itself from the land. It is a silent very sad scene. Slowly, in the red afterglow,

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the raft moves away from the horse. The horse is restless and whinnies. It is getting smaller and smaller and still one hears it whinnying. Very far away, we can still distinguish it as a small dark spot amid the green foliage, until distance and darkness swallow it up. “Come on, come on,” Perucho’s parrot continues crying in the darkness.

On the river, forenoon The same river, the same islands, the same jungle, the same heat, the same moldering, the same clouds, as if a thunderstorm was approaching. Again we see the raft, drifting. The river seems to have become even broader. All is calm on board, with added space as well, we can clearly see some gaps. Slowly the oarsmen steer the craft in the middle of the current round a long extended sandbar. There, suddenly, behind a river bend, smoke appears over the jungle, we can clearly distinguish it. At once the jungle is utterly still and threatening. Everything on board is instantly plunged into wild commotion. The Spaniards pile their luggage up as protective walls, and the curtains in the sedans are carefully closed. The man without a musket creeps beneath his blanket once again. The Spaniards start firing some shots into the stillness, and a few of them make a real racket with their shields. The fright confronting the stillness is great. Aguirre gives orders not to fire too much, as they also must think about the gunpowder. There, all of a sudden, shrill cries from the jungle, the voices of men. “Seems like hundreds of them,” reckons Bermudez. “Now they’re in for it, we’re going to give it to them,” says Perucho. View of the jungle. There, among the branches, some Indians are already revealing themselves. Wild and half-­naked, they apparently wish to be seen since they gesticulate violently for a moment, before vanishing again into the foliage. It seems as if they wanted to lure the Spaniards ashore. On board, Aguirre asks for a green twig and waves it over his head. “Senneneh,” scream the Spaniards, “Peace.” “Jurua, jurau,” the Indians call back, shrill and ecstatic from the jungle. “Meat, meat, there is meat swimming toward us,” translates Baltasar.



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They are cannibalistic head-­hunters, he says. Guzman gives the order to land, and the Spaniards fire feverishly to give themselves a clear spot for anchoring. When the raft is close to the land, the cries of the Indians stop as they withdraw noticeably into the shelter of the forest. Again, the jungle lies in utter stillness, full of danger and mystery. After some waiting, when no attack is made from the dead silence of the forest, the Spaniards, who are ready for any sort of battle, get restless. At last, still with no leaf moving, Guzman orders five heavily armored men to cautiously penetrate a little way into the woodland, in order to stake out the enemy. The men go ashore, and from a sandy place, they cautiously set out. Hacking away with knives, they must actually cut a swathe into the wildly intertwined undergrowth to make any progress at all. Slowly the jungle swallows up the five. View of the motionless jungle. For a while we continue to hear a rustling and a crackling and the hacking sounds of the knives. Gradually it dies away completely. Everyone on board is in a state of great suspense. All of the arquebuses are propped up on their forks, aimed toward the jungle. No more sound is coming, long waiting in absolute suspense. The river flows steadily on. Suddenly a lone man, deeply disturbed, steps out from the swathe and stumbles directly over the sand into the water. Only then does he turn toward the raft, which has been moored but a few yards upstream. The man carries no knife and has lost his weapons, holding nothing but his powder horn in his hands. The Spaniards on board begin to stir. “What is it?” asks Aguirre. But the man has lost his speech, horselike. He just makes a strange gesture toward the jungle and stumbles onto the raft. Aguirre immediately sets out with twelve heavily armed men. The traces of the troops who have cut a swathe in the jungle are distinctly visible. The cleared path makes a slight bend around a giant tree, then another one. Deep dusk and deathly-­still silence. Aguirre hurries ahead of his men, sword in hand. The path suddenly stops, the jungle closed on all sides and overhead like the end of a tunnel, and there, everything is full of blood. All the leaves and twigs are red, and on the ground there is only a bloodied boot.

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There is nothing else, as if the men had dissolved into thin air. Profound threatening stillness oppresses the woodland.

On the raft There is great excitement on board the raft. Aguirre has returned with his men, having brought back nothing but a boot filled with blood. Aguirre reports that he has searched everywhere, but it was simply inexplicable how the men could have disappeared without a sound, as if they had dissolved into nothing. The disturbed man from the vanguard slowly begins to talk again, and he haltingly reports that he had retreated briefly after noticing his powder had been lost. He did find it, hanging on a branch, and when he hurried after the others he could find nothing but blood. The blood still steamed with warmth, then without a doubt he dropped everything and fled. But they did not find any of his things, which is strange, adds Aguirre with a twist. The Spaniards decide to infiltrate the jungle again with a stronger force, since disregarding the four men who could hardly be saved, provisions have become so scarce that they had to find some settlement or village. Once more Aguirre leads the trek, this time joined by Fuenterrabia and Juan de Arnalte. The troops penetrate the silent woodland. A long look, roaming over the raft. There the men stand waiting with their arquebuses ready. Mosquitoes are making their wait torturous. The sedans stand motionlessly, with no movement behind their curtains. Carvajal, armed with a sword, takes shelter behind one of the bundles. His tonsure is already woolly and overgrown. Muddy humus has gathered between two trunks on the edge of the raft. Upon looking closer, we notice that grass is beginning to grow there.

On the raft, nightfall The crew of the raft continues to wait in constant readiness. Someone breaks the silence by saying he has heard something. The others listen, but they can’t make anything out. Then there is



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a faint crackle and rustle from afar, indeed, coming closer rapidly. Then voices of Spaniards as well, and all of a sudden, Aguirre’s troops are out in the open. They are carrying a man with them. When they draw nearer, it turns out to be Juan de Arnalte, who seems to be wounded in his chest. “Nothing,” says Fuenterrabia, “nothing to be found.” He reports that suddenly, without the men noticing anything of the enemy whatsoever, Arnalte was wounded by an arrow. On board, Arnalte is carefully bedded on a mat. He asks for something to drink, and Flores quickly brings him a mug of water.

On the river, stormy day The crew of the raft seems demoralized, and once more the gaps have widened. Guzman is laboring away in the outhouse with a tormented look on his face, no one saying a word. In the front of the raft, a few of the men are sleepily keeping vigil. Inez and Flores are with the wounded Arnalte, who is lying there very weak. Inez carefully raises one of his arms and washes it with a clean cloth. Then she washes his face and Flores dries it. She does this with a great deal of loving care. Suddenly, shouting and commotion at the front of the raft; the men have caught sight of something. View from the front, along the river. Beyond a bend, on a sandbank, a raft is distinctly visible, and on it are Spaniards sitting in their armor. On board there is wild jubilation, for this is undoubtedly Orellana, who was considered lost. They joyfully salute them with cannonballs fired skyward, but the Spaniards on board the other raft do not stir and very soon the jubilation ends. Upon coming closer we realize there are only dead people on board. Paralyzing fright creeps over the crew. The two rafts are attached to each other, and now we can clearly see that armored skeletons are sitting there without heads. Each of the helmets is stuck on a pole above the breastplates. And now we realize the horrible fact that each of the dead is holding his own head, shrunk to the size of an apple, in his skeletal outstretched hand. On the shriveled heads you can clearly distinguish facial traits, only the hair is much too long. The thick lips of the faces are sewn shut.

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On the river, rain The raft drifts along, as in a dream. Heavy warm rain is falling steadily down and the river is steaming. Nothing but a deep monotonous rushing sound. The river water is whitish-­brown.

On the river, evening Darkness has fallen and from the jungle there is hardly a sound. In the still-­pale sky, huge bats are flying in an incomprehensible zigzag. Terror has spread through the raft and everyone is listening. Two small fireplaces continue to glimmer. The Spaniards are nibbling roots and soft-­boiled bark, and eight men are sharing a fish that is a good nine inches long. Inez hands a drink to Arnalte, who is lying apathetically. He takes very careful minute sips. In the middle of the vessel, under the half-­destroyed bast roof, Guzman sits dining. His former cupbearer was one of the men who disappeared in the jungle, and so he has appointed another Spaniard who apparently does not suit him. Somewhat clumsily, the cupbearer serves him a large plate filled with cooked corn, and the men nearby are sniffing unobtrusively. Discreet glances are exchanged, and some can manage to suppress their rage only with difficulty. “Don’t you have a plate for my piece of bark?” one of them says, but Guzman keeps eating good-­humoredly, ignoring the inimical undertones. “El Dorado,” shrieks Perucho’s parrot. Unnoticed by the oarsmen, the raft has come quite close to the edge of the jungle. All of a sudden, lianas are dangling on board. Simultaneously something shapeless and heavy splashes into the river with the sinister sound of a crocodile. Everyone on the raft is seized by fright, and all around is profound alluring blackness.

On the river, early morning Some of the Spaniards are still sound asleep, Juan de Arnalte is lying in fever. On the sides of the raft, armed men are watching. “Hey, wake up,” one of them says, slowly standing up in the



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middle of the raft, “I think our Emperor is dead.” Slowly a few more arise in disbelief, and Aguirre joins them. “What?” he asks with astonishment. We see Guzman closely now. He lies beneath a blanket, and his eyes are widely dilated and his face is bloated. Around his neck his napkin has been tied and pulled tightly, blue streaks now observable there. “He is quite cold already,” the Dominican says. The men are all embarrassed, and each of them purposely avoids the question of who has done it. How should one bury him, that was the only question that mattered; whether by land or by water, and how should he be honored. He had been rather ill anyway, everyone could see that. The murder is accepted as a natural death, yet all are confused because no one knows who has done it. No one serves as informer, and the unconcerned try hard not to appear concerned, but this makes them even more conspicuous.

Sandy shore, jungle beyond A nice tomb has been erected on shore, a well-­polished wooden cross and an inscription. Smooth stones from the river are arranged around the mound. Some orchids bedeck it and a piece of candle is burning in a bowl. A few men in the background are digging in the sand for snails and crayfish, laboring weakly, and one has dug up turtle eggs from the sand, which are attacked ravenously by the men. They eat them raw, as they are. Perucho is trying to fish from the raft with a rod, and several Spaniards are busy plaiting oyster-­baskets with thin flexible tendrils.

Jungle, rain forest, twilight The crew is working its way through labyrinths of lianas, searching for herbs and roots. With the tips of their swords they carefully dig up maniok roots and yucca plants from the soft moist soil. Parrots are shrieking and a laughing mockingbird bleats. A Spaniard proudly carries a killed snake and shows it to the others.

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On the river, noontide Spaniards are cooking their leather belts in a kettle, adding green herbs. With a spoon, Carvajal dispenses the last of the flour, which he had actually meant to reserve for the hosts. “We should have salt,” someone complains. The kettle, closer. During the stirring, the single boot of the lost man soon rises to the surface. It is already soaked through and soft. The mood seems to be far better than the day before, some courage has seemingly returned to the men. Aguirre stands with Fuenterrabia and Bermudez at the front of the raft, gazing steadily outward. Can those be houses, those white things over there, asks Bermudez. Aguirre thinks he has been deceived, that it was merely the sand on a sandbank. And up ahead, Bermudez timidly reflects, can that be a canoe with two people in it. Where, there’s nothing to see, says Fuenterrabia. But there, indeed, on the very edge of the jungle is a boat. The camera studies the woodland fringe and, as a matter of fact, half hidden by tree limbs, a dugout canoe is afloat. Aguirre directs the two oarsmen to steer toward it quickly. Coming closer, we can recognize two Indians, a man and a woman, in a twenty-­ foot-­long dugout canoe. Having noticed the raft, they advance toward the Spaniards with oars dipping slowly, half surprised and half afraid, while the Spaniards are working wildly so the canoe can’t get away. Now we see that both Indians are dressed only in a loincloth. The man is athletic and sinewy. The utmost excitement reigns on the raft. Once the canoe, timidly moved forward by the two Indians, is close enough, it is boarded by the Spaniards with a crude jolt. The two Indians are dragged aboard and Fuenterrabia tries to make a go at the woman at once. Aguirre stops him. Spaniards have jumped into the boat and triumphantly pull out several fish of three feet or more, which the Indians apparently have caught with bows and remarkably long arrows. Before the Spaniards direct any questions to the Indian, who seems to be rather small and of middle age, he begins talking slowly and with dignity, while held fast by several men. Baltasar answers him in a peculiar Indian dialect, and for a while the



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Indians talk with each other as if they were alone on board. He should translate at least, curses Perucho. Baltasar and the strange Indian near him. Baltasar says, the man already knew from his forefathers that one day Sons of the Sun would come floating down the river, and they surely had come from afar with enormous hardships. He wanted to offer them whatever food he had and would prepare them a hammock, so at last they would get some rest. Yes, for a long time they had waited for the Sons of the Sun, since here, on this river, God had not finished his creation. Aguirre wants to know what he was wearing around his neck on the string, and when he does not get an answer forthwith, Fuenterrabia rips the amulet off the Indian’s neck. “Gold,” he says, breathlessly. “Gold, gold,” say the Spaniards. Wondrous and bewildered, the Indian is confronted by the Spaniards’ greed. Where the country of El Dorado is, that is what the Spaniards want to know. But the Indian cannot give them any information as to where he got the gold from. From further downriver, the man indicates. This is too vague for the Spaniards, but the Indian is in no position to estimate the distance in leagues. Two days, he thinks, but fails to answer whether this is on foot or by boat. He says that he already knew about the raft, for the Indians further upriver had spread the news in advance that strangers were coming with thunder-­cloud noise that they produced from tubes. Carvajal, waiting impatiently all this time for his turn, asks the Indian if he had heard of our Savior Jesus Christ and of the True Word of God. The Indian is very confused and gives no answer. This, here, is a Bible with the Word of God, and they had come to carry God’s Light into the darkness. While saying this he shows him a Bible. The Indian is dumbstruck and does not comprehend a thing. Yes, within this book is the Word of God, Carvajal insists. Deeply disturbed, the Indian picks up the Bible and puts his ear to it, listening. “It does not speak,” he says and casts the Bible to the floor. Highly incensed, some Spaniards seize him at once and kill him on the spot. The Indian woman is injured defending herself and falls overboard. She drowns instantly. “Perhaps that was a mistake,” says Aguirre.

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On the river, rain The current is pushing the raft on, giving it no other choice. Thundershowers pour down heavily and accelerate the decaying of the clothes. Already the Spaniards’ harnesses have a thick layer of rust. A bundle of canvas is almost covered with mold. The Indians’ pirogue has been tied to the rear of the raft, floating along with it. Again, distinctly visible through the rushing of the rain, the woodland slips into silence. The Spaniards start to stir, but they obviously lack their former energy; many of them seem rather weak. Aguirre gives the order to shoot at regular intervals. The one cowardly man once more draws a blanket over his head, and the wounded Arnalte is covered with canvas as well. It looks as if he is slowly going downhill, he hardly responds anymore. The man beneath the blanket is teased by his comrades, but apparently this does not bother him. He maintains his cowering posture beneath the blanket. Under Aguirre’s supervision, Bermudez has poured the last of the corn from an almost-­empty bag into a bowl, and under the hungry eyes of all, the corn is dispensed kernel by kernel, counted out carefully. Some stray gunshots still rumble across the water. The arquebuses also get their ration. It is quite a laconic scene. No one says a word, just one of them counting the kernels. A man stands entranced beneath the cover of a bale, mutely recounting his kernels. Bermudez calls out for Manrique, but the man underneath the blanket does not answer. An arquebus shooter nudges him with his foot, but still he does not stir. Then Perucho comes over to make sure. He lifts up the blanket a bit, and beneath it sits the man named Manrique with his head bent back, looking upward with a glassy ecstatic gaze. He is totally stiff and dead. Some of the men refuse to believe it, but they find a small dart with a tiny cotton puff sticking in his neck. He could have been hit only in the instant when he threw the blanket over himself, says Perucho. He had the impression that something had come flying in like a shadow, but he had not seen where it came from, nor did he have an impression from having seen it directly at all.



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The terror on the raft increases, and the Spaniards make a lot of noise so that they won’t have to listen to the stillness. They are shooting about wildly, even making a racket with the pots and pans. We look at the raft from a distance. The powder clouds mingle with the steam from the warm rain, and from the raft comes an infernal noise. The dusky jungle stands quite taciturn in the pouring rain. On the raft Perucho’s parrot starts to scream.

Indian settlement by the river Seen from the raft. All the men have crowded together at the front end of the raft, staring with fascination at an Indian settlement up ahead. The houses, about a hundred of them, stand close together on top of thin poles several yards above the ground, and for the first time we see a free spot on shore, and a clearing. The buildings are airy and their side walls consist of fluttering bast mats, the roofs are covered with palm fronds. Several canoes have been drawn ashore and fish nets are lying about to dry. Over the village huge clouds of smoke are rising up into the sky, and at the edge of the clearing some storehouses are burning completely ablaze. No man anywhere in sight, no sound, only the ghostly crackling of the fire. Up on the patio of the nearest house, hammocks in the wind lashed to the posts of the house are rocking gently in the wind. The Spaniards do not fire any shots, they merely let themselves drift ever so cautiously near the pillared settlement, allowing the raft to run aground on the sand quite delicately, without tying it up at all. Aguirre signals his men to wait. For a long time the Spaniards wait in front of the abandoned village. They are apparently afraid of a trap. Now we recognize the open square, which has been kept free by the houses in the center of the settlement. From there, a path leads upward into the jungleland. Some fish nearby are hanging on a line to dry. After a long silent wait, Aguirre whispers an order to Fuenterrabia to guard the raft with five men. At the head of his gang of wild and starved men, he then storms straight into the settlement. While running, the Spaniards fire shots from their arquebuses,

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wave their swords and storm forward, shouting. They search the first houses in no time and then stand back from the burning storehouses. A Spaniard cries out from a house that he has found a pot filled with food that was still quite warm. The others storm this house yelling. We see a Spaniard try to catch a wild turkey in an enclosed square. At last, overwhelmed with greed, he flings himself on top of the bird. Two men rush toward the jungle path where the dried fish are hanging but, all of a sudden, the jungle is raining arrows. One of the pair is wounded instantly above the eye, and only with some difficulty can the others withdraw. “There they are, in the jungle,” one of them screams, and Aguirre rushes ahead with about ten men. All fire madly into the woodland, but the Indians are invisible, only shooting whole clouds of arrows. The Spaniards slowly withdraw, the provisions being their lone concern. Now we behold a Spaniard kneeling by a track in the sand in the open square greedily licking the ground. Others come along. “Salt!” they scream, filled with ecstasy. Tears stream down the face of a Spaniard who now licks the ground. Suddenly, a strange scene. Like a vision, Inez in her most beautiful long royal gown of purple velvet steps upright across the square past the burning storehouses. Her face is waxen and her hair is flowing down to her shoulders. The men licking the ground glance up, rigid with surprise. Unable to trust their eyes, they do not move. Inez walks directly toward the jungle fringe like a queen, and a moment later she disappears into the dark glade. “Captain, sir!” someone calls now to Aguirre, but no one dares to go near the jungle. The path lies silent and dusky, swallowed up by the jungle after just a few feet. For a long time our gaze remains fixed to the path.

Indian settlement, toward evening Almost all the Spaniards are gathered on the raft where they have accumulated their modest catch. They have placed a turkey in one of the empty chicken coops. Whispering, the men are talking about Inez. Bermudez tells Aguirre in a low voice that those five men left on board would not broach the matter but, rather, would



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keep their mouths shut. Inez had left the moment that Flores had gone with the monk to find fresh water for the sick Arnalte, but, in his opinion, she was raped by the men. Anything was possible with Fuenterrabia and his gang. We shall see whether she can be found again, says Aguirre, but avoids clearing up the matter fully. Flores is sitting with the wounded Arnalte, apparently deeply shocked. She hardly moves at all, and by her face she seems to be thirty. Seven heavily armed men are coming from a gap in the jungle across the open square, toward the raft. Two of the men carry the line with the dried fish in between them. They were not able to detect anything, Perucho reports, as they had cautiously penetrated into the jungle for about half a league but had not uncovered any natives. Then the path had branched out into two smaller paths, and first they had followed the one, then the other. But they had returned without delay, having been afraid of traps. One of the men, he would not say who, had been seized with mortal terror because of the profound stillness in the forest. They had not found any trace of Inez de Atienza, not even a footprint. “Men,” says Aguirre, “our number must not be reduced any further.” The men around him are depressed because of the deserted place. Remnants of the storehouses are still glowing in the background. The Spaniards have kindled some fires on the sand in front of the raft and are busy preparing a big meal. They all sit expectantly for the food to be distributed, and on the open square facing the jungle, twin sentries are keeping vigil. Judging from the way the Spaniards have arranged things, they must feel relatively secure. A man is sitting in the sand somewhat removed from the others, talking softly and urgently to another man. The two, a little closer. The soldier sitting with his back to the crowd of Spaniards tries to persuade the other that it would be better to leave the squadron in order to return to Peru by land somehow with a fair amount of provisions. He had had enough by now, this under­ taking would only mean the certain perdition of them all. Sitting with his crew, Aguirre starts listening and subtly directs his attention toward the discontented man. The latter has

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talked himself into a passion and raises his voice carelessly. It would still be preferable to put him on trial in Peru for having disobeyed orders, but it should be possible to keep marching alongside the river, that is to say, during the night, since during the day they would have to hide. Aguirre very cautiously nudges Fuenterrabia, who starts listening as well. “The man is a head taller than I am,” he says in a low voice, “but that may change.” Fuenterrabia has understood. He casually rises, taking his sword with him as if only incidentally. Apparently having nothing in mind, he walks near the soldier sitting with his back to him and who is just explaining to his comrade, by means of a rough sketch, how many days march they would need from here. “Five, six, seven,” he counts. Fuenterrabia has stopped behind him and is raising his sword. The man to whom this plan is being explained doesn’t dare say anything in his terror. He just sits there rolling his eyeballs around, twisting his face into a horrible grimace, trying to tell his partner to turn around. But the discontented man has talked himself into such a passion that he continues counting, oblivious to the rolling of the eyes. “Eight, nine,” he says. At this moment, Fuenterrabia cuts off his head from behind with an awful blow. “Ten,” the head still says, already in flight. With the entire camp paralyzed by surprise, Aguirre rises. “I am the Great Betrayer,” he says. “There must be no one greater.” A long silence ensues, no one dares to move. “Men,” says he, “I, Aguirre, am the Wrath of God.” Then he commands Bermudez, the scrivener, to come forth. In front of everyone he now dictates a document. Whoever removes himself even mentally from this doomed troop shall be cut up into ninety pieces, which shall be trampled upon to such an extent that the walls might be painted with them. Whoever eats one kernel of corn more than his share shall be imprisoned for one hundred and fifty-­five years. He who would let himself drift downstream to act out the role of his own fate, however, shall be assured of riches unlike anyone has ever seen at any time before. If he, Aguirre, willed the birds to drop dead from the trees, the birds shall drop dead from the trees. Upon reaching El Dorado, he and his daughter shall establish a



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new Very Pure Dynasty. This was the Course of History, and already it had been chosen for this country, irrevocably. Aguirre asks for the finished document and signs it: Aguirre, the Wrath of God. The men are duly impressed and shout with joy. Even Carvajal displays great enthusiasm. Fuenterrabia and Perucho fire their arquebuses into the sky and rejoice. The buildings are standing atop their stilts and some hammocks are gently rocking in the wind. The joyful shouts are echoed by the dead-­silent woodland. Flores is sitting on the raft next to Arnalte, whose health has deteriorated visibly, and wondering, first she looks at Arnalte then at Chimalpahin, the Inca. The latter is staring serenely and restfully at some clouds puffing up on the twilit horizon.

On the river, lower course of the Amazon The river has widened immensely now, sometimes measuring about six miles, then again it is divided into a great number of intertwined branches. Islands overgrown with jungle appear more and more frequently. Entire formations of trees with their soil and roots pointing skyward are floating like islands toward the sea. There the raft is drifting. At first glance we notice that the situation on the raft has degenerated considerably. The gaps are wide and there are only about twenty men left. Some of them are lying wracked with fever, and Juan de Arnalte can hardly breathe. The whole raft is rotting, and no one tries to save it anymore. The tuft of grass between the two logs has grown markedly. Ahead of the raft, the river splits into several branches, and the two oarsmen are unable to decide which to take. At last, taking Aguirre’s advice, they decide to take the widest one, on the extreme left. The raft drifts slowly on and, beyond a bend, the branch of the river winds up in the jungle. Slowly the raft drifts toward the end of the blind alley. We realize now that this branch of the river continues on through the jungle, that all of the trees are standing in the water. Very depressed, the Spaniards on board let themselves float close to the trees without doing anything.

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Aguirre assigns Perucho the task of taking the canoe, which is still bound to the raft, out among the trees to see how far they would have to go to come to the open river again. If necessary, they would cut down the trees en route to get through, for it was almost impossible to get the raft into another branch of the river against the current. Perucho sets out with three men, we are with him. Slowly the canoe penetrates into the dusk of the jungle. The oars dip quietly, and the long slender canoe proceeds slowly among the huge tree trunks. Lianas are dangling down touching the boat. Far away a jaguar roars. Leaves the size of a wagon wheel are floating on the water with turned-­up edges, huge water lilies among them. Brooding dusk in the woodland. All around, the staring of flowers, the ardor of orchids. The men in the canoe are very quiet. Monkeys begin to chatter above them, single leaves are fluttering down and start to float. The men are crouching in terror and only row lightly. The water stretches out through the jungle endlessly.

Return journey on the blind river branch We now spot the raft on the jungle fringe, and all of the men on board are trying desperately to pull the raft backward against the current while holding on to the overhanging limbs. Grabbing the limbs with their hands, they lean back with all their might and thus move the vessel almost imperceptibly upstream. To the rear of the raft, four men are working with long poles with which they poke the ground. Aguirre is among them, working indefatigably, unflinchingly. He pays no attention to the mosquitoes that are torturing him. He pokes his pole vertically into the ground and leans against it until it slowly becomes diagonal and sinks into the muddy water almost up to his hands. Then he pulls it out again. Even Flores and Baltasar with his chained hands try to pull themselves forward with the branches, and the monk, who looks ever more savage, is working with them as well. His hair has grown bushy and has gotten all matted like boiled sheep’s wool. We now observe the raft somewhat further along, at a place



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where the jungle recedes several feet and leaves a small, sandy space on the bank. Except for the four men still punting to the rear, everyone else has gotten off to drag the raft along with ropes. They have placed the ropes over their shoulders and are leaning forward, almost horizontally, their feet planted into the sandy ground. With awesome effort they gain ground, step by step. All of them utterly exhausted, they just stagger along. This unspeakable labor has prevented them from noticing that no sound has come from the jungle in quite some time. All at once there is a strange rustle, and the first man bolts upright with considerable strain, an incredibly long arrow in his chest. The man, closer. He drops the rope and calmly grabs the arrow with both hands, the tip of which is sticking out of his back. The arrow is sticking up about six feet in front, pointing diagonally into the air. The man calmly measures the arrow with his eyes. “The long arrows have come into fashion,” he says. Then he collapses and dies. In a panic, all of the Spaniards drop their ropes and jump on board. Instantly the raft begins to drift indolently once again. The men fire about wildly, completely mad. The arquebusmen are working like crazy, shooting volleys into the jungle, which is moving past slowly like before. Amid the thunder of guns, the raft is drifting back the same way in bluish smoke. At last Aguirre succeeds in bringing the raft to a halt with a hook, attaching it to a strong branch.

Amazon delta, about one hundred miles upland The river has branched out more and more, and we behold a vast region of parting and rejoining tributaries. In the midst of a damp stifling steam, the raft floats along between two islands. Rain falls at a distance, the walls of water streaming down from the sky as gray as glass. Most of the men on board the raft are lying down, scarcely one of them having strength enough to look ahead, due to exhaustion, sickness, and hunger. Resignation has spread on deck. Juan de Arnalte is dying, and Flores kneels with the monk alongside him

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to pray. Aguirre has gotten a rash on his neck, but he is the only one who seems unresigned. He walks up and down the raft, accomplishing most of the work himself. A Spaniard suddenly arises. “Don’t you hear drumming?” he says. There is a slight commotion among the others. All of them strain to hear something, yet no one can hear a thing. “Yes,” says another one, suddenly. “Don’t you hear?” Ta-­room toom-­toom. He indicates the rhythm with his finger. “You are mad,” says Fuenterrabia. “Come on,” Perucho’s parrot says.

On a sandbank, the jungle beyond The raft has been tied, and Perucho fires a single shot into the stillness of the jungle before him. “We are being watched. When it gets quiet, someone will have to die.” But, nevertheless, the few Spaniards who have survived are so starved and sick that they go ashore. Some of them lean on sticks out of sheer exhaustion and start searching the sand for something edible. A few of them penetrate into the jungle, and one is so exhausted that he creeps on all fours into the woodland. To the rear of the raft, Carvajal and Chimalpahin sink a crudely made fishnet into the water. They are both pensive and mum. Flores is sitting near them, dreamlost, singing to herself in a very low voice. She sings a song: Fish are filling up the nets, Pike and perch. Our Noble Host has wine and such So good and more than much. Fish are filling up the nets, Bass and butt. Our Noble Host has wine and such So good and more than much. Fish are filling up the nets, Carp and trout.



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Our Noble Host has casks of beer So very good and stout. How these things are bountiful fare, How they are beyond compare! How these things are made to please, How they make for mutual ease! How these things are here in masses, Just for a while and then it passes!

Sandbank, toward evening Some luggage from the raft has been brought ashore, and a small smoky fire has been lighted. The Spaniards slowly emerge from the jungle one by one, most of them carrying some yucca plants or other herbs. One of them has even shot a big bird of paradise. Apathetically they crouch around the fire and, while eating part of the meal raw, begin to prepare the food. After a long silent spell, one of them asks of the stillness, “Where is Pedro?” “Yes,” says another, “Empudia is missing.” Aguirre orders three men to look for Empudia, Fuenterrabia among them. At these trees, he points out, is where Empudia crept into the jungle quite some time ago. The three men penetrate into the forest, making their way forward, bending the branches apart. They come across an enormous moldering tree that lies there defeated by creepers. And there, on the ground, a horrifying image. The man named Empudia is on all fours on the ground, stiff and dead, his mouth still filled with palmshoots, upon which he had been grazing like an animal. Empudia has a tiny blowgun dart in his neck, and seems to be completely rigid. “Come, quickly!” shouts Fuenterrabia filled with horror, now firing his arquebus into the foliage. Twigs are crackling, there is a rustling sound, and the Spaniards burst through the branches. All of them become paralyzed with fright. “Baltasar,” we suddenly hear Flores cry from the sandbank.

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The Spaniards come creeping out of the jungle and run to the sandbank. There lies the raft, and in the middle of the river Chimalpahin is slowly rowing away with the canoe. He does not turn around, since he knows he is already beyond the reach of their guns. He works the paddle with his two hands tied and, utterly calm, he disappears behind a densely overgrown island. “Now he dies alone,” says Aguirre. Far away, evening is drawing near, and walls of rain are towering over the river. Then Perucho notices that a bundle of luggage is floating on the water, that the water level has risen. This is a flood, this was because of the rain, he says. Yes, the water had been up to here a couple of hours ago, now it has almost reached the fireplace. “Men,” says Aguirre, “I feel the ocean.”

Amazon delta, about sixty miles upland The same picture as often seen before. Only twelve men are still alive on board. Two corpses are lying wrapped in blankets. Apparently one of the dead is Juan de Arnalte, but no one has any strength or energy left to bury the dead, or to throw them overboard. Almost everyone is sick and totally degenerate, a piteous sight. Carvajal talks to the men and tells them to show repentance, for their sins had led them deep-­down to the sea. The tide was growing steadily stronger, and they would drift three leagues forward and then two back again. That was a clear sign from Heaven. “Quiet, monk!” Aguirre thunders at him. They had not found El Dorado, it was just a delusion perhaps, but now it was time to make new plans. A sudden outcry from the front of the raft. “A brigantine, certainly, there is a Spanish ship.” It passes through the raft like a shock. Now we are looking across the river at the jungle where, indeed, a brigantine is sitting in the treetops, about one hundred yards upland. Upon coming closer we see that the sails are tattered and creepers are growing round the main mast; it is like a ghostly vision. The men on board think they are dreaming. That wasn’t a Spanish boat, how could it be, it is utterly impossible, argues Perucho. The others are dumbstruck. Those with a fever sink



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into their dreams. Someone should investigate this, says Aguirre, while the raft is stationary. Judging by the marks on the trees, it did look as though the tide sometimes rose about twelve fathoms until it went over the tops of the trees, and if the water sank afterward once more, it could happen that a ship would get caught. He will convince himself of this. Aguirre sets out with Perucho and Carvajal, but Perucho follows behind hesitantly. The three of them work their way through the jungle and soon reach the brigantine, the keel does not even reach to the boggy floor of the jungle. The men try climbing a giant tree overgrown with creepers, but already Carvajal is too weak and lags behind. Perucho and Aguirre reach the deck of the boat, which is densely grown over with creepers, soil, and foliage. Perucho touches the wood he is standing on ever so timidly, and hardly dares to step on it. Moldy sails are flapping lazily in the wind and moldy ropes are dangling from the decks. It is a ghostly scene. This cannot be, this is not a Spanish ship, says Perucho. Aguirre tries to find something on board, but the boat is completely empty. Long view from the boat, circling the jungle. As far as the eye can see, clusters of tree after tree, treetops like an unknown sea. Some solitary mud-­flowing branches of the lazy river among them, an unimaginable sight.

On the raft Aguirre has returned with his two men and, at first glance, the men rise up against him belligerently. This is enough by now, says Fuenterrabia, all of them have now had enough, they will not go on. Aguirre quickly takes off himself and makes his way toward the raft, utterly resolved, while Fuenterrabia tries to stop him. But he himself is not so sure of the men behind him, either. Aguirre warns his men not to let themselves be deceived by hallucinations, thereby getting so confused; he had convinced himself with his own eyes and hands that the boat really existed. Indeed, they had not reached El Dorado, and the sea was very close, but now the time had come to make even bolder plans. They would—­and he

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was hereby calling on everyone to follow him—­build a brigantine upon reaching the sea, and then they would sail northward, up to the Isle of Trinidad, to wrench the Spanish colony there away from the local governor. From there—­and never again would the world witness a greater treachery—­they would take all of the land from the undeserving Pizarro and Cortez, for now they wanted to have power over the whole of New Spain and New Andalusia. A great New and Pure Dynasty would emerge mighty in the world. “The Wrath of God has spoken!” cries Aguirre. “Who is for me?” Four men stand beside Aguirre only hesitantly, Perucho among them. Aguirre realizes that he will not have the majority on his side any more. “Flores, come here!” he cries. “Thou shalt not witness this disgrace.” Flores advances toward her father and he stabs her on the spot. Sighing, Flores sinks to the ground. “Monk,” says Aguirre, “do not forget to pray, lest God’s end be uncomely.” The two parties immediately begin to fight, a swift and savage melee during which the raft frees itself from the bank. Some of the feverish men can no longer partake in the fighting. The raft drifts away as we realize that several people on board have been wounded, and Aguirre’s head is bleeding. Then the fight is suddenly over. We cannot tell why.

Amazon delta For a long time we watch the raft drift distantly on the river, without any pilot whatsoever. It first moves backward for awhile, then it comes to a standstill and starts floating forward. It is very quiet, and the water is hardly flowing any more.

Mouth of the Amazon, open sea We see a broad tributary flow into the open sea, and hundreds of small and smaller islands are lying before it. Heavy clouds, towering up into the sky. The raft is slowly drifting between two islands overgrown with jungle, and further away we see the waves of the sea. The raft is pilotless, and from a distance we recognize several corpses piled up on the tree trunks. The two sedans are silhou-



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etted against the horizon, and only a small part of the bast roof is still intact. Across the vast surface of the water a cry is echoing. “El Dorado,” Perucho’s parrot screams. Long, long view. Then, when the raft has reached the open sea, and drifts out among the long-­drawn waves, the camera turns to the land with an ineffable view over the islands. Above the jungle, pillars of smoke are rising everywhere. Bonfires are lighted in the jungle. From the profound silence, drums begin to sound from afar, accompanied by intoxicated flutes. Rain clouds are towering high. There it lies, the Sad Country.

Every Man for Himself and God Against All

For Lotte Eisner (“The oarsman sat quietly and praised the journey.”)

CHARACTERS

Kaspar

Fuhrmann, parson

The Unknown Man

Katy, Daumer’s housekeeper

Weickmann, shoemaker

Lord Stanhope

Cavalry Captain

Hombrecito, Indian

Hiltel, prison guard

The Little King

Mrs. Hiltel

Mozart

Julius, Hiltel’s son

and others

Daumer

Small, half-­obscured room, Kaspar’s prison There is a deep gloom. From out of the darkness of the picture dawn arises, and in the first dawning we see Kaspar. He snorts and makes animal noises. Over the persistent and unfriendly dawn the titles appear. Somewhat more light. The room is dusky, hardly bigger than Kaspar when he lies stretched out. Cool, side walls rather irregular, as in a cellar, flattened straw on the floor. At about shoulder’s height, if one stood up in the tiny room, there are two small 

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rectangular windows side by side, each only as big as a book, and scarcely any light penetrates the interior from outside. It is only from a few exceedingly thin crannies that we see how the windows are sealed from outside with stacked wooden logs. To Kaspar’s left, two little wooden horses whose feet are rooted in a small plank beneath little wheels. Besides the horses an additional toy, a small somewhat crudely carved dog, also on wheels. All of the animals are painted white. Some colored ribbons are tied around the animals in disorderly fashion, they are loose because Kaspar doesn’t know what a knot is. Further on is an empty jug of water, and in a small spot where the straw has been carefully cleared away there are two slices of bread, still untouched. To Kaspar’s right, just a hand’s breadth away from his hip, is a wooden lid that closes at floor level, an earthenware pot is underneath it. To Kaspar’s rear we can discern the outline of a low door, but Kaspar shows interest only for his jug and his animals. Kaspar is sitting in the room in a strange position of complete equanimity, his feet outstretched away from his body and his legs flat on the ground, even the backs of his knees are completely flattened out. From the knees downward his legs are covered with a coarse woolen blanket, but through the blanket the outline of his naked toes is visible. Kaspar sits on the floor in a peculiar half-­crouched posture, twisted up somewhat, and when he turns a bit to the side we notice that he is tied to the ground by the waistband of his leather pants. Kaspar is dressed otherwise only in a loose shirt and suspenders. From the manner of his movements we perceive that he doesn’t even have the will to sit erect, that the state of being tied to the ground doesn’t bother him in the least, and that he apparently accepts this as part of his anatomy. Kaspar radiates an animal’s neglect. Kaspar nestles amid the ribbons of his toy horses, yet he doesn’t move them away from their places. Then he lifts the jug, putting it to his mouth, but there is no more water in it. For a long, long time Kaspar holds the jug up high by his mouth, as if after a while the water would start to come by itself. Now, once the titles are over, Kaspar’s voice begins to emerge, it is intense but hesitant, piercing us through and through.



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KASPAR’S VOICE: I want to say myself how hard it be for me.

There, where I was always lokked in, in this prison, it seemed there wel to me, becos I knew naught of this world, and so long as I was lokked in and never seen no human being. I had two wood orses and a dog, and with these I always played, but I cannot say if I played all the day or the week, I knew not when was a day or a week, and I wanto describe, how it looked like in the prison, there was straw in it. And my trousers were open behind, there I taken off the lid, and there I relieved nature. And besides, there was nothing there, nor a stove, neither. The toy orses I moved not from their place, becos I knew not that you can move them, and the ribbons fell off becos I knew no knot. I knew naught that there was other humans, never have I perceived one of those, never a thunderstorm, neither. Since my mouth become dry, I very often take the little jug in my hand and place it to my mouth very very long, but water never came out, I waited some time, whether water came out soon, becos I knew not that it must be filled, whilst I was asleep. A long, long time was I lokked in there, I knew no other. I knew naught from the world, becos never I had seen a man, never a house, a tree, or hears a sound, of speech I knew naught at all. Also, it never came into my mind that I should get up, since I was tied to the ground. That there come new bread and that what I made was cleaned away, surprised me not, becos I thought it come by itself. I always been jolly and con-­tented, becos naught never hurt me not; and thus I did all the time of my life, until the man come, and teached me how to copy, but I knew not what I did writ. Behind Kaspar the door opens and the Unknown Man comes in, Kaspar is unfrightened, unsurprised, and in complete equanimity, letting everything happen to him. The man has a stool with him, which he sets down across Kaspar’s legs. He places a sheet of paper upon it, puts a pencil into Kaspar’s hand, and,

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approaching him from the back, closes his fist around Kaspar’s hand and guides it. KASPAR’S VOICE: When now the man come for the first time to

me; but I heard not how he come, at once, he has placed a little chair in front of me, and ther he brings a paper and a piece of pencil. All at once the man grips me by the hand and puts the pencil in my hand. The Unknown Man doesn’t utter a word. After a while he lets Kaspar scribble on his own, but Kaspar draws only meaningless zigzag lines. The Unknown Man defines the letters with Kaspar’s fingers and, slowly, Kaspar begins to imitate the characters. We see quite clearly and somewhat closer now that he is writing a name: Kaspar Hauser. The Unknown Man commences teaching Kaspar words, saying “Horse” several times, enunciating very intensely. Kaspar pauses, listening for a long time. The Unknown Man grabs the little horse, and guides Kaspar’s left hand to the horse. He rolls the little horse back and forth. “Horse,” says Kaspar, touching the horse. The Unknown Man makes him repeat this several times, again guiding his right hand to write. “Remember this,” he says. “Remember this,” says Kaspar. “Remember this, repeat this, then you will get such a beautiful horse from Father as well,” says the Unknown Man. “From Father,” says Kaspar. The Unknown Man cautiously disengages himself from Kaspar and disappears into the background; Kaspar is by himself once more. It is getting somewhat darker. KASPAR’S VOICE: Then he has learnt me this, and guided my

hand, and the man was behind me, and then I made it myself and I made it alone, this writing, for a long time, like this, and remembered all that he said, and from that time I knowed how the orses are called. And the man was away again, and I know not where he were, but he left the chair and the paper, there I notice the man for the first time, I saw him not, becos he was behind me, and how this man placed



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the chair I left it, for I was not clever yet to remov the chair when I layed down, and when I wake up again, then I drank the water again, and ate the bread, then first I begun to write, and then, that I finished the writ I took the orses and arrayed them again, then I did with the orse likewise, as he had showed me, and roled so hard that my own ears were hurting . . . At first daylight. Kaspar rolls the horses back and forth, pressing down hard on the left-­hand side, rolling them over the wooden lid at last. There is a loud hollow noise. Kaspar utters loud gleeful cries, like an animal. Behind him the door opens, and a furious blow with a wooden log hits Kaspar on his elbow. Kaspar is astonished beyond measure, his breathing stops with the fright. The door slams hastily again, and the sound of steps two at a time hurriedly withdrawing. KASPAR’S VOICE: . . . then this man came and beat me with this

stick, and hath hurt me so much that I weeped quietly, so that my tears fell down, and hath hurt me on my right elbow, and I knew not where from this blow came forth, all at once, and I knew not what a blow is, neither. There I keeped very quiet, becos it give me a lot of pain, and so I arrayed my orses and put the ribbons down softly: that I know not mysell how softly I done it; and then, when I relieved my nature, I put the lid away very softly, and from my straw, on which I sat and layed, I never could go away, becos, first of all I knew not how to walk, and secondly I could not go away. It was as if something was keeping me there, and I never thought to mysell that I wanted to leave, or that I was lokked in. Dawn remains. We can see that Kaspar is sleeping deeply, keeping the stool at the same place over his knees. The Unknown Man enters by the door, unties Kaspar’s waistband from the floor and dresses him with jacket and boots. He begins to lift the still half-­sleeping Kaspar. Seen only from behind, he takes a handkerchief and binds Kaspar’s hands. Then he props him up on his legs,

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supporting him at the same time, and leans him against the next wall. Kaspar allows his hands to slip down from him, he has no idea that he is supposed to hold on. With his hip bent forward a bit, the Unknown Man presses Kaspar against the wall so that he doesn’t fall, and places Kaspar’s folded hands, which are bound tightly around the wrists, around his neck from behind. Then he takes Kaspar and carries him off, piggyback. KASPAR’S VOICE: Now came this man and lifted me up from my

sleepe and dressed me with a jacket and boots, and when he dressed me, he hath put me to the wall, and hath taken twoo hands and put them on the neck. When he borne me out of the prison he hath had to bow and hath borne me up over a little mountain . . .

Lonely hill, big treetops Dusk. The Unknown Man makes a great effort to climb the back of the hill with Kaspar, some distance away from us. Beautiful grass, a few broad and billowy old beech trees on the crest of the hill. Over the trees a formidable storm threatens from the skies far away, above a forest flaring up twice. KASPAR’S VOICE: . . . there I froze so much, becos I never had the

air, and such a frightful odor hath attacked me, that it hath hurt me very much. Then I started to crie, then the man hath sayed and indicated, I should stop, or I get no orses . . . Closer. On top of the hill, between the trunks of the beeches, the Unknown Man puts Kaspar down, that is, face down to the ground. The grass is fermenting from the rain. He unties the handkerchief that is twisting Kaspar’s wrists together too tightly. Exhausted, Kaspar sleeps. He awakens but doesn’t move because he has never been lying down before. The Unknown Man grabs him around his chest from behind and stands him on his legs. Using his legs, he pushes Kaspar’s legs forward and makes the first attempts at walking with him.



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KASPAR’S VOICE: . . . but I cannot say wither the mountain hath

lasted long, becos I went asleep. And when I wake up, there I was lying on the earth, and was lying on my face, and there it smelled frightfully, and everything pained me. When I awoke, I turned my head, there the man will have sawn me, and hath come and lifted me, and hath learned me how to walk, hath pushed away one foot after the other with his foot, becos at the beginning he hath guided me on tween arms and held me round my chest, becos I knew not what was a step and what was walking. Since walking was so hard on me and all hath hurt me so much, there I weeped and sayed, “Orse, orse,” with this I would say to bring me back to where I was lokked in . . . The Unknown Man puts the obviously exhausted Kaspar down, slowly it is starting to get dark, and a soft rain is falling. The Unknown Man keeps prompting Kaspar with the sentence, “I want to be such a one orse rider, as my father hath been.” Several times Kaspar repeats after him haltingly, “Su a rider.” The Unknown Man lifts Kaspar up again and, mercilessly, continues walking. KASPAR’S VOICE: . . . from above there was a soft weeping and I

sayed orse, with this I would say, stop, there I knew not that this was rain, and that the rain stops when it will. And there my feet hurt so much that I really cannot say how, and there he giv me some water and bread, and he keept behind me, so that I shall not see his face never, and when I ate that up, I surely made eight steps of my own, but the pains wouldn’t stop. Then it grew dark and then I fell asleep at once, becos I had made my farthest way alone. It is growing dark. Deep night falls.

Way to town, dreamlost images It is still dark when we hear Kaspar’s voice again. He speaks the first sentences into the utter darkness. Then it grows light, overly

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light. On an overly light green we recognize in a brief, but very distinct, flash, single stalks of grass. KASPAR’S VOICE: . . . Upon my awake, for the first time I noticed,

what was there, I seed things which before I never did know of. There was a Green and a Grass, and it hath hurt mine eyes, it was so bright . . . It becomes glaringly bright, as if one were looking into the sun, all is flooded with an overly light white. KASPAR’S VOICE: . . . then we went away, then mine feet hurt so

much. The way there I do not remember where we went. There was a path with tracks of wheels, there were needles from pine trees on my coat, blown there, there the forest was sick . . . A sandy path; we see in a flash the trail of a horsecart. Pine needles on a jacket sleeve. The pine trees standing scantily in the light, moving slightly, unreal. KASPAR’S VOICE: . . . there was a cornfield, there it was so light,

that hurt me, and crickets screamed, and I thought they were humans screaming there . . . A wheat field whose borders are not visible, as if they were electrically lit in glaring light. Overhead it seems to be like high electric voltage. A borderless, unreal, mechanical, senseless field of wheat. We hear the sharp chirping of the crickets screaming ever louder, screaming all at once like human beings, shrill to the ears. KASPAR’S VOICE: . . . there I sayed “be rider,” with this I wanted

to say the Screaming hurts, that I be tired of all this walk. Then there was a mountain, a farmer, a dog, and I knew of naught what they were . . . The screaming of the crickets continues, like a human choir. In very bright light we see, as if leafing through, a hill and a brook



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in a valley. The brook is narrow and completely grown over with grass. Willow stumps stand alongside the winding waterway. An old ash tree at a distance. The dog bites his raging pains into the bark of a tree. The farmer has a shotgun with him. The images flicker out into brightness. KASPAR’S VOICE: . . . there was a woman and a water, there was

a cattle by the water, and a boy was standing on it, that I was all afrightened, I seed he was barefoot . . . We see a woman stop short with her wash on a broad calm creek, she pauses, dreamlost and semi-­erect, looking directly at us, motionless. In the background, a bit downstream, an ox is drinking, standing there in equanimity. On his back he carries a boy of about five years who stands upright on bare feet; he is holding a stick, which he beats against the flanks of the ox very softly. He looks at us, the spectators, unflinchingly. Brightnesses flicker across the screen like a thunderstorm. The crying of the crickets stops.

The Tallow Square in the town of N., Kaspar’s birth Townhouses all around, huddled closely together, the square forms a lopsided rectangle. It is afternoon, a sunny day, music and noises in the distance as if from a fair. Kaspar, passing us, steps into the center of the square led on by the Unknown Man. We observe both of them from behind. In the middle of the square, the Unknown Man stops short. He looks hastily to all sides, speaks urgently to Kaspar, who gives the impression of total exhaustion, and then presses a letter into Kaspar’s hands. He adjusts the hand in such a way that Kaspar holds the letter out a little, as if he were about to hand it to someone. The Unknown Man takes a step to the side, and Kaspar stands alone, swaying, clumsily holding the letter before him, into the Void. Finally, the Unknown Man takes his felt hat with the broad rim and puts it into Kaspar’s other hand. Kaspar stands motionless, decorated like some sort of fowl. We realize that the Unknown Man has

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black hair. He leaves hastily at an angle to the side, his cape flapping all around him. KASPAR’S VOICE: . . . After that I must have rested twenty times,

untill we came into the Big Village. When we were in the town, how ever, he hath given me a letter in to my hands and hath sayed, I must stay there, untill somebody comes and leads you there. And that I should like to be such a one rider as Father hath been. There I stayed standing for a long while, and suddenly, I saw all those houses, but then I knew not, what they were, I knew not what houses are. There in town, I came in to the World, I was borne there. Kaspar, close. He sways slightly, trying in his clumsiness not to change his posture if possible. Over-­exerted, he holds the letter outstretched into the Void and keeps his hat extended, polite and immobile in the other hand. His legs are placed one slightly before the other as if he were stopping in midstep toward someone who is not there. The toes point slightly inward, for only in this way can Kaspar strain to keep himself upright. He stands half-­sunken into himself. Nothing happens. Kaspar is surprised beyond all limits. A dog crosses the empty square. Kaspar does not dare move, stretching forth his letter. Then an old man appears in the background and slouches into a house. “Orse, orse,” and “Remember this,” says Kaspar, maintaining his horrible posture. A little girl carrying an even smaller girl passes by. “You there,” says the girl, “did you see where Annelies has gone?” Kaspar’s face brightens, his lame arm with the letter is visibly gaining force. “Be rider,” says Kaspar, pleased. Some time passes again, and Kaspar still stands on the square with his hat drawn and the letter stretched out before him. The shoemaker Weickmann is leaning from the open window above his shop with his wife, a few of their green potted plants in front of them. Weickmann sucks on his cold pipe and spits some dark juice into a pot of geraniums. His fingers are brown with tobacco. We notice that he is measuring Kaspar with his gaze. His wife is



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staring down fixedly at that peculiar figure as well. There they lean, waiting calmly to behold whatever will happen next. Kaspar, close. Unable to extend his arm properly any more, and lowering the letter somewhat, he nevertheless strains excessively to offer it to an imaginary recipient. His mouth is contorted by soundless weeping. Weickmann knocks his pipe clean on his bootheel and then approaches Kaspar from the side. “What are you doing here?” says Weickmann. “As Father hath been,” says Kaspar. Weickmann wants to know where he is going, whether or not he is a stranger in town, and whether he, Weickmann, can help him with the letter. “I wanto be such a one rider as Father hath been,” says Kaspar. Weickmann is flabbergasted, he scans the letter more closely. “To his Excellency, Cavalry Captain of the 4th Battalion of the 6th Schwolian Regiment, N.,” he reads. “That is very close by, just past Augustiner Lane, the Cavalry Captain has his house right on the corner, I can show you the way there, or perhaps the young man has something else to do.” Kaspar strains to explain something, but merely extirpates unintelligible sounds from within. “Orse,” he says at last. Weickmann wants to know where this fellow who seems so uncanny has come from—­from Erlangen or Ansbach, or from Regensburg? “Regensburg,” Kaspar repeats after him. “Ah, Regensburg,” says Weickmann, pleased. “Regensburg,” says Kaspar once again.

House of the Cavalry Captain Weickmann rings the doorbell. Half-­conscious, Kaspar leans against the wall beside him. Weickmann is holding the letter now. After a second more insistent ringing of the bell, a servant opens up while morosely buttoning his shirt, apparently having been roused from his slumber. This young man here has come from Regensburg, the cobbler explains, he is carrying a letter for the Captain. The Captain is not home, the servant says, and just as he is about to close the door he catches himself, for this affair has struck him as being peculiar. The young man came from

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Regensburg, but he has not explained himself very clearly because he seems to be quite exhausted, says Weickmann; he proceeds to gesture discreetly toward the servant with his hand on his head indicating that the stranger is not in his right mind. For a while they deliberate. The servant thinks the young man can relax a bit on the straw in the stable, as the Captain surely won’t be back until nightfall, at which time the young man could deliver his letter. “Orse,” says Kaspar. “Yes, in the stable with the horses, on the straw,” says the servant.

Horse stable Kaspar lies on the straw in deathlike slumber. Even while sleeping, he holds on to his hat in the way he received it. A horse bends over him gently, gazing upon him intelligently for a long time. Weickmann has gathered the Captain, the servant, a police notary, two maids, and the shoemaker in the stable. In the background, the head of a stable boy peeks out from the hayloft. The Captain and the police notary are visibly conscious of the significance of this affair. Squinting, the Captain holds the letter out in front of him and reads: CAPTAIN: “From the Bavarian border, whose place is unnamed,

1828. Your Excellency Sir Captain!” POLICE NOTARY: “Excellency, ha-­ha!” CAPTAIN: “I diliver you a boy, who wants to serve his King faith-

fully he demands, this boy has been put to me, 1812 the 7 of October, and I myself a poor day laborer, I have ten children also, I have enough to do myself to make ends meet, and his mother has put the child only for his education, but I could not ask for his mother, now I did not say anything that the boy has been put to me, at the Provincial Court. I have thoght to myself I should have him for my son, I have educated him Christian and from time 1812 I have not let him one step from the house, that Nobody knowed where he has



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been grown up, and he himself knows not how my house is called, and he doth not know the Place either, you may ask him, but he sayeth nothing. I’ve teached him how to read and writ, and when we ask him waht he be, he sayeth he also wants to be such a one rider, what his Father hath been. If he had parents, as he hath not, he had been a learnet fellow. You may show him anything and he knows it right awai. Dear Mister Cavalry Captain, you must not plague him at al, he knoweth my abode not, where I stay, I have led him awai by night, he knoweth not how to go hoam. I recommend myself obedientli. I make not known my name, for I could be punisht. And he hath no penny money with him, becos I have nothing myself, if you keep him not, you have to cut him off or hang him in the chimny.” The servant tries to wake Kaspar, the people surrounding him muse that he sleeps like a dead man. At last they put him on his feet, but he continues to sleep standing upright as if deeply unconscious. Weickmann attempts to prevent the Captain from using brute force, and explains that the young man obviously is not too clear in his mind, plus he can’t even walk properly, rambling more than walking. The Captain shakes Kaspar so hard that the horses are frightened. Kaspar opens his eyes a slit and glances about for a moment, ready to sink back into the recesses of his deep sleep. After a hefty boot from the Captain’s foot, Kaspar at last comes alive, gazing into the circle, carefully looking at their hands, however, instead of their faces. Then he suddenly discovers the shining brass buttons on the Captain’s uniform and nestles against them gleefully. Enthusiastically he grabs the epaulets of the Captain, who reacts quite indignantly to this. The police notary wants to know what his name is, where he comes from, and what his rank is. Since Kaspar simply utters a low sound without answering, the notary asks the same thing once more, speaking up now doubly loud. Finally he starts to urge Kaspar in a piercing voice. Where does

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he come from, who has brought him, where is his passport, and what is his profession! “Rider be,” blurts Kaspar. This fellow’s mental development seems to be in a condition of veritable neglect, the Cavalry Captain remarks, an official interrogation conducted by the police is useless in a case such as this. Surely he must be hungry, a maid says in the hesitant lull while handing Kaspar a slice of meat and a glass of beer. Kaspar tries some of this, but as soon as he has touched the first morsel with his mouth, his face twitching, visibly appalled and disgusted, he spits the food out. The onlookers are at a loss. Kaspar begins to moan softly and points to his feet. As the maid removes his boots they have to support him or he cannot keep himself upright on one leg; crowding in on him, the surrounding people become aware that Kaspar’s feet are covered all over with blisters, most of them open and bloody. His feet are as soft as silk, says the maid. And the toenails are as soft and puffed up like bread crusts. In accordance with the Captain’s command, Kaspar’s jacket is taken off and his shirt opened. The servant discovers a vaccination mark on his arm. That is a definite sign that this foundling belongs to the upper class, for they alone have their children vaccinated. He shall prepare a report on the physical condition of the foundling, for how else can the authorities determine whether or not this fellow is just some wicked impostor. Where does the wound on his elbow come from, he questions louder and louder until at last he just shouts at Kaspar. Kaspar’s jacket, closer. The servant searches his pockets, producing some printed pamphlets, and spreads them all out as the Captain dictates to the notary for the record: CAVALRY CAPTAIN: “A prayer book entitled ‘Spiritual Forget-­

Me-­Nots,’ a selection of beautiful and zealous matins by a devout soul, Altoettingen.” “A little rosary made of tortoise shell, with a metal crucifix.” “A German key.” “A printed brochure entitled ‘Six Pious and Forceful Prayers.’”



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“Likewise, one entitled ‘Spiritual Sentry,’ printed in Prague.” “A square piece of folded paper where, yes, indeed, we find a small amount of gold dust.” The boots, trousers, jacket, and hat will be subjected to another, closer inspection, says the police notary. As things stand now, this forsaken looking fellow shall be detained by the authorities, he adds, to the visible relief of the Captain. There is no other possibility, for where else shall we put someone like this. Kaspar suddenly catches sight of the police official’s pencil and snatches it. They let him. Kaspar starts scribbling on the sheet of paper upon which the report has been written, first repeating single syllables as in writing exercises, then, almost illegibly: Kaspar Hauser. With everyone shouting at him at once, Kaspar shrinks completely back into himself. Apathetic and profoundly indifferent, he lets them do what they want.

Prison in the tower, the drunk tank, seen from without From outside: The door slams shut and Hiltel, the gray and haggard prison guard, pushes several bolts. Then he opens the little window in the door, watching the room. Through the window we see Kaspar in a corner cowering on a straw mattress, totally absentminded, barefoot, and the hat still in his hands as he had received it. In deep concentration he sniffs the straw and touches it with his tongue. Outside at the little window, the police notary, the Cavalry Captain, and the servant are huddling close, seemingly visibly satisfied with this solution. Perhaps he wasn’t all that unruly after all, perhaps he was even fairly good-­natured, the police notary suggests. He had come with them quite willingly and did not give the impression that he wanted to make trouble for the time being, until the authorities had arranged the case well enough to take it up. They would question him under oath, for he didn’t convey the image of a cretin or a madman, and would keep him for a while in this tower for police convicts and vagabonds.

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Drunk tank, interior The cell is fairly large, it is filled with six cots, each covered with a straw mattress and a blanket normally used to cover horses. A drunkard is lying on one of the mattresses with his back to the wall, snoring. He is thoroughly besmirched and neglected, and lies on the cot fully dressed, his shoes resting on the blanket. His shirt sticks out of his pants in the back, and the pants have slipped down almost to his tailbone; his back is covered with dirty hair. Heavy, gruesome snoring. In front of the cot, half-­dried-­up vomit; we can tell it was a noodle dish. Kaspar, up close. He is completely withdrawn, in utter indifference, paying no heed to his surroundings. After lengthy brooding cowering, he revives, glancing about without comprehending anything. Then his gaze fixes upon the window, which is but lightly barred. Kaspar stumbles clumsily toward it and slowly works his way up, placing his feet down flatly and lifting his knees far too high. With his full front torso he leans against the window, still clutching the hat with his right hand. He scans the exterior with a stolid gaze but he doesn’t seem to perceive anything. His eyes are a bit watery and inflamed, light floods inward over him. He has not yet come to grips with the brightness outside. View from the window. A tower window, we are overlooking the roofs and gables of the town. Dead smoke oppresses the roofs. Two jackdaws fly past. Longer view from the window. The drunkard snores horribly and against all rules.

Drunk tank The drunkard lies calmly, he has pulled his blanket up completely and is breathing as softly as if he were dead. Kaspar is sitting on the floor, shoving a wooden horse back and forth as if entranced. He lets the wheels roll very quietly. Toward the entrance of the room we now behold a silent wall of people staring at Kaspar. From the entrance we feel pushing and pressing.



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Kaspar glances up unperturbed, rolling his little horse on and on. He is infinitely removed and peers through the people at a still-­farther profundity as if they were made of glass. Suddenly, rolling on with the horse, Kaspar utters the scream of an animal. Dreamlike, he screams.

Hiltel’s apartment, the kitchen Lunch around the kitchen table. The table has been set and Mrs. Hiltel, a mild youngish woman, has taken her seat. She has placed beside her the cradle with her baby who cries every now and then. At such moments she touches the edge of the cradle with her right hand without looking, while with her left she goes on eating, undisturbed. Further back the stove crackles as a pot steams away. We realize at first glance that the furnishings are rather meager. On the far side of the table there is a bench winding round the corner, and Hiltel and his five-­year-­old son Julius are taking great pains there to make Kaspar sit down. He tries to slide down to the floor so he can sit with outstretched legs, and we realize instantly that Kaspar has never before eaten properly. Kaspar is newly dressed. Hiltel lifts Kaspar onto the bench and tries to get Kaspar’s legs to bend beneath the table. But in this position he topples forward onto the table. At last, after lengthy efforts with this uncouth foundling, Hiltel puts Kaspar at the corner of the table, permitting him to stretch out his legs on the bench alongside the table. Julius hands Kaspar a cup of water and the latter grabs it like his jug with both hands, hastily emptying it with a single draught. He holds the empty cup for such a long time that Julius eventually takes it from him. Julius grows into the role of teacher with considerable ease and obviously enjoys instructing someone so much older than himself. He shows Kaspar, by guiding his hand into the cup, that the cup is empty. Then he turns the cup upside down and the last drop drips slowly onto the table. Holding the cup, he shows it to Kaspar and repeats: empty. Kaspar also says

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“empty,” although he probably hasn’t grasped it yet. He apparently thinks “cup,” since he grabs another cup that is still full while saying “empty.” “I say,” says Hiltel proudly, “that chap isn’t so bad, he is proving himself to be quite nimble. He is merely lacking manners.” Julius puts a spoon into Kaspar’s hand and pushes forth a bowl of soup. In a pronounced manner he mimicks the way to handle it. Kaspar tries this as well, but at first he doesn’t touch his mouth with the strange instrument. When he finally manages to try the soup, he shudders with disgust and refuses to take anything else but bread. One would have to get him accustomed to normal food quite gradually, Hiltel remarks to his wife, one would have to summon a great deal of patience to turn this half-­ferocious beast-­man into a decent chap.

Prison in the tower, drunk tank The drunkard, who in the interim has sobered up, is sitting twisted up on a cot. He is pressing his bent arms into his body and softly moaning. He has a coarse face distorted by the booze, and one of his ears is squashed like a sprout. “Jesus Maria,” says the man, “my guts are killing me.” Beside him is an old rancid tramp, a newcomer raising hell in his delirium. He curses and roars, “Fire, it’s burning.” Kaspar’s corner. He sits in his customary position on the floor beside Julius, serious like an adult. Julius pinches Kaspar’s index finger. “Finger,” says Kaspar. He taps Kaspar’s hand. “Arm,” says Kaspar. “No, hand,” says Julius, “the arm is the whole part up to here.” “Hand,” Kaspar corrects himself, and then runs his right hand all along his left arm up to his shoulder and says, “Arm.” He is happy, he has understood. “Fire, fire, the tower’s burning,” screams the old man in his corner. But Kaspar and Julius are so preoccupied that they don’t hear him. Julius touches Kaspar’s mouth. “Mouth,” says Kaspar forthwith, and then “nose,” tapping his own nose simultaneously. “And this is the ear,” says Julius, touching Kaspar’s ear. “Ear,” says



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Kaspar while touching his head with a frightened gesture. He fondles his ear excitedly, it obviously is a sensational discovery for him. “Yes, it really belongs to you, that you can truly believe,” says Julius. “And there you have another one,” and pinches his other one. Kaspar looks incredulous and confused. Then Julius pulls the ear very hard, and Kaspar begins to realize that this ear really belongs to him. “Fire-­ho,” screams the old man, and “Waitress, bring me a beer!” Julius takes a small round mirror from his pocket and holds it in front of Kaspar’s face. “There, that is really your ear.” Kaspar backs off, frightened, and when Julius brings the mirror even closer, Kaspar lowers his eyes, evading the mirror like an animal. Julius won’t give up, he pulls Kaspar’s ear and several times says “ear” quite loudly. Kaspar finally gets up his courage and looks; his gaze is that of a hare. He has yet to comprehend that he is seeing himself. Bewildered, he leans forward to search behind the mirror. “Waitress,” the one in the corner cries, “I have to pee.”

Wash house, the first bath Kaspar sits in a big washtub with Julius, who is obviously there to rid him of his fear of water. The water steams slightly from the heat. Kaspar has the flesh of a larva. The prison guard’s wife adds some more water because it is still too hot. Kaspar, feeling fine and uttering sounds of wellbeing, starts kicking and splashing about in the water just like a small child. Julius blows a small paper boat across toward Kaspar’s chest, and he pats it gleefully with the palm of his hand. The woman starts to soap Kaspar down, poking into his ears with a rag to his displeasure. Then she stands him upright in the tub to soap down the lower part of his body; Kaspar permits this without self-­consciousness and is unperturbed. He stands there like a horse. Frau Hiltel constantly tries to excuse herself, though this is completely unnecessary, by soothing Kaspar and telling him that he must not be ashamed before her, since only God is looking on. All at once Kaspar perceives how a solid year-­old layer of dirt is peeling off him and how his translucent white skin begins

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to emerge underneath. Fine little veins shimmer through from within. He turns to the woman fearful. “Mother,” says Kaspar, “the skin!”

Prison in the tower, feigned fencing Kaspar sits slumped into himself in the drunk tank as a peculiar scene takes place. He is on the floor with his legs outstretched in front of him playing with his toy horses, oblivious to his surroundings. The two companions have gone. Kaspar’s mattress has been stuffed with fresh straw, and on a new shelf are a dozen or so wooden animals on wheels neatly arranged in a row. Before Kaspar stands a uniformed cavalry Lieutenant who is sticking and striking at Kaspar with his drawn sword, although not really touching him. He pauses momentarily and then lunges forth with a loud “Ha!” and makes a wild thrust past Kaspar’s skull. Next he attempts to feign in the French manner with graceful dancing steps, finally fidgeting with his sword in front of Kaspar’s face. Kaspar is utterly absorbed in his playing and glances up only once, abstractedly, looking through the sword beyond. The cocky Lieutenant now aims a cruel swishing blow blindly in the air. He stops, astonished but visibly proud of his extraordinary prowess, and then turns around. Only now do we realize that there are about ten more people in the room who have quietly witnessed this spectacle while pressed against the wall near the entrance. They begin whispering among themselves, and a police officer remarks that he no longer thinks that this fellow is a cruel impostor since he obviously has no feeling or concept of danger. He hasn’t been frightened at all. The Lieutenant makes one last impressive parry. The Lieutenant approaches Kaspar with a burning candle. Kaspar looks up and makes pleasurable sounds as he fondles the shiny brass buttons of the uniformed Lieutenant’s jacket. Now Kaspar notices the candle standing close to him on the floor. He grabs rapturously at the flame but plucks and twists the wick with his fingers much too long. He jerks his hand back and, his mouth grimacing hideously, he starts to cry. He cries without a sound.



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Hiltel’s apartment Very tender scene. As Kaspar is half-­bent over the suckling’s cradle we see that he doesn’t really dare move further, there is some sort of taboo hovering in the air. Kaspar has put his right hand into the cradle and is trying to withdraw it again carefully. We now see the infant closely. He is barely six months old and has an embroidered bonnet on his head. He grips Kaspar’s index finger tightly with one of his hands and won’t let go. Kaspar cautiously bends his finger and the little one in the cradle laughs. Kaspar suddenly senses that someone is watching from behind; he bends forward very carefully and gently tries to pull his finger away, but the baby won’t let go. Kaspar doesn’t dare pull any harder. We see Frau Hiltel, the mother of the suckling, standing in the doorway, watching Kaspar quietly and trying to make up her mind. Kaspar slowly turns around and, with an expression of guilt-­ ridden despair in his face, he looks into the woman’s face. He wants to free himself from the cradle but is unable to do so, as we can see how he lifts up the tiny hand of the infant over the cradle’s edge with his own. The woman smiles at Kaspar and prompts herself inwardly. She instinctively does the right thing: she takes the little one out of the cradle and decisively places him in Kaspar’s arms. The latter is frightened with emotion. He delicately sniffs at the little one’s head, fondling him ever so gently, more like a blind man than one who sees. “Mother,” Kaspar strains to speak, his mouth twisted amid the tears, “everything is removed from me.”

Prison in the tower, black hen Four farmboys have broken into the cell, and one can realize instantly that they’re up to no good. They are standing around trying to look innocent. Kaspar sits on the floor with a picture of a plum before him that he is attempting to copy. “I am honored,” says Kaspar to his visitors contentedly, happy because he has said

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it right. While sitting on the floor he bows, and his ears turn red. The squinting boys don’t look him straight in the eye. The one with coarse features hiding behind the others carefully places a chicken on the floor in back of the others. And what a chicken! It is a huge black puffed-­up hen with an incredibly stupid face, and the boys have adorned her breast with a medal that hangs from a wide ribbon around its neck. When the fellow to the rear pushes the hen toward Kaspar through the legs of one of his friends—­a flap-­eared yokel who stands there expectantly—­we instantly become aware of something else: the chicken is utterly drunk. One of the fellows says “hmmm!” while putting yet another piece of bread dipped in schnapps into its mouth. Then the chicken stumbles forward, turns around, and doubles back. Blathering nonsensically it heads straight for Kaspar and, trying to peck at the medal, it falls flat on its face. When the chicken finally manages to struggle onto its legs again, Kaspar notices it. Kaspar stands up with a start. “Black,” says Kaspar frightfully, “black, black.” The chicken now screeches with delight, puts its head on the floor, and does a somersault. Full of dread and trembling horribly, Kaspar clings to his pillow and retreats to the farthest corner of the room. He tries scrambling up the wall for refuge near the ceiling. The four of them jeer and heckle crudely now, passing around their bottle while they pick up the hen and, guffawing, leave.

Prison in the tower, drunk tank Kaspar sits on the floor surrounded by dried herbs and pressed flowers, which he has neatly arranged on white sheets of paper. On his shelf is a crazy collection of wooden horses on wheels, each is precisely positioned according to height. In front of Kaspar stands a cute little girl about four years old, quite lively and burning with fervor, she is obviously a friend of the five-­year-­old Julius who, as little as he is, radiates a kind of paternal dignity. “Good morning, white kitten,” says Kaspar, pressing the thumb



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and index finger of his right hand into an odd circle while spreading out the other three fingers in the air. He beats the rhythm of his words on the floor with his peculiarly positioned fingers. “You’ve lost your mitten,” says the girl. “You’ve lost, you’ve lost,” says Kaspar, all of this moving much too fast for him. The girl assumes the serious demeanor of a schoolteacher and recites the rhyme with her best behavior: Good morning white kitten, You’ve lost your mitten, And is that milk yours or mine? I’ll lap here, You lap there, Lap, lap, lap this milk so fine, Lap, lap, lap as good as wine!

The rhyme makes a profound impression upon Kaspar, who listens to the girl with bulging eyes. Then, for the very first time, a great heartful laughter shines forth from his face. Kaspar exults and utters jubilant cries. The girl is proud in a very ladylike manner, bobbing a little curtsy. “Agnes,” says Julius after a while, “that was still too long, he doesn’t understand yet.”

Prison in the tower, drunk tank, evening “Two pints you drink, and two pints you pee,” Kaspar says obediently. Some depraved-­looking youngsters cluster around him, encouraging him to say it more distinctly. They can hardly contain their laughter. Cheap beastly thrills. Kaspar, unsuspecting, is learning zealously.

Prison in the tower, drunk tank, exterior Several prominent people are jostling outside the little grated window, pushing for a peep inside. From within we hear disgruntled sounds and Julius’s jolly laughter.

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The mayor whispers to the prefect of police that the foundling was once a member of a troop of English equestrians, but had deserted while they were stationed in the Upper Palatinate. This was questionable, however. But he was quite sure that the rampant rumors linking him to the Royal House of Baden, alleging that he was banished from the line of succession to the throne, are totally false, since if this were the case they would have disposed of him altogether. Furthermore, the House of Baden is above suspicion, even if its line of succession was rather controversial. He could not believe all of that anyway because the fellow had somewhat coarse and indelicate features, displaying none of the natural nobility that is found in those of royal blood. One also must begin to consider just how the fellow could commence paying his own way, since for the moment he was living on the public trust. Someone had to think of a way he could contribute to his own upkeep, perhaps by taking advantage of the public interest in him. Again he turns to the little window to watch, half amused and half disgusted at what was taking place inside the cell.

Drunk tank, interior Only Kaspar’s cot remains in the room, over in the corner, the others have been removed but for the impressions from their legs that we can clearly see left on the floor. Kaspar sits with his knees extended on the floor, holding a cat between his widespread legs that is forever trying to escape. “With the hands with the hands,” says Kaspar to the cat as he tries to teach her how to eat with her paws and lift the food neatly up to her mouth. Julius, sitting next to him, is bursting with laughter. Kaspar is quite serious about his task and refuses to be disturbed by the cat’s wiggling and twisting. He finally attempts with utter gravity to teach the cat how to walk upright. He places her on her hind legs, and the cat hisses angrily and suddenly claws him on his hands. Terribly bewildered and totally horrified, Kaspar lets the animal go. He gets no help from Julius, who is laughing even harder now. Kaspar, deeply disturbed, grabs his wool and his knitting and



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withdraws into himself, beginning to knit with his fat clumsy fingers. He has already finished a piece as big as the palm of his hand. We have no idea where it came from.

Tent at the fair, interior, Four Riddles of the Universe The fair is shabby, the tent dilapidated, the festivities awash in a profound sadness. The atmosphere is filled with gloom, which is all the more striking since the visitors do not notice it in their desire to amuse themselves. Many people are pressing inward, the tent is almost full. There are a lot of women and children, even drunkards as well, who behave in a particularly raucous manner. We can see a bit of light shimmering through a shabby transparent curtain that has been in a semi-­circle. There is some movement behind the curtain, then it freezes into a rigid stillness as the director steps onto the tiny stage from the side. Dressed in circus garb with lots of glitter and shiny black patent-­leather boots, he wields a wooden pointer in his hand. He bids the audience welcome. “Ladies and Gentlemen!” he shouts to quiet down the troublemakers, as he wishes to pre­sent to the public the Four Riddles of the Universe, all together in a single place for the very first time. He begs the adults to keep their children at a safe distance for piety permits no childish pranks. They can step up a bit, but only as far as this line here. Music from a merry-­go-­round outside is drowning out his words. He raises his voice to introduce the first Riddle, The Little King. Behind the curtain a fanfare blares forth. He gives a wink and with several jerks the curtain opens, but only wide enough to see The Little King. A throne has been placed on a slightly elevated wooden platform, a huge ample throne richly decorated with carvings and golden glitter. The Little King cowers in a corner of the throne as if exiled. The Little King is a tiny midget about forty years old with an old man’s wrinkled face. His skin is shriveled like a leathery apple. He wears little white boots with a small ermine coat made of rabbit’s fur around his shoulders. Holding both arms outstretched, he barely manages to reach the armrests of the throne

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with his fingertips. A large, impressive crown is hanging from a rope above his head. Two poodles in gold embroidered uniforms stand at attention on their hind legs before him. The Little King seems apathetic as he contemplates the crowd. This is the King of Punt, the legendary land of gold, the director exclaims, he descends from an ancient race of giants. But, in the course of time, one king after the other became smaller than his predecessor, and as of now this was the last one of the line. If the lineage were to continue for a couple of centuries more, one would not be able to see the last King of Punt for he would skip away like a flea. Tremendous curiosity among the greatly enraptured public, particularly among the children. Now, if the people in front would kindly move on and make room for those behind them who also want to have a look, next comes Mozart. The curtain opens a little wider. Behind it sits a gentle boy about seven years old with the face of a prince. He is dressed like a little gentleman in a rococo costume, holding a piece of drainpipe made of papier-­mâché in front of him. It is painted black inside, he stares into it incessantly. The director shouts out that Mozart didn’t start to talk until the age of three, but once he did, he asked for nothing but the music of Mozart. Night and day he longed obsessively for Mozart. By the time he was five he knew all the scores by heart. Now he doesn’t talk any more, as he is only interested in dark holes in the ground, in cave entrances and drainage ditches that capture his attention and enable him to meditate upon the blackness within. He stopped speaking altogether at the age of five when they tried to teach him how to read and write at school. He couldn’t do it, he said, because the bright whiteness of the paper blinded him. Since then he has refused to speak. The audience is already pushing onward, and with a new fanfare the curtain opens further. The director cries out that next will be a live tribal show, with an Indian savage from the New Spanish Realm of the Sun. The Indian, Hombrecito, appears from behind the curtain, a lean feeble-­minded man with an enchanted look. He is wearing



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three coats, one on top of the other, and across his shoulders he carries a folded embroidered Indian poncho. He wears a beautiful Indian woolen cap with ear flaps and reddish embroidery on his nearly clean-­shaven skull. His pants come down to just past the knees so his calves are naked like exposed cables, and on his feet he is wearing sandals. As soon as the curtain opens, he starts to play a strange beautiful melody on some sort of Indian panpipe made of bound bamboo stems. The children in particular push to get close to him. The director tells the audience that this savage is the only living member of the original Native and Indian Show that once toured Europe. He plays his flute because he believes that if he stopped, the townspeople would die. He always wears three coats at once to protect himself from colds and, as he says, against the breath of people. He is quite a jovial fellow and very well behaved, but he doesn’t speak a word of any language other than his Indian dialect. And now, the greatest of the Four Riddles, the director proclaims, and as the curtain opens completely amid the fanfare, there is Kaspar, the Foundling. He explains that Kaspar has expressed his willingness to appear here every afternoon with the consent of the authorities, in order to ease his financial burden on the community. We see Kaspar on a dais and realize instantly that he doesn’t have the slightest idea what this is all about, that he doesn’t even understand how he got here. Kaspar is standing on his own wooden platform, with a thick ornamental rope stretched between four posts so no one can get too close to him. Kaspar stands there the same way he was found in N., dressed the same, in the same tortured posture with one foot a little in front of the other, the letter in his left hand extended toward an imaginary recipient, and his hat in his right hand, politely removed. The people crowd in more closely, curious but rather shy. The director talks while pointing with his stick, explaining about Kaspar, going on and on. No longer can we comprehend what he says because music is setting in, strong and solemn. Long shot. Kaspar is beset by the same dreamlost, gruesome, and forlorn

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confusion as in the Tallow Square the day he was born in the town of N. We see Daumer standing among the spectators in the background. He seems to be the only one there who understands.

Behind the circus tent Kaspar and Hombrecito are sitting behind the tent in front of a cage on wheels with somewhat narrow but very strong wooden bars. Julius runs by one time in the background with a stick and a hoop. The backs of some primitive stalls and tents all around. Grass trodden under foot, straw trampled into the clay. A small dung heap and pitchforks, everything is rather bleak. Hombrecito patiently plays his flute to himself, playing for the bear. The cage, close. Inside we can recognize the figure of a bear, lying apathetically on the dirty straw on the floor of the cage. He wears a heavy leather muzzle over his snout, which he pokes between the bars a bit. The bear breathes deeply and exhaustedly, steadily gazing upon the two visitors outside. “The bear is sick,” says Kaspar, practicing the sentence. “The bear is sick, the bear is sick,” he says, learning the sentence that he has obviously just picked up from Julius. With an otherworldly expression, Hombrecito plays. They eye each other for a very long time.

Open field, the grandfather, father, and son Far away in the distance we see an excited crowd running across the field, a charming landscape with half-­grown fields of wheat that are still green. A pronounced clamor. And now we notice that even farther away three figures are running, far in front of the others. Somewhat closer, the three fugitives. Mozart, Hombrecito, and Kaspar have escaped, they are racing across the fields. Flat-­ footed, Kaspar runs with long awkward bounds. Hombrecito with his skinny calves is in the lead, he has unbuttoned all three coats, and bringing up the rear is Mozart, who is hampered by his rococo costume. He is the first one to get stuck when their escape



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route takes them over a small canal. Right there is a drainpipe that runs into the ground, black and mysterious. Mozart suddenly stops and, squatting down, stares into the black opening wondrously. He lapses at once into a profound trance. The pursuers, including the director, the police notary, and Daumer spread out a little; a few of them stay with Mozart to take care of him, others continue the chase and visibly gain ground. There are approximately a dozen people, several women among them as well. Kaspar slows down and Hombrecito moves ahead ever further, though realizing that the pursuers are faster than he. In a small lovely hollow, three maple trees appear in a row: a tall one, a medium-­sized one, and finally a young one whose trunk is still thin. They look like grandfather, father, and son, and from the shouts of the pursuers, we clearly learn that these are really their names. Close by, on the forest fringe, is an apiary, with a dense grove of spruce saplings behind it. Hombrecito flees up into the Son, in his confusion he has seized upon the thinnest tree and it can hardly support him. Kaspar, having taken the lead, reaches the edge of the woods. He disappears among the spruces and we last see him changing directions. “Stop,” the police notary shrieks after Kaspar, “stay where you are, I say,” he gasps, stopping short himself. About half of the group storms forward into the spruce grove and search about in it, as we can see by the trembling of the little trees, which are a little taller than the average man. They yell for Kaspar and wonder what is the matter with him, whether or not he has lost his mind. Hombrecito, meanwhile, has climbed so high into the Son that if he goes any higher, the entire trunk will bend over. Therefore no one dares to follow him up the tree. He should come down, bellows the notary, who considers himself the leader because he has a uniform on. He will ruin the tree, which had been planted but three years ago by Heuser’s grandson. Why doesn’t he pick the Father or Grandfather for his ridiculous escapades? Hombrecito does not answer, gazing down calmly at his pursuers. What does he want, the director calls up to him, he

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makes a good living, he has nothing to complain about. Finally, one of the men climbs up the thin trunk after Hombrecito. The whole trunk slowly bends over, and Hombrecito is plucked from the branches like a piece of fruit. One after the other the pursuers reappear at the edge of the spruce grove. He couldn’t have simply disappeared, one of them says. They will have to search this part of the forest again, but this time more systematically, not so haphazardly. He couldn’t be anyplace else but in there. Daumer stands quietly at the edge of the forest, thinking hard. He then walks decisively around the apiary and opens a little tool shed. There, among the boards, tools, and honeycomb frames cowers Kaspar apathetically, his face glowing like red-­hot iron, as it was at the outset in the cellar. He notices no one and nothing, taking no heed of Daumer, still sitting quietly. View over the fields. The people stand together peacefully beneath a cluster of trees. A solemn music ensues.

Kaspar at the window, winter’s day Kaspar is standing at the window gazing out silently over the garden. It is winter outside, time passes. The bottom part of the pane is frozen over. Nothing stirs; someone is leaning over the rail of the footbridge at the far end of the garden, staring motionlessly at the frozen creek. A raven stands still in the snow-­ covered garden cawing hoarsely, his breath visibly frozen. Then, tottering, he walks away directly into the Imaginary. Kaspar sniffs quietly. A grandfather clock chimes somewhere in the house below.

Daumer’s room, interior Almost at ground level, it is a spacious room with imposing windows. It is summer, and the song of a solitary bird is heard from outside; through an open window we see black currant bushes and part of the garden. The walnut tree outside rustles softly. The room is furnished pragmatically, with pictures hanging on the



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wall and shelves filled with books that are stacked so disorderly that you instantly know these books are really being read. Kaspar sits at the piano in the foreground. He now sports a downy mustache on his upper lip, making it apparent that much time has passed. But something else is evident also: Kaspar still betrays a neglected air about him. His movements are still bizarre, and though he isn’t ill-­groomed, he gives the impression of needing a bath badly. His countenance bears a certain crude melancholy. Kaspar is a dilettante at the piano, playing the simple “Virgin Chorus” from “Der Freischütz.” He frequently hits the wrong key and with every false note gesticulates wildly with his hands. His movements seem jerky, eccentric, and as yet unassured. Daumer stands behind Kaspar wearing a frock coat, listening contentedly to his ward’s playing. Daumer seems learned, paternal, with lively eyes and an unhealthy pale complexion. His posture is slightly stooped. We notice that the few times he corrects Kaspar, he does so affectionately. Kaspar suddenly stops and turns toward Daumer. He cannot continue, he cannot concentrate, “it” feels so strong inside his breast. Kaspar moves to the window and gazes out into the garden. Daumer follows him, paternally placing a hand on his shoulder without saying a word. He, says Kaspar, he feels so “unexpectedly” old. Prolonged silence; Daumer doesn’t say anything, because he apparently feels it is not good to say anything.

Walk through the garden The garden is rather large, not too tidy, with idyllic nooks that are somewhat neglected, more or less like an English garden. There are also some huge walnut trees, a pergola covered with clusters of lilacs, black currant bushes, gooseberries, plus a few flower and vegetable beds: a halfway practical garden. At the edge of the garden is a dense hedge of small beeches that hasn’t been trimmed for quite some time. Beyond it, off to the side, a slender canal with a railed footbridge. A poorly raked gravel path runs around the

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garden, overgrown with weeds. A little bench and a garden table sit under the walnut tree. The exterior of the house is tressed by a pear tree that covers nearly the entire front wall facing the garden and is supported by a trellis. Kaspar and Daumer are rounding the garden in pensive silence. Kaspar still lifts his knees up high as he walks, placing the whole foot down on the ground. Kaspar’s speech continues to have a peculiar cadence and choice of words. If he gets stuck or is searching for a word, he confusedly scans the vacant space in the sentence with his index finger in the air. “It has dreamed in me,” says Kaspar. You should tell me, says Daumer. Walking silently for a while, Kaspar gathers words instead of speaking, delicately moving his lips. After a while Daumer says he is pleased with Kaspar’s progress, for only two weeks ago he still thought his dreams were real, as indicated by his recollection of a visit with the mayor’s wife, who had in fact been away on a trip for several weeks. Kaspar nods. It was also strange that he, Kaspar, hadn’t begun to dream earlier; in his first prison he hadn’t dreamed at all, since he was unable to imagine anything, but afterward—­why hadn’t he dreamed then? Or had he dreamed and mistaken it for reality, not recognizing the difference? After some strenuous reflection, Kaspar says he can’t be sure if he was actually in his prison or a different prison, and, as for this walking, whether or not it is a dream. It had dreamed in him from the Caucasus, he had been in the Caucasus. Yes, he had learned about that during his lessons, Daumer says, pleased; that is where the dream must stem from. But, says Kaspar, he had seen the Caucasus very distinctly. First there had been a strange village on a mountainside, with white houses and steps rather than streets, and on the steps there was water running.

Vision of the Caucasus All at once we see what Kaspar is relating, it is mysterious and strange and flickering. We see a village on a steep incline, a very alien Southern place, with whitewashed steps converging from all



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sides into one main road of steps. Water is running on each of the steps, flowing into brooks. Then, says Kaspar, stopping short in his walk, he had seen the Caucasus, towering red-­colored mountains, and beyond them there was a plain filled with houses, white ones, each by itself as if from another world. These dwellings reached as far as his eye could see. He had looked “over yonder.” We behold towering mountains, gazing down from the peaks. The air and the clouds are colored deep purple from the setting sun. In the haze we discover a mountain range, then behind it another one, then further below a third, and behind that one, becoming ever more glassy and transparent, a fourth, fifth, sixth, onward into unfathomable depths. The gaze roams over these incredible mountains, the incredible purple. Then, suddenly, we see a vast plain. And in the plain there are mysterious temples with high, white, pointed towers, richly decorated like buildings from some other star. The gaze reaches far and, into the depths, as far as the gaze can wander, there is nothing but unreal structures upon this vast plain. There are hundreds of them, we are in the grip of vertigo. The images are strange and flickering, unlike anything we have ever seen before, utterly otherworldly.

Daumer’s room, interior Kaspar is sitting opposite a superior force of four pastors. On a little table there is a pot and cups of tea, but Kaspar, who is obviously feeling uncomfortable, doesn’t touch his. The housekeeper Katy, a plump good-­natured country woman, brings a small platter of biscuits and withdraws immediately. The pastors nibble primly on the proffered delicacies. Fuhr­ mann, with a flesh-­swollen face, moss on his teeth, and his collar still stained with egg yolk from breakfast, sits beside Kaspar, who evades the man’s breath by necessity. As he speaks one sees his bad teeth; the other three present themselves a bit less obtrusively. Fuhrmann wants to know if Kaspar had a natural conception of God while imprisoned, looking over at his colleagues pregnantly.

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Kaspar speaks strenuously, knocking each beat with his hand. He doesn’t understand this question, he knows only that he hadn’t thought of anything in prison. He doesn’t understand at all what they had told him some time ago. He cannot imagine how God created everything out of nothing, as he was lacking the concepts for that. The clergymen put their heads together taking council among themselves, seeing if someone can make this comprehensible to him. He simply has to believe, says Fuhrmann, pushing a little closer to Kaspar, for to search through the darker elements of the Creed too precisely was sinful. Kaspar says that he can’t understand any of this, they are talking too loudly, and he would have to learn to read and write much better to comprehend this. No, says Fuhrmann, he must learn these things above and beyond everything else. But, says Kaspar, when he, Kaspar, wants to make something, he needs something to make it with, so they should tell him how God makes something out of nothing. He should stop, says Fuhrmann, beating his index finger on the table constantly while talking. In that case, Kaspar says, speaking will be even harder for him. This ends the discussion. A disagreeable silence spreads. The four clergymen maintain their silence toward Kaspar for a while, then they put their heads together. Finally, Fuhrmann says that Kaspar should repeat after him. He proceeds to recite a prayer. Kaspar displays an obvious reluctance in repeating it.

Narrow lane, prison tower from outside It is just before noon; Kaspar and Daumer are standing in front of the prison tower. Kaspar gazes upward in amazement. That is really very high, he says, it must have been a very tall man who built that. I would like to make his acquaintance. Daumer tries to explain to him that the builder had been of quite a normal height, that they had worked with scaffolds, he would take him to a construction site this very day. He wondered if Kaspar still remembered having lived in this tower. That is hardly possible, for his room had been but a few steps



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long, says Kaspar. Daumer doesn’t understand this contradiction at first. The house in which he had lived had to be even smaller then, not as big as the tower. Correcting Kaspar, Daumer attempts to make plain the fact that a room was always smaller than a house. This doesn’t sit well with Kaspar. The room was wherever he turned, he had the room on all sides; but he could look at the house only from one side and when he turned it wasn’t there any more. It didn’t extend in all directions as a room would. Daumer suspends any further explanations to a later date. Kaspar doesn’t seem satisfied, neither does Daumer.

Daumer’s living room Kaspar sits at his writing desk while Daumer observes from behind, looking over his shoulder at his writing. Without concentrating properly, Kaspar makes an effort to translate a simple Latin text. He would prefer to hear something about the vast desert of the Sahara, and whether or not it was really so far away, and whether or not he might go there one day to look at it, says Kaspar. Besides, he would greatly prefer going out into the streets than translating Latin, as sitting seems very hard to him, and Latin as well. Knowledge of the Latin tongue was indispensable for learning German, Daumer teaches him. To learn German thoroughly one had to have a thorough knowledge of Latin. Kaspar continues working attentively for a while. Whether the Roman had to learn German thoroughly in order to read and write proper Latin, this he would like to know. Daumer ignores this question, pressing in even closer so as to remonstrate Kaspar.

Daumer’s garden, gravel path Kaspar, Daumer, and Fuhrmann are gathering apples, which cover the ground where the gravel path forms a loop. Kaspar straightens up, gazing at the apple tree. Kaspar, close. How beautiful this tree would be if its leaves were as beautifully red as the apples. Then he would be able to

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tolerate this tree much better. Daumer drops an apple, which rolls some distance along the gravel path. Daumer wants to pick up the apple again. It is tired now, says Kaspar, it is tired from walking; they shouldn’t plague it any longer. Daumer tries to teach Kaspar that there is no life in the apple, that it was up to him which direction the apple would take, and that it would drop where he threw it. He tosses an apple along the path to demonstrate. But the apple skips onward after touching the ground, which provides Kaspar with opposite proof that reinforces his viewpoint. Daumer now attempts to instruct Kaspar not so much by argument but by continued visual demonstration. He rolls an apple along the path toward Fuhrmann, who extends his foot to stop the apple, to show that by his will the apple comes to a halt. The apple has so much momentum, however, that it jumps over the shoe and rolls on. Kaspar is exceedingly pleased by the nimbleness and intelligence of the apple, admonishing the one in his hand to do likewise before he lets it roll. The apple skips over Fuhrmann’s shoe. Kaspar is jubilant, while Daumer and Fuhrmann have nothing further to say for the time being.

Kitchen in Daumer’s house Kaspar sits at the kitchen table, expertly ladling the soup in front of him with a hearty appetite. The housekeeper Katy busies herself over several pots at the stove, and slices some vegetables. The kitchen is suitably ample in size. Why hadn’t she always prepared the soup like this, he liked it now, yes, it is alright like this, says Kaspar. Katy looks at him in amusement. Ah, says she, the young man has never before had soup like this, heretofore feeling nothing but disgust for all dishes always, except for bread, and now he was gradually getting used to normal food. But beer and coffee still don’t agree with him. Kaspar nods approvingly, resuming his eating with a good appetite. After a pause Kaspar asks what women were made for, could Katy tell him. They really don’t seem to be useful for anything



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more than sitting around; they are persons who don’t occupy themselves with any serious work except sewing, at best, or cooking and knitting a bit. Katy stops working. He should address himself to Mr. Daumer about this, for he would have a decent answer. He had already asked him, but he didn’t know anything either. Kaspar lapses into contemplation. Absorbed in his thoughts, he makes a sketch with his soup spoon on the wooden table. Yes, says Kaspar after lengthy brooding, Mr. Daumer knows so much that he, Kaspar, would never be able to catch up with him. Mr. Daumer had told him of the desert, he couldn’t get that out of his head. He wondered if she, Katy, had ever been in the desert. By no means, says Katy, she had been only in Erlangen, once. From there it was still quite a ways to the desert. Kaspar now directs the conversation further, aiming at something definite: he has invented a story about the desert and has always wanted to relate it to Mr. Daumer. Why haven’t you told it to Mr. Daumer, says Katy. Yes, he doesn’t know the actual story yet, only the beginning, says Kaspar, and Mr. Daumer said he wanted to hear the story as a whole, that Kaspar should think it out first before telling it. If she, Katy, would like to hear the beginning of the story, it wasn’t very long. Some other time, young man, says Katy, untying her apron strings; she would like to listen, but now she must run to the market. Kaspar is visibly disappointed. He outlines figures on the table with his spoon, breathing very softly.

Kaspar’s chamber, Kaspar lonesome in his bed Kaspar lies in bed weeping, trying to do so quietly, he merely makes his mouth more contorted. He lies very still, until dusk. Very quiet, long scene. The half-­torn curtain cannot be drawn. In front of the window outside, the leaves of the pear tree are lightly stirring. After a while music sets in, a beautiful, calm, and unstrained aria sung by a tenor. In a corner of the room the mice are rustling. We hear faraway footsteps from without.

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Garden, red currant bushes Kaspar and Daumer stand close to each other, picking red currants. They work next to one another for a long time. It cannot be possible, says Daumer after a long pause, that for Kaspar the only agreeable thing in this world is his bed, and that everything else was ever so bad. Surely he at least loved this garden. Kaspar doesn’t answer, working his way through the bushes. Something is at work inside of him. He is strongly moved, but he doesn’t find the words. It is a prolonged ponderous silence. Yes, Kaspar says after a long pause, his appearance in this world had been a “hard fall.”

Kaspar’s chamber Kaspar is sitting in his little room writing zealously with a pen. He already has filled several pages with his neat childlike handwriting. In his zeal he doesn’t notice that Daumer has entered quietly. He suddenly recoils in shock upon realizing that Daumer is standing behind him. There is no need to be frightened, Daumer says. Daumer wants to know how far along he is with the description of his life, because the news has spread and the public was waiting impatiently for his report.

Small ballroom, interior Lively activity among the festive people in the brightly lit ballroom this evening: ladies in fine attire, gentlemen, noblemen, and uniformed servants taking champagne around. A light clinking of glasses, stylized amusement, and polished conversation. A rumor clinks faintly about; all eyes turn to a small hallway leading into a side wing, where Lord Stanhope and Kaspar emerge. Kaspar is very embarrassed. He doesn’t want any of this to leave his hands, for he still doesn’t know many words and there was so much still for him to understand, as he hasn’t been in this world too long yet. He has come, says Daumer, to inform him, Kaspar, that an



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English earl—­His Excellency, Lord Stanhope—­was residing in town, that he was taking particular interest in Kaspar’s fate and was nurturing the intention of taking Kaspar to England with him as his son, if he were to make a good impression on him. This means that there would be quite a future for him. The lord has invited them to a ball he is giving tomorrow, and people of rank and reputation will be present. Tomorrow, immediately following breakfast, he will accompany him to the tailor and borrow a coat for this occasion. Kaspar is a bit confused and wants to contradict him, but he cannot think of anything except for the fact that he does not know how to dance. There is no need for that, Daumer reassures him, and withdraws once again. The two of them, closer. Stanhope, about fifty, very suave and worldly in his manners, dressed like a dandy in his English outfit, with Kaspar beside him in a black frock coat and white gloves. He has removed his right glove and holds it with his left hand or rather, he clings to it. He seems to be strangled and utterly helpless. His movements resemble those of a dancing bear. When he turns to face someone, he turns not only his head but his entire body along with it. Daumer is behind them, dressed festively as well, and two uniformed persons further beyond. Stanhope is talking German almost without an accent, and from his phraseology we gather that he is delighted with how well he can speak. He feigns intimacy with Kaspar, as if he has been his special protégé for quite some time. The earl introduces Kaspar, showing him off all around. The ladies in particular exhibit their shrill enthusiasm. Kaspar, visibly suffering, reaches forth with his right hand and makes a forced bow, then he turns his body clumsily a little further, making a bow to another lady. The ladies are enraptured by this funny little animal. The earl basks in Kaspar’s presence. How had it been in his dark prison, an elderly dame immediately wants to know. Kaspar, obviously incapable of evasions, answers: he had been happy there, he had felt quite well. The earl is a little indignant, directing the topic of conversation at once to

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Kaspar’s remarkable progress in Latin, as well as his entire education. Daumer shows that he feels honored. Stanhope and Kaspar increasingly become the center of attention among the guests, who are closing in on the two in a circle. His young protégé, the earl proclaims, was obviously the very best proof of how a noble heart cannot be spoiled or hampered in its development by even the vilest crime. Genius and Grace had now fully awakened in the young man’s breast. A pure soul had come to life within him. The surrounding people display their approval as Stanhope sinks into Rapture. Then, suddenly, something stirring in Kaspar turns to stone. He mustn’t be frightened by all of these guests, he should say in all his youthful naivete whatever was moving him, Stanhope encourages him. “Your Honor,” blurts Kaspar, “there is nothing more that lives inside me but my life.” Stanhope is visibly irritated. Kaspar begs to be let out into the open air on the balcony for a moment, he says a slight case of nausea has befallen him, but it isn’t anything serious. Issuing an excuse to the surrounding throng, Stanhope gallantly escorts Kaspar, with exaggerated helpfulness, to the balcony, where he sees that they push him down upon a velvet chair.

Balcony of the ballroom, exterior Kaspar breathes heavily, freeing himself of his frock coat, he then opens his shirt, which is too tight around his neck. A uniformed man and Daumer are with him. Deadened, dainty conversation from the ballroom, music sets in. The air is doing him good, says Kaspar with a pale face. He should be left in peace for a minute, his sickness is really almost over, says Kaspar to Daumer.

Smaller ballroom, interior The conversation has shifted to a different subject, as Kaspar’s debut is over. The earl, surrounded by distinguished dames, is talking about Corinth and the Sun of Hellas. When he has gotten



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as far as the horses, an elderly lady laden with jewels steps forth from the side with a knowing glance, tugging at his shirtsleeve for him to come. Stanhope politely excuses himself for a moment and follows the lady. The gaze of the others, suspecting something, follows the couple. They advance toward the balcony.

Balcony of the ballroom, exterior Stanhope and the lady step outside onto the balcony, where Stanhope remains spellbound with embarrassment. Kaspar is sitting on the velvet chair with his shirt open wide and his sleeves pushed up, sunk into a deep, oblivious abyss, knitting. He holds a little piece of knitting, which he is enlarging. With thick fingers he labors with colossal concentration. The woolen thread with which he knits is winding down to the floor and up again, straight into Kaspar’s right pocket. There they perceive the outline of a modest ball of wool. Stanhope casts a devastating glance at Daumer, who has just entered, and Daumer is pierced by equally deprecating glances from behind as well. In his indignation, Stanhope leaves no doubt that he is through with Kaspar. Silence spreads. It is an awful, painful silence, because even the music in the room has ceased. All of this completely escapes Kaspar’s attention. He is submerged in his work.

Daumer’s garden, beneath the walnut tree Daumer and Kaspar are seated together at the table underneath the walnut tree, playing checkers. Kaspar deliberates before each move with a great deal of care, positioning the stones in every instance with a cautious inquisitive glance. Katy is working in the background in a vegetable bed. After a prolonged silence, Kaspar says it seemed peculiar, wondering whether Daumer felt it as well: he felt glances being directed toward him. He felt glances falling upon him ever so vaguely. Daumer turns around, reassuring Kaspar that there is no one in the garden except for Katy. The feeling was only a vague

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one, says Kaspar. Also, an unknown man had spoken to him on two different days while he was on his way from the municipal court, and he wondered whether this had something to do with the renewed police investigations, or with the fact that someone had spread some gossip around about his autobiography. Well, says Daumer, it could be that the persons who had first hidden and then expelled him were afraid of his place of confinement being revealed in greater detail. But one also knew that all investigations into this matter had produced nothing thus far. In the future, by no means should he walk alone to the municipal court.

Daumer’s house, side view, exterior The hedge reaches up along this side of the house a few feet. To the rear the garden is open, and toward the front there is a clear view through a high double-­w inged wooden portal, a small extra entrance has been built in the right wing of the portal. On the side of the house an enclosed staircase made of inlaid wood descends from the second floor. A small improvised outhouse has been built beneath the stairs, closed off from the exterior by a screen. Garden tools and rakes are lying about inside there, as the outhouse is apparently employed by the gardeners. A tiled path runs between the house and the hedge, the rest of the yard is covered by firmly packed sand. In front of the portal, a dog is sleeping in the sun. It is late morning. Kaspar rounds the house from the garden and tries to enter the house by way of the stairs, but he finds the door locked. He yanks at it once, then turns to the outhouse underneath the stairs without trying any further. When he pushes the screen aside a bit to enter, Katy bends down from a window above and, seeing what the trouble is at once, calls out: “The young gentleman has obviously taken too much of the Welsh nut laxative that the doctor prescribed for him.” Kaspar looks up while closing the screen, leaving it slightly ajar. Kaspar squats down onto the toilet seat. Through the crack between the screen and the wall of the house, the sleeping dog and part of the portal can be seen. The small door in the portal



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suddenly opens; we see this only because of the slight movement of the hinges, the rest of the door being obstructed by the screen. The bell above the door jingles softly, and the dog stirs in his sleep. Kaspar, who obviously hasn’t noticed that someone has entered, calls out: “Katy, would you open the door, I think somebody rang.” But Katy doesn’t come, as she is probably in another room by now. Behind the screen, Kaspar suddenly holds his breath, aware that someone has already entered. Evidently embarrassed by his situation, he doesn’t make a sound. Through the slits between the joints of the screen, we see from Kaspar’s perspective now that someone is approaching hastily, almost silently. The footsteps come to a halt in front of the screen. Kaspar stiffens into a statue of stone, looks under the lower edge of the screen a couple of inches from the ground and sees a pair of boots stop still and move no further. Kaspar doesn’t dare breathe. Someone is standing just as soundlessly in front of the screen. Long breathless tension, extremely tense anticipation. Then an arm rips the screen away with a jerk; Kaspar jumps up and into his pants with a similar jerk in confused haste. For a split second we recognize the Unknown Man by his clothing, his face veiled by a black kerchief, he lands a blow with a hatchet, as quick as a thought, into the outhouse. Kaspar, hit above the brow, falls forward into the half-­open screen. The dog in the background rises, yawns, and wags his tail as a sound is heard from the house. The Unknown Man turns away before he can land a second blow, and flees with silent steps. The dog stands at the portal, which has remained open, wagging his tail.

Daumer’s house, kitchen The kitchen door opens, and Daumer sticks his head in. Katy is arranging pear preserves in the pantry adjoining the kitchen. Where is Kaspar, Daumer asks; he hasn’t come to his lessons, and hasn’t appeared for lunch at the usual hour, either. He has already looked in his room. Katy comes out of the pantry. She had seen him this morning around a quarter past ten, she answers.

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Daumer’s house, side Daumer and Katy are standing by the outhouse, the screen is completely torn down. Daumer has discovered a trail of dried blood on the tiles that reaches past the packed sand to a point below the hedge, where a lump of dried blood has gathered in a little hole. Daumer senses evil.

In front of Kaspar’s room In the anteroom of Kaspar’s chamber there is a large dark wardrobe. Daumer and Katy are standing in front of it, their faces pale with fright. They have discovered the bloody imprint of a hand.

Entrance to the cellar Daumer is forcing open a heavy trap door, which hides a steep dank staircase leading to the cellar. There, he says, he must have gone down there. On the cellar door we see traces of blood.

In the cellar It is a frigid gloomy basement room, with walls full of mildew and water dripping to the floor. The entire floor is ankle-­deep in water. Kaspar is lying crumpled up in a slightly inclined corner, still conscious. On this one dry spot there are sprouting potatoes as well. Kaspar looks at Daumer and opens his hand. Blood is streaming from his head.

Kaspar’s chamber Kaspar lies in his bed fully clothed, with a makeshift bandage around his forehead. Daumer is supporting his head while Katy puts a bowl of water to his lips, as she was unable to come up with a more suitable drinking vessel in her haste. Kaspar drinks with such fervor that he bites a piece out of the rim. A doctor and a domestic come rushing in through the door.



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Kaspar’s chamber Daumer politely ushers the police notary, a scrivener, and a municipal judge out the door from Kaspar’s chamber. There is nothing more to get out of Kaspar today, the municipal judge remarks, he really hasn’t strength enough yet. Although the patient has made considerable progress in these past few days, he doesn’t believe that they can expect any more clues that might lead to a solution of the crime and a clarification of Kaspar’s origin. And despite his lingering weakness, he adds, the patient has regained the complete use of his mental faculties, his statements are no longer so confused. Daumer closes the door and turns toward Kaspar, who is reclining in his bed on a pillow, the bandage around his head much smaller. Kaspar is pale and visibly feeble. There is something that has nothing to do with the attack on him says Kaspar, but which he would like to mention anyway, as he was seeing it clearly before him now. He ought to talk about it, Daumer says, if he is sure it won’t be too much of a strain.

Vision of the island When, in his confusion, he ended up in the cellar instead of the kitchen with Katy, says Kaspar, he sank down unconscious on the only dry spot. Then he very clearly saw a canoe with a man in it rowing in the open sea, he saw the canoe from high above, there were mighty waves. The canoe had reached a rock, like a square pillar in the sea, and atop it was a verdant plateau where he saw a woman with flowing sleeves, who was swinging her sleeves ever so slowly. He knew that this was Death, this woman was Death. Then he looked over the edge of the rock into the sea, he felt drawn into the void, and then the cold water in the cellar brought him back to consciousness. This will not leave his mind. While Kaspar is speaking we see flickering images. A canoe on massive ocean waves approaches a craggy stone tower. On top of the rocky tower is a sloping plateau, over which fog is floating. There is a low stone wall upon it with strange huts of rough

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stone running along the edge, huts like igloos made of stone. A woman is standing in the distance wearing a light silk dress and fluttering veils. To her arms she has fastened long floating veils that reach down to the ground. She is swinging her arms slowly and solemnly, like wings. The veils swing like the wings of some majestic bird. The image flickers past. Mist rises from the depths, flowing over the plateau. Kaspar leans back onto his pillow and grows silent. He is tired now, says Kaspar.

Garden, under the walnut tree A heavy armchair has been carried from the house over to the walnut tree, beneath which Kaspar usually sits. Kaspar, propped up by a couple of pillows, is sitting there in front of the four parsons. Fuhrmann is seated closest to him once again, but this time Kaspar cannot lean evasively away from him because he is thwarted by the tall back of the chair. It is a warm, sunny day. Kaspar wears a long piece of bandage plastered across his brow. He cannot imagine that this attempt to murder him had been part of any divine plan, says Kaspar. The screen had somewhat prevented the murderer from landing a solid blow; and it was he, Kaspar himself, who had nailed the screen on one side to the wall because the wind had blown it over several times. Fuhrmann leans toward him, and since Kaspar cannot back away, he pushes himself subtly up the back of his chair. He should not fret so much about being persecuted, Fuhrmann says, but should place his trust in God instead, for even this murder attempt could not have happened without God’s will, nor, he adds, could it have ended so happily. Kaspar slides slowly down into his normal sitting position. A thought graces his face. Yes, he says, that really makes sense to him; God surely must have something against human beings, judging from the way they were made. All four pastors begin to talk at once. They hurl a horde of arguments at Kaspar. We can understand only part of what they are saying, something about the wise yet oftentimes inscrutable



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ways of Divine Reason, of sane suffering for probation, by which we weigh our Faith and abandon ourselves to His will. Otherwise all we know is chaos. Kaspar sits in his armchair, gazing at the pastors with bewilderment.

Country scene Kaspar, Daumer, and Fuhrmann stand on a small hill overlooking a lovely green valley. A short distance away from the group, a poor old day laborer with an excessively heavy load of wood on his back has paused as well, secretly partaking in the pleasure of the wayfarers, the gentlemen. Is this the Labenbach, Fuhrmann wants to know, this magnificent meadowland! Yes, says the day laborer, trying not to reveal the stress caused by the burden on his back, this was the Labenbach, he works there, he will soon have to mow the whole meadow, a hard job for just one fellow like himself. What a charming, rustic scene this is, and what a beautiful meadow, Daumer says. Yes, says Fuhrmann, the landscape here is as God commanded it to be. Kaspar stands off to the side, somewhat morose, scratching the scar on his forehead. Daumer turns to him, wanting him to cheer up. He can’t see anything beautiful here, everything is much too green, says Kaspar. Daumer hands him a red tinted lens and has him look through it. Yes, says Kaspar, he likes it this way a little more, but he still can’t call it beautiful since the children down there—­he should turn and look a bit that way—­have such raggedy clothes on even when he sees them through the red lens. They surely don’t get enough to eat, either. Daumer leans toward Kaspar a little and, following his gaze, we now see somewhat intimately an impoverished farmhouse at the bottom of the hill with some poor-­looking children in rags, barefoot and dirty, who stand stiffly, staring toward the wayfarers, hesitating in a peculiar way as if they didn’t dare beg from such strangers. They stand there in a weird fearfulness, a fear that cowers over them. That, says Fuhrmann, has nothing to do with the landscape,

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the fertile valley. What is more, he adds, the poor are especially dear to the heart of our Lord. A poorly dressed farmer now comes hurrying out of the farmhouse and heads straight toward the three visitors. Even before reaching them he politely begs them to leave. He works this farm with his brother, who is the father of those children. The mother of these poor little urchins died three days ago, and since then his brother was out of his mind with grief. He might be a danger to the gentlemen. Yesterday his brother killed two cows, to show the calves how it feels to lose one’s mother. Daumer and Fuhrmann retreat uncertainly. Kaspar stands rooted to his spot and has to be dragged away by Fuhrmann. The day laborer transforms into a living monument for all those who must bear too heavy a burden. The rustic scene ensues.

Garden hedge, blackbird nest Kaspar stands enraptured by the hedge in the farthest corner of the garden. The drenched leaves are dripping with rain, but the rain subsided some time ago. Kaspar cautiously spreads apart a couple of twigs, revealing to us a blackbird’s nest in a forked branch about breasthigh containing four young ones who huddle in their nest half-­naked still, closely pressing together. And now we also perceive that Kaspar has pulled a sheer black stocking over his right hand, and that he has made a fist inside underneath. He lets only his middle finger protrude a bit, like a nose. On both sides of the middle finger, where it is attached to the hand, he has stuck two lightly colored stones, so the fist rather resembles a small face with two eyes and a nose. Kaspar carefully moves the hand with the tiny face down close to the nest, and to his indescribable delight, the little blackbirds stretch their necks out toward the face, opening their beaks wide while chirping for food. Kaspar withdraws his hand again and lapses into deep thought. Then he notices that the blackbird mother is sitting with some food on the hedge, very near the nest. Kaspar turns his back quite carefully, stepping away stealthily on his heels.



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Sunday, square in front of the church A beautiful, calm, sunny Sunday; on the square in front of the church some sparrows are having a row. Some wagons and carriages nearby. In the background, an old woman is sitting in front of her house on a stone bench, sleeping. Through the open door of the church we hear the distant singing of the congregation as services are being held inside. For a long time nothing stirs. All of a sudden we see Kaspar rushing distractedly out the door and down the steps into the open square, the sparrows take to the air. He wears a black coat with white gloves and looks as if he had been squeezed into his suit. Behind him Daumer hurries down the steps with coattails flying, catching up with Kaspar. The two of them, closer. Kaspar doesn’t even wait for Daumer’s question. The congregation’s singing seems to him like some repulsive screaming, he says. “First the people scream, and when they leave off, then the parson starts to scream.”

Garden, the bed of watercress Daumer’s garden, a calm idyllic spot in the afternoon. Kaspar is sitting under his walnut tree at the little garden table, writing on a big sheet of paper with utter devotion. He dips the pen into a little inkwell, meticulously blowing a wasp away, though it persists in sitting on the edge of his paper. The sun is baking the gooseberry bushes beside him. In the shadow of the bushes, a separate little flower bed has been raked and planted and pruned with a great deal of love. The name KASPAR has been written upon it elegantly with watercress seedlings. Part of the bed is trampled down, with the A and the R having suffered in particular. Kaspar glances up from his sheet of paper, softly reading over to himself what he has written. KASPAR: “I beg Mr. Daumer to read this paper only with good

will. Yesterday it was quiet, so I went in the canoe; and the

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oarsman sat quietly and praised the journey. Days before I had sowed my name with garden cress, and these had come up beautifully, and had caused me so much pleasure that I don’t know how to express it. And yesterday, when I come home from the boat trip, there was someone who had entered the garden and borne off with many pears and did trample my name. Then I wept for a long time, and I want to sow the bed anew . . .” The light in the garden slowly fades. The stiff trees stand dead still. A music sets in, very gently and devoid of pathos.

Open field, night It is a bright mild night, the moon is shining over a field and a forest that stands dark and submerged in silence. Kaspar and Daumer are standing with eyes staring upward at the starlit firmament. Kaspar’s astonishment and rapture surpass all that we have seen of him so far. This was truly the most beautiful thing he has ever seen in this world, he exclaims. But who was it who put all those many lights up there, who lights them and who puts them out. Daumer tries to explain that the stars, just like the sun that he already knows about, shine all the time, although they aren’t always visible. Again Kaspar asks who it was who put them up there so that they are burning all the time. And why can’t one see them during the day, where are they then. Finally, with head bowed, he sinks into deep serious thought. Kaspar sets himself on a bench and asks Daumer why that evil man had kept him locked in all the time without ever letting him see any of these wonderful things. He wished that someone would put this man in prison, too, for just one day, so that he knew what it meant to be in Darkness. After that, Kaspar lapses into prolonged weeping that can hardly be stopped. Daumer stands still and does not know how to help him.



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Daumer’s garden, gravel path Daumer is walking along the garden path lost in thought, a book tucked under his arm. Katy is pulling weeds from a vegetable bed. Kaspar suddenly rushes toward him, tottering and stopping in front of Daumer. Like a mime on the stage, he mutely holds his arms outstretched and flails about frightfully. For God’s sake what has happened to him, says Daumer, who discovers blood and a puncture wound in Kaspar’s breast. Katy rushes over from her bed with her fingers full of mud. Kaspar cannot speak. He tries to pull Daumer with him.

In the Hofgarten Kaspar is pulling Daumer with him across a lawn in the park. He stumbles rather than walks.

Hofgarten, small fountain A small stone fountain with some nymphs. Behind it an artificial, ivy-­covered grotto. The fountain has dried up and the muddy ground nearby has been excavated into a pit. Evidently they are repairing the water pipes, but there aren’t any workmen. A few shovels and pushcarts are scattered around. Huge chestnut trees in the background. We see Kaspar pulling Daumer toward the fountain. He stops near the pit and points to the ground. That, there, was given to him by the man who then stabbed him. Kaspar suddenly regains his speech. Closer. We see a small black bag on the ground, which is now picked up by Daumer. It seems to be empty, but then a small piece of paper folded over several times emerges. The slip of paper, close up; backwards script to be read reflected in a mirror. We hear Kaspar blurt out that the park gardener had ordered him here by a messenger, to see the various levels of earth at the excavation. Daumer, who has realized that the strange symbols on the

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paper are mirror-­script, holds the paper against the sun so he can see the text show through on the other side. He reads: “Hauser will be able to tell you what I look like and where I am from. To save Hauser the trouble I shall tell you myself where I come from . . . I come from the Bayvarian border . . . at the river . . . I even want to tell you my name—­M.L. O . . .

Daumer’s house, entrance Mrs. Hiltel runs up to the entrance and rings. The door is opened at once from within.

Kaspar’s room Kaspar is half-­reclining on the bed, pale and disfigured, an image of horror. He hasn’t removed his clothes yet, on his chest alone the clothes and the shirt have been pulled apart. Kaspar is not completely stretched out, his body turned to the wall in a half-­lying, half-­sitting position, his legs dangling from the bed onto the floor. Daumer is in the room and Katy hands him a bowl with a damp cloth. Fuhrmann has squeezed himself in beside the bed, trying to stay out of the way. The surgeon-­general of the town is with Kaspar, fondling his wound, which is not visible to us because of Kaspar’s half-­averted position. Mrs. Hiltel comes into the room. “Mother shall come, Mother shall come, the Mother,” whispers Kaspar, but he doesn’t recognize Mrs. Hiltel, who is bending over him. The doctor raises Kaspar’s upper torso, bending him forward a bit, then he feels with his little finger down in the wound. He can feel a membrane, he says, and now he distinctly feels the throbbing heart muscle with his fingertip. The wound now seems more dangerous than it had appeared to be from the surface. “To Regensburg, to Regensburg,” Kaspar calls out, and in his delirium he springs halfway out of bed. The doctor is still sticking his finger into Kaspar’s breast, wrestling him down again with a great deal of effort. Kaspar loses consciousness.



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Daumer’s living room On his sofa, which has been converted to a bed, Kaspar lies in a yellow jaundiced pallor, though inwardly he is serene. The room is filled with people, and from the appearance of those surrounding Kaspar’s bed we can gather that this is his deathbed. Mrs. Hiltel is present with Julius, a doctor, a male nurse, Daumer, Katy, the municipal judge, Fuhrmann, and the three pastors. Embarrassed stillness reigns. Kaspar is clearly conscious but only manages to whisper. The people stand solemnly around Kaspar’s bed. Do you have anything to relieve your heart of, Fuhrmann says, bending over. Yes, says Kaspar and stays silent. Then, after a long pause: there was the story of the desert, of the caravan, but he still knew just the beginning of it. He should tell it anyway, says Daumer, that wouldn’t matter now.

Vision of the Sahara Kaspar, close. He is silent again. After a while he begins to whisper. He saw a long caravan coming through the desert. In the cara­ van were merchants, and suddenly some of them were puzzled because the outline of some hazy mountains was emerging before them. One of them now rode up ahead to stop the leader. They seemed to have lost their way as tall mountains appeared in front of them, they were beholding towering mountains. There the blind leader stopped, sniffed the wind, and then took a handful of sand from the ground, tasting it carefully. Son, says the blind man, son, you are wrong. What you see before you are not mountains. It was just a hallucination, it was just a mirage. They headed further north. Yes, they headed irrevocably northward, and then the real story began, in some oriental city. The story should be called: City in the Mountains, or City of the Far North, but the history that transpired in this city he didn’t know. While Kaspar narrates, images are flickering past. We see a big caravan like errant light come over the sand dunes, mythically grand. We see the blind Berber, walking in front on foot. We see fat Arabian merchants, pointing ahead, scanning a map, reading

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a compass with confused gestures. We see a fat merchant driving a dromedary forward. We see how he dismounts, stopping the leader. We see glimmering mountains swimming as if in a lake. The leader tastes the sand with his tongue like a cook. The images become lighter, flickering away. Kaspar, close. He has reflected for quite some time, Kaspar whispers, but the actual story has not occurred to him yet. He is silent for a long while. He thanks them for listening to him. He is tired, says Kaspar.

In the Anatomy A bare room: the anatomy chamber, a tiled floor that inclines from all sides toward a drain in the room. Big, high windows; from outside the light heats within. On one of the side walls a faucet without a sink, which is fully flowing constantly though no one closes it. The water runs into a drain beside the table. On the table is Kaspar’s corpse, whitish, with yellow-­green patches; the body is opened wide and pulled apart with hooks. The head is nearly beyond recognition because the top of the skull has been removed and the brain set free. Close. On the sole of Kaspar’s foot is a simple registration tag adhering to it with glue, with the initials K.H., a date, and some elaborate registration numbers. Five physicians are leaning over Kaspar’s corpse, disemboweling him like vultures. Quiet, busy, matter-­of-­fact, scientific greed. “Mister Surgeon-­G eneral,” one of them says, “look, there you are, the liver, the left lobe in particular is stretching extremely far, swollen all the way to the pleura.” “I cannot see,” says the Surgeon-­G eneral, pushing in front. “Mr. Physician, please remove this exudation first so I can judge for myself.” The interest intensifies, they have discovered something abnormal, as if that could explain everything. After having separated the two hemispheres of the brain, one of them discovers that the cerebellum is rather large and well developed in relation to the cerebrum, and that the posterior lobe of the left hemisphere



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refuses to cover the cerebellum, as is normally the case. The busy greed increases as something extraordinary has been discovered, the brain is being sliced into pieces. From the tap the water keeps flowing full force, the light from the window is blinding. Then, all of a sudden, music sets in. An aria from a very old recording, full of dignity, beautiful and solemn. The voice carries peacefully and without strain. The doctors work efficiently, diabolically. The water flows incessantly from the faucet. The music overwhelms the conversation. Then, as the music grows stronger, our gaze moves slowly away from the group and is drawn as if by magic to the window. The light becomes painfully bright. View from the window; outside on a dusty square, blinding as if lighted by electricity, three people are standing immobile. They are waiting. Then after a long time, the carriage they have been waiting for arrives. It emerges swiftly from trees that are petrified from the heat. White, glowing dust swirls up and settles again, glaringly hot. The carriage stops right in front of the people. Calmly and as a matter of course, the coachman waits until the three have entered the open carriage. All available seats are taken. Now we expect the carriage to leave as matter-­of-­factly as it arrived, but it simply doesn’t move. No stirring, no protest from the passengers. They just sit there like stone, and the vehicle doesn’t move. Why aren’t they moving, the carriage had come so swiftly. Prolonged stasis, nothing stirs, the passengers sit, staring straight ahead. A stray dog passing by increases the lifeless rigidity. The horse, playing with its ears apathetically, slowly lowers its head. The music stops. A gruesome horrible light over everything, without shadows. The carriage stands and stands and doesn’t move on. In the midst of this unheard-­of rigidity and paralysis, the vehicle stands stock-­still with the people inside it. The square is filled with electric inflexibility. The carriage doesn’t, and doesn’t, and doesn’t move on.

Land of Silence and Darkness

“From the Life of the Deaf and Blind Fini Straubinger” DARKNESS, QUIETUDE

The Field Path FINI STRAUBINGER: I see before me a path that leads across an

unplowed field, and fugitive clouds fleeing past.

The Ski-­Jumper FINI: As a child, when I could still see and hear, I once visited

a ski-­jumping event; and this image keeps returning to my mind, how these men were hovering in the air. I watched their faces very closely. I wish you could see that too, once.

On the Park Bench RESI MITTERMEIER: Could Mrs. Straubinger tell us about the

animals again? FINI: That was such an enormous pleasure for us. First we were

led into the room for the crawling animals. There was a roebuck of normal size—­they were all normal animals that had been stuffed for the instruction of the blind. There was a very beautiful roebuck, its fur was so beautiful. Beside it lay a stag’s head of a capital buck, a twelve-­branched antler. 

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And there was its neck as well, and the gaping mouth. I was awestruck by that huge animal. Then there were—­hares, yes!—­in leaping and sitting posture, one could touch them all over. Some of us felt creepy because there were also some mice. In the second room there were only the flying animals. First there was a black woodpecker on a branch, which was interesting . . . then its little brother, the colored woodpecker. I was enraptured! Those long beaks! Then a pheasant with its long feathers. What a pity that we couldn’t see the colors. RESI: Could Miss Julie tell us about the animals as well? FINI: They are asking you whether you can talk about the

animals. JULIE: I don’t remember much. FINI: She doesn’t remember much. But, what you do remember. JULIE: I touched some animals that I had never seen before

in my life—­pheasants, crocodiles, snakes, tigers, lions, and several others. And some that we also have here in Europe—­ goats, roebucks, hares, foxes, and even a mouse.

On the Plane Title: Flying for the first time Photos Title: Memories

In Fini’s Room FINI: As a child I was very temperamental. My mother had a

hard time with me and tried time and time again to keep me in line. Father died at the age of thirty-­three, I wasn’t even six years old. And so it happened that I lived my own life whenever I had the slightest breath of fresh air. Then it came to pass that I fell down the stairs at the age of nine. That is to say, I somersaulted from the third floor down to the second, and I fell so hard on my back and on the back of my head that a man who was standing nearby thought it



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was a gunshot. He asked: Did you hurt yourself? No, I said. Please, don’t tell Mommy or else she will spank me. And on all fours I crept up the stairs, for I couldn’t walk any more. Apparently I was very frightened and had received quite a shock . . . like a good child I sat down beneath the window and pleaded: Holy guardian angel help so Mommy doesn’t spank me! But from then on I always had nausea and headaches, something I had never known before. When the vomiting started, the doctor thought it was from growing, the second one said the same. Only the third doctor said that the child had suffered a fall. And at school I was very attentive and I showed interest—­the schoolmistress said one day: Listen Fini, you must pay attention not to write below the line! Yes, I said, but I always pay attention. Then it occurred to me that I didn’t even see the line. I had wanted to embroider very much, and then it happened that I was forced to stop halfway through my embroidery. The teacher said: Go home, you can’t see it anyway. And I didn’t feel like knitting . . . but. And from then on, it gradually went downhill. First, I went totally blind at the age of fifteen and three-­ quarters. At that time I also had to stay in bed, I had some very serious inflammations of the eyes. And then at the age of eighteen my hearing began to fail me. At first I didn’t realize what that funny buzzing in my ears was. And then one day I simply didn’t hear anymore. Mother spoke to me and I didn’t understand her. She came to my bed and said: But don’t you hear me? Why don’t you answer? I asked: What? Did you say something? Yes, of course, she said. I talked to you all that time, and you have given no answer. So I said: But Mommy I didn’t hear you. Then we both were very frightened. And it kept changing: sometimes I didn’t hear with my right ear, and sometimes I didn’t hear with my left. I wanted to see a doctor, I wanted help, I tried foot baths, I prayed fervently, but it didn’t help. Gradually I proceeded to lose my hearing, down to five percent. Initially I accepted it from the religious side. That gave me strength, but the loneliness, the terrible

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loneliness stayed with me. People promised: Yes, I will come and visit you, but they didn’t come; and if they ever did, they sat at my bedside chatting with my mother, and I was very quiet. And when I asked, I received a slight tap, and: Be quiet, I’ll tell you later what we were talking about. Yes, I wanted to grasp something of life. RESI: How long were you confined to the bed? FINI: Almost thirty years. Again and again I tried to get up.

There were periods when I could hardly move. Were those ever times! Then the doctor realized that it was a permanent disease, that perhaps it would take a very long time, and he deprived me of the morphine. That was hard for me, but I got over it. It is like this: one thinks of deafness, that it is complete stillness. But oh no, that is wrong. It is a never-­ ending noise in the head, ranging down to the lowest ringing, perhaps the way sand sounds, trickling, then knocking, but worst of all it pounds in the head so that one never knows where to turn one’s head. That is a great torture for us. This is the reason why we are sometimes so touchy, and don’t know what to do. It is precisely the same thing with blindness: it is not complete darkness. Oftentimes there are very strange shades of color in front of one’s eyes: black, gray, white, blue, green, yellow . . . it depends.

Birthday Party FINI: Hello, Mr. Messmer! I’m so pleased that you’ve come.

Commentary: On her fifty-­sixth birthday, Fini Straubinger has invited friends who are, just like her, both deaf and blind. Such a party is not easy to organize because each deaf and blind person needs a helper who interprets the conversation into his or her hand, for among themselves they can neither see nor hear. FINI: Hello, hello, Mrs. Meier, Mr. Forster, where is Mr. Forster?

Hello, Mr. Forster! Please tell Mrs. Meier what we are talk-



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ing about. That is someone with remnants of eyesight. But this group must be looked after as well so that they are not pushed overnight into the Land of Silence and Darkness. Hello, dear little Julie. JULIE: Where is Mr. Hundhammer? FINI: O noble knight George, where are you? Here! Good after-

noon, Mr. Hundhammer. I am sincerely grateful that you will be looking after Julie. Good afternoon! JULIE: Has everyone arrived? MR. HUNDHAMMER: Yes. Yes, they are all there. FINI: Who, but who is this? Mrs. Augustin? No . . . that’s

Chipmunk! Welcome, my Chipmunk! To all people present, a nice afternoon! Now please, who can recite a poem? JULIE: I would like to ask that you translate for the deaf and

blind in the finger alphabet. I shall speak as slowly as possible so that the people can keep up with me. For when the deaf and blind forever squats down, staring into the void, he feels ever so oppressed, and now I am going to read a poem particularly suited for this point in time. It is titled “The Finest Art.” To see from afar how others rejoice, fills with pleasure the holiest task, and for our own good nothing do we ask. To live in the shade, the sun so far, and yet to shine, for the others a star, that is an art, which only he knows, in whose soul the wind of heaven blows. DEAF AND BLIND WOMAN: Shall I begin? Yes.

Annie with her pretty hood is at all times kind and good. Dost for our care and keep every day our staircase sweep. Our thanks do we convey, here and now, and every day.

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Botanical Garden Commentary: In the afternoon, Fini Straubinger and her guests visit the botanical garden. GARDENER: You may touch one if you like, because they are very

solid. Pillar-­shaped . . . RESI: Pillar-­shaped. Nothing but cactus! GARDENER: Yes. FINI: How interesting! GARDENER: Here we come to the fruits of the cactus . . . RESI: A fruit of a cactus . . . GARDENER: We might as well pick one. This is the fruit.

The natives eat it, its meat . . . (is quite fruity) FINI: Who can eat that? GARDENER: The natives. RESI: The natives. FINI: Are they ripe yet? GARDENER: No, not like that. FINI: Thank you. GARDENER: No, not like that. FINI: Thank you. GARDENER: You are welcome. FINI: Look here . . . a bamboo! RESI: This is a bamboo, isn’t it? HERZOG: No! FINI: Look here, I imagined it to be quite different . . .

On the Train FINI: All of that will be in January . . . then again we will have

a lot of work. First of all the visits here, then the trip to the



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Upper Palatinate. No, before Christmas is out of the question! I wonder just how much I will have to prepare for Christmas . . . Mr. Schwarzhuber said I should prepare a play. But how, what, and when? Commentary: For four years, Fini Straubinger has been taking care of the deaf and blind people in Bavaria. She was nominated to do so by the Bavarian Association for the Blind. With her companion Resi Mittermeier, who guides her and interprets by a finger alphabet, she makes regular visiting tours in the country. She establishes contact with the deaf and blind there, taking care of their problems. FINI: Ah, my ticket, thank you!

If I were endowed with the divine gift of a painter, I would paint the fate of the deaf and blind roughly like this: Blindness as a dark melodious stream that slowly but surely flows toward a fall. To the left and to the right are beautiful trees with flowers and birds that sing wonderfully. The other stream, which comes from the other side, should be very clear and transparent. This stream flows slowly and soundlessly downward as well, and then, below, there is a very dark, deep lake. First there would be rocks on both sides where the rivers converge, the dark one and the clear one, against which the waters push, foam, and form whirlpools; and then, very slowly, very very very gently, they flow together in this very dark pool. And these waters would be very still and from time to time they would spray upward. This would depict the tortured soul of the deaf and blind. I don’t know if you actually understood properly. The pushing and spraying of the waters against the rock are, so to speak, the psychological depressions of the soul that accompany the deaf and blind when he proceeds toward deafness and blindness. I cannot paint it otherwise, it is right inside me so, but one doesn’t know to get it out in words.

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In the Insane Asylum Commentary: Here in a Lower Bavarian asylum, Else Fehrer has been living for two years; she is forty-­eight years old. Her mother, the only person with whom she could communicate, is dead. FINI: Welcome, my dear companion of Fate! Yes, that is the sign

of recognition. Miss Fehrer attended the School for the Blind in Munich for two years as a child. She learned braille, but since she has had no practice she has forgotten. Commentary: Since no charity or old people’s home would accept Else Fehrer, she was sent, out of necessity, to an insane asylum, where she doesn’t belong at all. Else Fehrer withdrew completely into herself. She never spoke again. FINI: The last years that she spent with her mother she was still

able to read somewhat from the mouth. But that is over now as well. RESI MITTERMEIER: She is looking at me all the time. FINI: Ah, well . . .

For you, my dear Else, yes, for you. RESI: She’s looking at you all the time. FINI: I . . . blind . . . deaf, like you, blind and deaf, too. Not

another word more. RESI: No. FINI: I might try . . . (guides Else’s hand in cursive letters)

blind . . . deaf, yes! You and I are sisters of Fate! You poor, poor human being, no contact with the world! RESI: She doesn’t speak. FINI: Yes, it is because she has forgotten her speech over these

many years. There is no bridge to her. RESI: Fini—­Fini Straubinger, from Munich, yes? FINI: Does she speak? RESI: No. But she is looking at us attentively.



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Title: When you let go of my hand it is as if we were separated by a thousand miles.

Congress Hall GERMAN PRESIDENT HEINEMANN: The other group of those

who cannot cope with an achievement-­oriented society, which literally means: those who cannot get their right if it is only the achievement that counts, are the handicapped. To them society owes more than tolerance for what they are, or how they are. To them society owes a taking into its midst in myriad ways. Ultimately, we deal with the consciousness of us all in our attitude toward handicapped people. And I must speak out at this point in utter frankness that I consider some of our attitudes in our society, I consider them terrifying. A society that doesn’t know how to treat old people, sick people, and handicapped people of all kinds as a natural part of its own, proclaims its own judgment.

On the Park Bench FINI: That was a very great experience. Yes, I was quite taken

aback when the president first approached me and grabbed my left hand with his left hand. His hand was cool, but not cold. And as I was presenting my petition I kept feeling a slight pressure, so that I knew I was understood, and that I was truly understood. And what I said was the following: Honorable Mr. President! Please grant your benign attention to the deaf and blind as well. Help us out of our isolation . . . help us to find noble people who will lift us out of our loneliness. RESI: Could you explain to us how “Lorming” works? FINI: Oh yes! The entire Lorming system consists of strokes

and points. But one must watch very closely how to apply the points and strokes. For example: the short strokes are made from top to bottom; h, g, d, b, and p from bottom to top.

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Q is this; the a, e, i, o, u is tapped on the fingertips. If you tap with all of your four fingers into the palm of the hand, it is a k. If you make a stroke across the palm of the hand, it is a z. And the entire alphabet is like this.

Farmhouse FINI: R, e. Pleasure. URSULA: Yes. I takes a long time, doesn’t it, until I understand. RESI: Who practices with you sometimes? URSULA: How, with me? Lorming? No one. Like my brother

says: Don’t reckon I can recall. RESI: Then you could talk to him more easily. URSULA: Naw, he only follows the dialect.

Commentary: On a farm near Freising, Fini Straubinger visits the brother and sister Ursula and Joseph Rittermeier. Ursula is deaf and almost blind, but she can still understand language by reading lips. URSULA: You only follow dialect. You can’t speak High German, no.

Commentary: Her brother is blind, though he still possesses remnants of hearing. URSULA: Lorming, you said, you’ll never learn. Can’t follow it,

you said. RESI: He has said Straubinger. FINI: I have brought you a money box. URSULA: Here, look! FINI: Joseph, I have brought your money box. URSULA: You can put in ten pfennig pieces, five pfennigs, one

mark, fifty pfennigs . . . Now stick it in, uh-­huh, an’ when you need it, shove it through again, then the money will pop out.



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Don’t shove too hard! Thataway! Got it? Okay? Now shove it in. Naw, press first. Naw, not yet. This is our parents’ house. And this is our vegetable garden. And there is the meadow. There my brother Joseph often mowed with his scythe. URSULA: The laundry, yes. FINI: A big wash, mmm. FINI: Joseph, I don’t see or hear either, just like you. We are

comrades in Fate . . . but now I’m wobbly. RESI: Ask him if he understood. URSULA: You get that? JOSEPH: Yes. URSULA: Your head, man! Stand up, Sepp, you ain’t so old yet.

Zoo Commentary: These deaf and blind here have never been to the zoo. Some of them have not touched a live animal in years. It would be simple to provide them with such a pleasure, but you find too few people who are willing to guide deaf and blind people. FINI (WITH CHIMPANZEE): Shall I let go? We must not hurt

him! There now, good. FINI (WITH A LITTLE GOAT): May I pick it up? But only if the

mother approves . . . ZOO DIRECTOR: Yes, yes.

Hannover School for the Deaf and Blind Title: Children born deaf and blind MR. BASKE: This is Harold, Mrs. Straubinger. Harold is one of my

first pupils, he came to me five years ago. He came as a small

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untamed boy, upsetting everything and breaking everything. It took a lot of effort to make him adjust to a daily routine, to familiarize him with his duties. It took a year for him to grasp the preliminary concept of the finger alphabet. Helen Keller speaks of this grasping as the recognition, the spiritual birth of the deaf and blind. And thus, the actual schooling for deaf and blind children commences at this moment. Since Michael, who sits next to me, still had remnants of hearing, we did not start him on the finger alphabet, but we have used on him the vibration method developed by the Americans, in which the children feel the word from the lips and repeat it. Michael, this is a car with a trailer! It is very difficult to guess the mood of our pupils, their thoughts and their emotions, and in most cases we are forced to resort to our own supposition. FINI: I can still remember being there two and a half years ago,

when Harold was such a young foal, so to speak. He was inclined toward watches and bracelets. MR. BASKE: It is much more difficult to teach them abstract

terms. We dress up these abstract terms in little stories. If we explain “good,” “loving,” we say: Harold gets up, Harold studies, Harold helps Sabina, Harold is good. Then we try to classify the opposite by saying: Harold spanks Sabina, Harold pulls Sabina’s hair, Harold snatches something from Sabina, Harold is bad. Thus, with a little example, you can demonstrate how we explain “good” and “bad.”

Swimming Pool MR. BASKE: So, Mrs. Straubinger, now we will dip into the water . . .

Commentary: Harold was scared to death by the water. It has taken more than a year to get him to follow his teacher into the swimming pool. MR. BASKE: And now I am trying to make him wade through

the pool alone.



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School MISTRESS: Au-­ PUPIL: Au-­ MISTRESS: -­to, -­to PUPIL: -­to, -­to . . . MISTRESS: Yes! Michael also says “Auto.” MICHAEL: Auto. MISTRESS: Once more come here! Yes, speak up! MICHAEL: Auto. MISTRESS: The lamp is also blue. La-­

Commentary: During the language lessons earphones are used as well. Harold can feel the sound waves through the vibrations. But even if these children learn to speak in entire sentences, it is still almost impossible to teach them abstract terms. What they really imagine by “ambition,” “hope,” or “happiness” will forever be alien to us.

Apartment, Waldkraiburg Commentary: Vladimir Kokol is twenty-­t wo years old and was born deaf and blind. All his life he has been taken care of by his father exclusively, and he has never had special training. His needs have never been used in order to stimulate his learning. No one has ever tried to awaken his sense of Reason. Vladimir has never learned to walk properly; he almost always accepts soft food, which he gnashes with his tongue against his palate. FINI: There he is! Welcome, Vladimir! I am just showing him so

he knows that someone is there. With patience and observation you can still get a lot out of him. He certainly won’t learn how to talk any more, but I am sure he will learn to interpret gestures. Something I’ve been observing from time to time is that he presses his nails into

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my hand, but that is merely because he can’t make himself understood otherwise. I am certain this isn’t malicious. Don’t scratch, my little one! Now look, now he is giving me the other hand! This is a radio, isn’t it? He loves that, because he feels something alive. Is this music? How do you put him to bed? FATHER: Just guide him in front of the bed, then he goes. FINI: Can he keep to the day and night rhythm at all? For that is

often very difficult with the deaf and blind. They simply cannot keep to the day and night rhythm. RESI: Does he know when it’s day and when it’s night, when one

gets up and when one goes to bed . . . FATHER: No, he doesn’t know at all, but when it is time to sleep,

then someone has to lead him to the bed. RESI: But then is he really willing to go to bed? FATHER: Yes. RESI: He can’t dress and undress alone? FATHER: No, he can’t. FINI: Ah, look, I’ve observed something! (Vladimir crosses

himself.) I must talk as well. I am sure you can get a lot out of him. Be good! Now he is getting bored. Yes, I think so, too.

Old Age Home, Autumnal Park Commentary: For five years, Heinrich Fleischmann, fifty-­one years old, has been living with his mother in an old folks home near Noerdlingen. At the age of thirty-­five, the farmer’s son went blind on top of his congenital deafness. From then on his relatives neglected him so that he completely forgot how to read and write. After being expelled from the human community, Heinrich Fleischmann sought the companionship of animals. For years he has lived with cattle in a barn. MOTHER: He is seeking your hand, don’t you see?



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RESI: He is seeking the mother’s hand. MOTHER: He knows me only from my ring. FINI: We want to chat. RESI AND FINI: Can he talk? MOTHER: Yes, if he could read lips he could speak everything. I

could talk with him when he was still able to read lips, when he was still able to see. But five years ago, for example, during the winter, I led him to the window, and he said, “Snow.” But I can’t bring anything close to him. RESI: Now and then a word . . . MOTHER: Very seldom, very seldom! RESI: And when we were here, did he afterward ask who it was,

or not? MOTHER: No . . . nothing, nothing. When my children come, he

recognizes none of them. RESI: He doesn’t know his own brothers and sisters anymore? MOTHER: No, he doesn’t know who it is. RESI: He doesn’t want any more strangers. FINI: He must have had his experiences . . . MOTHER: Oh, there is bound to be a lot that I don’t know about. FINI: Goodbye. MOTHER: Ah, Heinrich, he is escaping now. RESI: Did you say goodbye to him? FINI: Yes, I did say goodbye to him. Goodbye, Mrs.

Fleischmann. All the best for the coming year as well! Goodbye! MOTHER (TO THE CAMERA): Goodbye, gentleman!

Written title: If a World War broke out now, I wouldn’t even notice it.

Fitzcarraldo The Original Story

CHARACTERS

Enrico Caruso Brian Sweeney Fitzgerald, called Fitzcarraldo Wilbur, his nephew, feebleminded Bronski, actor Molly, former singer Jaime de Aguila, captain Huerequeque, cook Stan, juggler The Mechanic Don Aquilino, rubber baron Don Araujo, rubber baron The Borja Brothers, rubber barons Notary Opera Director Black Lackey McNamara, eleven-­year-­old Jívaro boy Jesuit Missionaries Inhabitants of Iquitos, Manaus, and Belén; Jívaro Indians; plus Gringo and Verdi, Fitzcarraldo’s dogs, and Bald Eagle, his parrot



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AUTHOR’S NOTE

The fundamental geographical pattern is vitally important for the understanding of this text. The two tributaries of the Amazon, the Pachitea and the Ucayali, do exist, but in reality their course is completely different from the description in this story. Their names have been selected only for their sound. Only one thing matters for the story: both of them are tributaries of the Amazon, running roughly parallel to one another. In one place, far along their upper course, the rivers come very close to each other. The Pachitea flows into the Amazon upstream from the city of Iquitos, the Ucayali downstream. The upper course of the Ucayali would be easily navigable if the Pongo das Mortes rapids did not block the flow early on. The Pongo das Mortes really exists, although in actuality it is called Pongo de Manseriche and is situated on the upper course of the Río Marañón.

Manaus, Teatro Amazonas, Night The big, pompous opera house is festively illuminated, a row of elegant carriages stretches all the way up the ramp, which is beautifully ornamented with light and dark inlaid bricks. The clay-­ caked spokes of the wheels, in which huge jungle leaves have been caught here and there, and the horses’ hooves give us the first hint that the opera house has been built in the middle of nowhere, in a jungle settlement suddenly become rich. In front of the gigantic portal, two Indian palace guards stand wearing uniforms from the wars of liberation. Their glances are wrapped in jungle trance, far from all comprehension. By the carriages, black servants in gala livery, hands gloved white, are standing in wait. A distinguished-­looking gentleman with a top hat and black cape, who apparently has arrived a bit late, hastens toward the portal. “Champagne for the horses,” he hurriedly calls to his servant. The latter hangs a bucket on the drawbar and actually fills it with several bottles of the choicest French champagne. The horse slurps it up.

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From the jungle, which can’t be far, cicadas shout their monotonous song of the night; from inside the foyer of the opera house we hear the typical mixture of festive murmuring and the orchestra tuning its instruments. Apart from this, we hear only the pawing and chewing of the horses. Only the champagne-­ drenched horse disturbs the pattern, accompanying his lapping with a patient, long-­drawn-­out, long-­range fart. Otherwise all is quiet. The horse makes a deadpan face. With the sound of a kettle drum, the overture to Verdi’s A Masked Ball begins inside. Closer to the portal. Full of awe, some curious onlookers—­ various barefooted half-­breeds, along with caucheros, the local rubber workers, in tattered pants, and a few mulattos from the poorer quarters—­have formed an impassable wall. They are staring inside, listening intently to the music, which meanwhile has opened up fully and oozes outward in muffled tones. Only the liveried servants near the horses think themselves better and loll on the upholstery of the carriages. Near the wall of closely packed people, under a glass showcase, a huge poster proclaims in big letters ENRICO CARUSO and SARAH BERNHARDT together in a sensational GALA PERFORMANCE on the stage of the TEATRO AMAZONAS, MANAUS, and below, in much smaller print, A Masked Ball, by Giuseppe Verdi.

Manaus, Harbor, Night The moonlight reflects off a lake so wide we cannot make out the far shore, and the lake moves. It is the monstrous middle stretch of the Amazon River. At the edge, dozens of boats of all sizes, most of them for cargo, are moored. Many of the boats have roofs of corrugated tin or braided palm fronds, and next to them lie cargo rafts made of balsa wood for cattle transport. A tree trunk comes floating by, and directly after it a peke-­peke emerges, one of those typical Amazon boats that appeared shortly after the turn of the century, with a simple gasoline engine, covered by a palm roof. The engine does not work, and we see Fitzcarraldo, strenu-

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ously rowing the boat with one paddle against the current, then tying up on land. Wilbur is steering at the stern. Both wear white linen suits, but Fitzcarraldo’s is visibly soiled with sweat and dark, oily spots. His hands are wrapped in dirty bandages soaked with blood and oil. He wears a battered straw hat, although the sun went down a long time ago. Wilbur is trying to heave a magnificent barber chair off the boat, a chair that could only have been invented around the turn of the century in a Latin country. But Fitzcarraldo urges him on insistently. “My God,” he says, “we’re too late.”

Teatro Amazonas, Stage The opera has reached its climax. The production, seen from the audience, is bombastic in the extreme, overstylized. The turn of the century celebrates itself. It is the gloomy night scene, where Amelia timidly approaches the high court to look for the magic herb under the gallows. Theater lightning flashes through the fearsome landscape. Sarah Bernhardt, as Amelia, is clearly limping; her flowing costume cannot conceal that she has a wooden leg. Neither does she herself sing, but only moves her lips. Down in the orchestra pit stands a real singer, singing the aria “If the herb, as the fortune teller says . . .” for her. Enrico Caruso, as Riccardo, who has followed her, urges her to confess her love. Their feelings for each other flare up in a blaze of wild passion in the duet “I am close to you,” while, unnoticed by the two of them, the plotters lurk in the gloom of their hiding place. Suddenly Renato, Amelia’s husband, appears to warn Lord Riccardo of the conspirators. Amelia just manages to pull the folds of her veil over her face. The men exchange cloaks, and Riccardo leaves, as Renato begs him to, but demands from Renato an oath that he will escort the veiled lady to the gates of the city without speaking a word. Then his path is barred by the plotters, the blackguards, who demand to see the lady’s face. . . .

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Manaus, Quay, Night Fitzcarraldo and Wilbur hasten along the quay, where amid the clay and muck a few miserable bars thrown together with old boards serve sugarcane rotgut, where stuporous drunks play cards, where prostitutes of the cheapest kind loiter about. One of them blocks Fitzcarraldo’s way. “Hola!” she says. “Gringo!” But he shuns her and hurries on. In his haste he has brought his paddle with him.

Teatro Amazonas, Night As before, the ragged, barefoot figures form a wall, as they listen intently to the sounds inside. The opera seems to be drawing slowly to a close; a dramatic climax of delusion, death, and belated recognition builds. When Fitzcarraldo and Wilbur come running up, panting, the faces turn. Fitzcarraldo stops short when he realizes everyone is staring at his paddle. He is embarrassed for a moment because it is so out of place. Pulling himself together, he puts on a small face and pulls Wilbur through the wall of gaping people into the foyer.

Teatro Amazonas, Foyer A festive radiance illuminates the huge, columned foyer. The marble floor reflects the lights from the crystal chandeliers. On the walls all around are garish jungle paintings with the lurking jaguar and other Amazonian imagery. At once, an elderly black man in particularly splendid livery bars the way of the two intruders. “Gentlemen,” he says in a refined tone of voice, “you may not enter here—­this is a gala.” With a condescending look he assesses the strangers’ clothes and paddle. “The Barber of Seville?” asks Wilbur. “Figaro?” Fitzcarraldo composes himself; he’s going to put everything on the line. “We have been traveling ten days. We’ve come down the Amazon fifteen hundred kilometers from Iquitos. Two days ago our engine broke down. Look at this. Look at our hands! We’ve

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been rowing two days and two nights, just to see Caruso for once in our lives—­the great Caruso, the one and only—­in person.” “Excuse me,” says the black man in a friendlier tone of voice, “you have no tickets, and this performance has been sold out for six months.” “Please,” implores Fitzcarraldo, “we have to get in. I once had my own theater, and I have to get in here. I too am going to erect an opera house, in Iquitos, and Caruso is going to inaugurate it. The plans are all set. It will be the greatest opera the jungle has ever seen, and I am going to name you as Administrative Director if you let me in now.” More and more urgently he insists, for, inside, the agony of the grand finale is already in the air. “I myself would like to be inside,” says the black man, and Fitzcarraldo senses that the ice has broken at last. “Make sure to be very quiet,” says the black man, “and squeeze against the wall back there by the entrance.” “Figaro!” says Wilbur. “The Barber of Seville!” A joy known only to the feeble-­minded radiates from within, illuminating him.

Teatro Amazonas, Auditorium Red velvet and gilded chandeliers. Three tiers of balcony tower one above the other. This opera house was begotten in lust. Breathless silence reigns. On the apron of the stage, hardly visible because he is lying on the floor in the throes of death, is Caruso as Lord Riccardo, wearing the disguise of a harlequin for the masked ball. Sarah Bernhardt, who as Amelia has now discarded her shrouds, has thrown herself upon him, rather clumsily due to her wooden leg, but nevertheless in utter exaltation. The conductor is an imperious Italian with the look of a military commander in his eyes. Beneath him stands the singer, who sings Bernhardt’s part, while up on the stage Bernhardt merely mouths the words. Caruso, the dying man, in the robes of the harlequin, raises himself for the last time for an aria. Leaning on his elbow, he hands his murderer Renato a document guaranteeing him his friendship and the inviolability of his honor. With his last words

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he forgives his murderers and hails his homeland. Caruso flings out his right hand, indicating an imaginary distance, where the horizon lies, the other bank of the river, vaguely in the direction where Fitzcarraldo stands. Fitzcarraldo has pressed himself against the rear wall. He clutches his paddle with his sore fist. He has removed his hat as well. There he stands, the man, the witness of the sublime. Caruso’s grand gesture from the stage pierces him like a lance. “He was pointing at you,” Wilbur whispers to him. Then the mighty curtain falls, with its colossal allegorical painting of the birth of the Amazon River. Only the turn of the century and the rutting imagination of the jungle could have given birth to such a monstrous allegory. Tremendous applause surges upward in foaming waves. Lights, festive glamour, cheers, bows, curtain calls. Fitzcarraldo alone stands frozen like a pillar of salt. Then, finally, the applause ebbs away, and the first spectators leave the auditorium. Long evening gowns, jewels, tuxedos, and starched shirtfronts. They press toward the exit where Fitzcarraldo stands weeping in his rumpled linen suit with his bloody hands, paddle in his fist. Disapproving glances; people feel disturbed by Fitzcarraldo’s display of emotion. Wilbur doesn’t quite know what to do and casts a troubled glance at Fitzcarraldo. Then, caught by the same emotion, Wilbur too begins to weep. The loneliness of what they have just experienced unites the two, forges their bond, the secret of which we can only guess.

Teatro Amazonas, Office of the Director The ostentatious office of the director, a stout man with an alert intelligence and a sentimental bent. He is seated behind his mahogany desk, on which is one of the very first telephones, along with framed photographs of opera singers with autographs, a potted palm next to them, orchids in a sumptuous vase. Fitzcarraldo and Wilbur are sitting across from him; they have been offered tiny cups of black mocha. “Fitzcarraldo?” asks the director with feigned astonishment. “Let me explain,” says Fitzcarraldo. “My father was an Irish-

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man, and my real name is Fitzgerald. Brian Sweeney Fitzgerald. But in Peru nobody could pronounce my name correctly, so I modified it a bit.” “Fitzgerald? Iquitos?” wonders the opera director. “You’re not by any chance the man with the railroad?” “Yes,” admits Fitzcarraldo, somewhat embarrassed, “the Trans-­ Andean Railway from the Amazon over the Andes to the coast of the Pacific. But that enterprise, as you certainly have heard, fell through. At the moment I am trying my luck as an ice manu­ facturer in order to raise some money. I’m only doing it because I have but one dream, the opera: the Grand Opera in the jungle. I am going to build it, and Caruso will inaugurate it!” “Yes, Caruso,” echoes Wilbur devotedly.

Teatro Amazonas, Backstage The opera director conducts his visitors backstage, where the sets have been taken away minutes earlier. “Our house might be too small in a couple of years,” he tells them. “For five years now we’ve been the richest city in the world.” “And Iquitos,” adds Fitzcarraldo, “is catching up. As far as rubber is concerned, we have almost reached the same production figures.” “This place is getting a little crazy,” says the director. “Our prices are now four times as high as in New York; palaces are being built with tiles from Delft and marble from Florence. We have a telephone network with three hundred connections, more than Paris. And the people who are more well-­to-­do, if I may use that expression, send their laundry to be done in Lisbon, because the water in the Amazon is felt to be too impure. Unfortunately, our governor Ribeiro has died . . .” “What?” says Fitzcarraldo. “He couldn’t have been more than thirty years old.” “You know, between ourselves, although the newspapers gave a different version of the incident,” the director replies mysteriously, “he strangled himself in a fit of erotic frenzy.” Then he adds in a more formal tone, “Our governor Ribeiro said at the

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inauguration of this house: ‘If the growth of this city calls for it, we will tear down this opera house and build a bigger one.’ This one was put right in the middle of the jungle—­now see how the city has grown up around it.”

Teatro Amazonas, on Stage Fitzcarraldo, Wilbur, the director, and the uniformed man from the night before wander through the auditorium; without people it now seems much vaster but no longer as festive and glamorous. Nevertheless, this theater is unique in the entire world. Wilbur feels the velvet upholstery of the seats and tries out several, one after another. Fitzcarraldo, who addresses the black man as “Mr. Administrative Director,” tests the hall’s acoustics from the stage, shouting Ho! and Ha! and clapping his hands, listening to the echo.

Dressing Room Inside the dressing room used by Caruso just shortly before, Fitzcarraldo is noticeably quiet, impressed. “Do you know how much Caruso got for this one evening?” the director asks. “Two hundred thousand gold escudos,” he answers himself. “And Sarah Bernhardt almost twice as much, though she can’t even sing, but the public here wanted both of them at once.” “Where has my nephew gone?” asks Fitzcarraldo. “Have you seen Wilbur?”

Teatro Amazonas, on Stage Fitzcarraldo and the black man find Wilbur cowering in a chair in the middle of the stage, frightened, like a nocturnal animal suddenly blinded by a searchlight. Fitzcarraldo tries to see what Wilbur sees. But there is only the yawning void of the empty auditorium, with its row upon row of empty seats, staring back motionless, expectant, as if the people to fill them were unnecessary.

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Then there are the big fans, with their long, long, rotating wooden blades twitching as they turn. “This man here knows what a stage is,” says Fitzcarraldo.

Amazon River, toward Evening Gigantic, almost motionless, the vast river is resting in itself. Calmly and surely, Fitzcarraldo’s boat follows its course. Upstream, to the west, the heavens are lit by the glowing red light of the evening sky. Steam sinks down upon the jungle. Parrots fly in flocks over the boat, squawking in their typically restless flight. Quiet and composed, Wilbur and Fitzcarraldo sit and steer the boat against the current, into the night. Wilbur is stretched out comfortably in his barber chair, his feet propped up on the footrest.

Tres Cruces, Dawn Their backs to us, as in an old painting, Fitzcarraldo and Wilbur sit and survey a visionary land now resting in the mythical mists of early morning. They are on the last heights of the Andes, from which the jungle descends into the immeasurable expanse of the Amazon basin. Into unimaginable depths the jungle ripples out to where sight gives out and vision begins. The view is beyond compare; in the whole of South America there is nothing like it. As immense as an ocean extending to the edges of the universe, the jungle stretches out, steaming, as on the morning of Creation, still indistinct, full of animal noise. A music swells up, magnificent, breathtaking, and measured, as a hundred million birds awaken far below our feet. The earth lies in wait, calmly and patiently, but the sky begins to quiver as if this were some painful quaking of the heavens, something like the birth throes of heaven. Softly, almost hesitantly, Fitzcarraldo begins to speak. He seems to be seeking a measure for the immeasurable. “From here,” he says, “it’s four thousand kilometers to the Atlantic. Do you know what the Indians call the jungle? They call it the dreamland,

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and here, where the rapids are, they call it the land God created in wrath. We shall bring Grand Opera to this place, this is where it must happen.” “How?” asks Wilbur. “How are you going to do it?” “I don’t know yet,” says Fitzcarraldo. “Listen now, hold your breath and don’t move.” The horizon erupts into convulsions and, bathed in trembling flames, it now gives birth to a sun, a wavering, gigantic ball of red, breathing fire, bigger than we have ever seen the sun before.

Iquitos, Riverbank and City Streets Even this first glimpse of the city makes us aware of the enormous gap between Fitzcarraldo’s dream and its realization. His boat is moored in an awful jumble of other boats; there are rafts loaded with cattle for the slaughterhouse and others piled high with fruit. A cow has broken loose and swims out into the current, pursued by a man with a liana rope. The hillside up to the town is strewn with fermenting garbage; vultures, pigs, and naked children poke about in it as equals. The vultures, hundreds of them, are black, sluggish, and ugly, waiting for the entrails and steaming refuse from the slaughterhouse, where every day the murdering seems to begin anew. Farther up are the first wind-­warped shacks, roofed with corrugated tin, where dingy bars dispense sugarcane booze to men who, in the early hours of morning, lie drunk in their own urine. Rice and yucca and bananas are frying and simmering everywhere, on the boats and up on the street on improvised fireplaces. Timber of tremendous girth is hauled ashore; women squat fully dressed in the river, doing their wash; rubbish gathers in whirlpools around the bows of the boats; some children torment a mangy dog in a doorway. Peke-­pekes ride the river, up and down, Indians stagger under the overly heavy loads balanced on their backs with the aid of head straps, people jostle each other, Indian women suckle their children, people sleep on precarious planks. This is a place where chaos will triumph over order for all eternity. We see Fitzcarraldo and Wilbur as they work their way up to

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the town, through the slippery clay on the slope that keeps crumbling away. An Indian porter has loaded Wilbur’s barber chair onto his back. We accompany Fitzcarraldo through one or two streets. We can see clearly that Iquitos has been wrested from the jungle only in the past few years. Low houses with sheet-­metal roofs, loitering beggars, loitering caucheros, loitering dogs—­the dogs are truly the most wretched to be found on this earth. Everywhere there are signs of rubber, the gold that has made everything possible here. Lined up in heavy bales along the edge of the streets, the rubber awaits transport, watched over by fifteen-­year-­old Indian guards armed with carbines—­children who understand nothing, only that they must instantly open fire on anything nearing the goods. Vultures crouch on the rooftops, glutted by carrion and the sweltering heat. In the streets there is the hustle and bustle of life, but it is overshadowed by fatigue, fever, disillusionment, and poverty. In the background, where all the streets end at the Amazon, the palaces of the rich are situated, bombastic, their outer walls set with colored tiles.

Belén District, Fitzcarraldo’s Hut, Morning Fitzcarraldo wakes up in his hammock, blinking his eyes without opening them, pretending to go on sleeping. He knows his audience has already arrived, has been waiting patiently for a long time. Like a silent, enclosing wall the Indian children stand at a respectful distance. Among them an unusually long-­legged, woolly pig, a real sprinter, has pushed its way to the front in breathless curiosity. Drunk with sleep, Fitzcarraldo gropes with one hand toward a little table, as if it were wandering away in a dream, upon which sits one of the very earliest phonographs. It is one of Edison’s machines with needle and horn, which, in those days, worked by sensing the grooved cylinder. The machine starts to move, the morning concert begins: these are the first recordings of Enrico Caruso, terribly scratchy, but of an unspeakably dignified beauty, sad and strong and moving.

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Fitzcarraldo now opens his eyes completely. “When one day my opera house is built, you will have your own box and an armchair covered in velvet,” he tells the pig. It stands there as if rooted to the ground, listening. Now we see Fitzcarraldo’s hut more closely. It rests on tall poles, like hundreds of others around it. Through the slits in the floor we see people moving underneath. The hut is extremely simple, essentially a platform, almost without walls and covered with a braided roof. From his house we can see through dozens of similar huts: one always participates in the lives of one’s neighbors. Some of the houses rest on thick, rotting balsa logs so that when the water rises they float. Nearby runs a narrow tributary of the Amazon, on which there is busy boat traffic.

Belén, Fitzcarraldo’s Porch, Later That Morning Fitzcarraldo has gathered his followers and is sipping black coffee with them. First we must introduce his two dogs, Gringo and Verdi, the ultimate monstrosities of misery. He treats them, however, like aristocratic greyhounds, talking to them now and then in a tongue especially invented by himself. But his most splendid companion is Bald Eagle, a relatively small, previously green parrot that now has only a few feathers left on its body; both the back of its head and its ass are completely bald. He apparently has been trying for some time to teach the bird two sentences in particular, with only moderate success: “I am an eagle, yes I am” and “Birds are smart but they cannot speak.” Stan has arrived, a young, pleasant-­looking juggler, bearded and slender, always looking a little shy. He has an unmistakable New York accent. Wilbur has placed his coffee cup on the floor and is busy feeding his snake, which he keeps in a glass cage. The snake is one of those rare specimens born with two heads. Both heads are fighting each other for the food. “It’s possible,” Fitzcarraldo muses, “that we could sell the use of the patent. Just imagine the possibilities. Ice! Ice on every boat, in every storehouse, and to cool your mattresses at night.”

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“But,” Stan interjects, “why doesn’t anyone take this seriously?” “The potato wasn’t taken seriously for two hundred years,” says Fitzcarraldo. “It’s going to drive me crazy! We’ve got to prove that people need ice, then we’ll find a backer. Just think, we could supply Colombia, Ecuador.” “In the States,” Stan says, “they’ve already flown fifty miles with powered airplanes, and people still don’t want any ice.”

Belén, Fitzcarraldo’s Ice Factory At the outskirts of Belén, where the steps go up to the town of Iquitos and where the teeming Indian market starts, there are log houses with corrugated tin roofs that are built somewhat more solidly yet are unable to disguise their slovenly, temporary, Amazonian character. The side facing the market is half open, and life outside surges past. Stands with roofs of canvas or tin, men and children laden with cargo, fish kept fresh by sprinkling water on them, meat beneath clusters of whirring flies, fruit, heaps of garbage, noise, music, stands selling steaming food and people with food served before them on tin plates, goods wrapped in big fresh leaves. But all this is only outside, noisily shoving past. Inquisitive glances pause in passing by the activity inside, and children crowd around the door. They can always be found wherever Fitzcarraldo makes his appearance. The “ice factory” inside works according to the principle, employed well into this century, that the reaction of various salts removes heat from water in a container. Two Indian laborers stir constantly in big circular movements with a metal pole in a vat whose outside is frosted, steaming from the cold. On a wooden pallet, several long blocks of ready-­made ice are stacked. Fitzcarraldo has a block sawed into four slabs and loads them onto a little cart, where he has his ice-­shaving machine. His two curs, Gringo and Verdi, have been following him, sniffing around in all the corners. Fitzcarraldo has some friendly words to spare for them, and the dogs wag their tails.

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Belén, Several Locations Fitzcarraldo, Wilbur, and Stan, strolling through Belén, stop here and there to sell shaved ice. Hordes of children surround them; without the children there wouldn’t be anything lively down in Belén. Life here is Amazonian, as if dozing in a coma. Women sit in their open stilt huts, endlessly delousing their children, suspended in time. Vultures perch drowsily on poles that serve to anchor the houses on floats during floods, spreading their wings like heraldic animals. They often remain motionless like this for hours. Women lean over porch railings and watch the river flow lazily by. Only the river is always in motion. The air is sultry and stifling, and people hardly move. On small charcoal grills yucca roots, green bananas, guinea pigs looking like naked rats without their skin, and fish are being barbecued, and half a cayman is roasting over a large fire. This attracts Fitzcarraldo’s attention. “I’ve never tried crocodile,” he says, and for a coin he is served a piece on a fresh palm leaf. The meat is almost milky-­white. “It tastes a little of swamp,” says Fitzcarraldo. Big piles of empty turtle shells are lying about, and there are places where you have to balance your way along fallen balsa trunks so as not to sink into the swamp. There are little shacks made of bark and braided twigs sitting on logs in the bog, outhouses that float when the water is high. The place swarms with children; they comprise two-­thirds of the population down here. Often, fifteen-­year-­old girls are already carrying their second child as a papoose; naked children grovel with pigs in the foul mud; children play marbles. Children bear loads that are far too heavy for them. Then they stop, panting and swaying. “Fitzcarraldo!” the children cry, and Fitzcarraldo sells shaved ice, dispensing it for coins of very little value. He has clamped a lump of ice into his machine and, turning a handle, he shaves it underneath with a kind of grater. The ice, which is more like white, loosely packed snow, drops into a glass, and Fitzcarraldo pours sweet, heavy syrup over it, a bright orange or an even gaudier bright green that quickly colors all the fluffy ice. While Fitzcarraldo struggles to keep up with the urgent demand, the

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juggler juggles and Wilbur dances for the children with strange, almost witchlike movements. He illustrates what the juggler performs. Stan has a fascinating way of handling the children. With three or four little balls he can juggle entire stories, in which the balls can be sad, joyful, mischievous, or scrappy. He is a true master in his field, a born street performer who reacts to every move his little spectators make, instantly involving them in his stories. Although he speaks English to the children’s Amazonian Spanish, they understand everything. He tells them the gloomy ballad of the children who leap around and swim in the river, and of the child who drowned, lured to the bottom of the river by white bufeos, the white freshwater dolphins, so that he might become one of them. How the dolphins sing and dance in the depths, and how they sometimes come up to dance on the surface when the moon is full. “Say, ‘I am an eagle, yes I am,’” Fitzcarraldo says to his little friend Bald Eagle, who sits on the ice grater, but the parrot just yanks out a few of his last feathers and says nothing. Business is good, that’s obvious.

Iquitos, Brothel, Night Molly, with her Indian maid service, resides in one of the larger, slightly more ostentatious buildings in town, which, however, lacks the refinement of the great palaces, betraying more of its plaster and cheap paint. Still, her house does offer every stimulation for lewd fantasies, with the aid of some effectively placed potted palms, orchid plants, and concealed lights. This is no mere brothel operation; rather, Molly trains pretty young Indian girls, often forcibly captured in the jungle, to be maids in distinguished households. While this is no different from procuring mistresses for rich men, Molly considers it better than letting the girls go to ruin on the street. Molly is serene and still has the radiance of a great lady from her days as a singer, but with the years she has gained in motherliness. Although she sometimes treats her girls with severity,

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she never loses her fundamental note of affection. She treats Fitzcarraldo like a big boy who has to be watched, who has to be consoled at the right moment, but who has to be allowed his freedom. Molly loves Fitzcarraldo, and Fitzcarraldo loves Molly, but they have been through so much together that they don’t waste big words on it. Molly and Fitzcarraldo are seated together at a festive dinner table, Fitz wearing his best suit, his hair kept under control with a little pomade. Several of Molly’s prettiest girls are serving. “But you have good connections with some of the very rich,” says Fitzcarraldo. “With all of them,” corrects Molly. “You should see how the children scramble for their flavored ice,” says Fitzcarraldo. “The news must have gotten around. Now that, on a bigger scale . . .” “But,” says Molly, “the barons here have to want something themselves. Then they finance, then they pay any price. Zulma here, for example, has been here only nine months, and now Don Araujo has already got his eye on her, and Alfredo Borja, too.” “Is that one of the Borja brothers?” asks Fitzcarraldo. “No,” says Molly, “the father, the old man. And now they’re trying to outbid each other on her price, you wouldn’t believe it.” “With that kind of money,” says Fitzcarraldo, “I’d build myself an opera house out of blocks of ice for every performance, so for each night there’d be a huge, cool palace of ice, just for one night, and then it would melt away.” “Fitz,” says Molly, “you’re dreaming again.”

Gentlemen’s Club, Late Afternoon The gentlemen’s club in Iquitos is located on the second floor of an elegant building on the Plaza de Armas. The rooms are arranged in such a way that they open onto a spacious veranda, extending them. Large fans disperse the cigar smoke; there are comfortable cane-­backed chairs and a piano on a dais, and deals are being made. This is pure masculine society; those who meet here to gamble were made rich overnight by the rubber boom. Everything

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is ostentatious; one displays openly how much one has acquired, and entire fortunes change owners here in less than an hour. At one of the tables they start yelling because one of the rubber barons, who apparently has won, now beheads a whole crate of champagne bottles with one, two strokes of his machete. Fitzcarraldo sits pushed halfway to the side at a table where six players, stubbornly drunk and stubbornly taciturn, sit playing poker. The table is covered with green velvet, and set into the rim of polished mahogany there are small bowl-­like holes that are far too small to hold the huge bundles of banknotes passing across the table. One of the players, Don Araujo, waves to the waiter and orders another glass of horsepiss. The waiter, a pure Indian who apparently doesn’t know proper Spanish, says, “Sí señor, horsepiss.” For the other men at the table this seems to have been a joke practiced for a long time. They trade conspiratorial glances. “How do you count?” asks Don Araujo, as the beer is being brought. “One, two, three.” “And what is this called?” “Horsepiss,” says the waiter. “Good, right,” they all agree, applauding. Fitzcarraldo takes advantage of the brief interruption to address Don Araujo. “Well, what do you think of it?” he asks. “I’ll tell you what I think,” says Don Araujo rather frostily. “In the first place, you can’t have any patents, because that’s been written in every schoolbook for the past hundred years.” “Yes,” says Fitzcarraldo, now growing a little discouraged, “but I have the experience with it, the experience is what counts . . .” “And secondly,” Don Araujo continues, “what good is ice here? To cool the rubber? To put glaciers in the jungle? Or to put the Trans-­A ndean Railway on sled runners, then let the brakes go, and adiós, down into the valley?” This scores a point. The circle of players is sneering now, trying to suppress their laughter. Fitzcarraldo starts to jump up and leave. “No, stay,” Don Araujo says, pulling him down by his sleeve.

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“Here, take this.” He hands him a single bill from a bundle so tightly packed it looks like a brick. “Play a hand with us. Ah, this precious feeling of losing money! Ecstasy!”

Steeple, Plaza de Armas, Sunset In a corner of the Plaza de Armas stands the shabbily built main church of the town, made of sloppy plaster with a distorted, scarcely recognizable trace of Gothic. In the center of the plaza there is a fountain, eternally dry, with benches, lawns, and trees around it. The trees, however, are all completely leafless, their branches bare. A crowd has gathered in front of the church, staring up at the spire. We recognize Fitzcarraldo and Wilbur, who have barricaded themselves in the tower, sounding the alarm. The bell sounds very thin and wan; it proclaims no fire, no war, no raging storm. It sounds more like an out-­of-­tune teakettle. Fitzcarraldo violently beats the clapper of the bell while Wilbur dances like a dervish. The people stare up at them. At the church door below, four policemen led by a lieutenant are trying to force the door open, but it seems to be securely barred from inside. And then something breathtaking happens. The sky darkens, at that moment when the sun descends below the rooftops and the jungle. From all sides the sky, still bright, darkens with raging black clouds, and now we recognize what they are: gigantic flocks of black, swallow-­like birds, whirling into each other and against each other in increasingly narrow, furious circles and whirlpools—­unimaginable, like biblical swarms of locusts. If you look into it you are seized by vertigo. The birds circle in layers above each other, within each other, six hundred thousand birds right over the Plaza de Armas. People seek refuge in the doorways, in the open bars. And then, all of a sudden, a frontal swarm forms, crashing down toward the plaza in a frenzied funnel, like a whirlwind. At the same instant, the entire demented sky coalesces to an orderly vortex, to a whipping tail of a predator lashing down on the plaza. Six hundred thousand birds land in a single unearthly whir on the few trees in the plaza. In seconds, the trees are transformed into shapeless black clumps, not one branch

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visible, nothing but heaps of fluttering birds. At the edge of the plaza thousands more settle on window ledges and thin stucco strips, suddenly delineating in black on the walls of the houses designs that were hardly visible before. Up in the tower, Wilbur has gone into ecstasies, dancing, fighting an army of six hundred thousand enemies whizzing around his head, close enough to touch. Wilbur stands in the middle of a cloud of whirring birds, flailing his arms like windmill vanes and crying, “We want the Opera!” Fitzcarraldo goes on ringing the bell with a vengeance.

Prison, Inner Courtyard The prison courtyard is a cheerless square, partially roofed with corrugated tin. Vultures perch sleepily on the gable. All around are cell doors, bars reaching down to the floor. From the one open cell, the yelling and coarse singing of men is heard. We recognize Fitzcarraldo’s voice. Wilbur comes stumbling out of the cell, followed by the police lieutenant and Fitzcarraldo, their arms around each other’s shoulders, staggering. Fitzcarraldo is waving a whiskey bottle in his right hand. “Compadre,” he shouts, “drink up! How did you like my alarm bells! Drink!” he insists. “To your opera!” yells the lieutenant. “He who builds an opera house must be a free man. And you, compadre, look me in the eye—­where is he?” But Wilbur has already taken off.

Belén, Fitzcarraldo’s Hut Completely knocked out by his hangover, Fitzcarraldo is lying in his hammock, still fully dressed with his boots on. He senses that someone is staring at him. As usual, he gropes with his hand for the phonograph. But he doesn’t get that far, as a hand stops his halfway. Fitzcarraldo opens his eyes. There are no children standing there, no familiar wall of bodies; not even the pig is there, his fan, the long-­legged sprinter. Bronski stands before him, and it is already late afternoon.

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“What’s going on?” asks Fitzcarraldo. “I am your man,” says Bronski. “You are?” says Fitzcarraldo with his head still spinning, not yet fully comprehending. “My pleasure!” “I was there yesterday,” says Bronski, “when you made your appeal for the opera from the spire. It was so beautiful the way you sounded the alarm. I am an actor. May I introduce myself: Bronski.” “Yes?” says Fitzcarraldo, slowly coming to. “What time is it, anyway? Oh, my head!” “I arrived in Iquitos just a short time ago,” says Bronski. “Buffoonery is rampant on the stages of the world. What remains for us now is the jungle. You must excuse my accent, for I haven’t quite shaken off Germany yet.” Then, out of the blue, without warning, he starts reciting a Shakespearean monologue, but with such boldness, such intensity, that the first sentences take your breath away. Bronski goes into a fit, a kind of raving, while people gather below the hut. Abruptly, in the middle of a sentence, Bronski breaks off. “That is the man,” says Fitzcarraldo, “or my name isn’t Fitzcarraldo.”

Molly’s Brothel, Toward Evening Molly and Fitzcarraldo seem to have been conferring together for a long time; they give the impression of being in cahoots. “I can arrange that all right,” says Molly. “I have my ways, rely on me. I’ll bring my girls with me and you’ll see, they’ll all be there. We’ll have all the rubber barons together in one spot, and I’ll make sure they feel really good. And you bring Bronski and your phonograph. . . . But look at you! I won’t let you out of this house looking like that.” At a sign from Molly, four pretty Indian girls grab Fitzcarraldo and drag him amid his half-­hearted protests up the stairs into a chamber. “A steam bath!” Molly calls after them. “The very finest treatment for Mr. Fitzcarraldo!”

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“Help!” cries Fitzcarraldo weakly to Molly, as he disappears through a doorway above.

Garden Party, Night A garden party with everything that is rich and has a name. Gentlemen in tails and ladies in long evening gowns. With many of the gentlemen it is obvious that their manners are poorly studied, that only a few years ago they were nobodies, that their comportment is but a thin veneer, hiding what is, in reality, a mob of cutthroats and gangsters. Chinese lanterns illuminate a luscious tropical garden, sanded paths interspersed with lawns, fireplaces where lamb is being roasted, waiters displaying fine fat fish on big silver platters to the guests, champagne in abundance. Molly is distinctly visible with all her girls, who wear identical aprons and embroidered ribbons. The girls are carrying trays with drinks. Fitzcarraldo and Bronski are present, both wearing their best suits, looking dapper and well groomed. They stroll with a group of billionaires, the Borja brothers and Don Araujo, through the garden. “Everyone wants money from us,” complains Alfredo Borja. “The hospital, the fire brigade, and you keep straining my ear with your opera. Where will it all end? We can’t afford everything either.” He wipes his greasy face and fat neck with a silk handkerchief. “Just take a look at this.” From his pocket he pulls a thick bundle of banknotes that must weigh a pound or more. “Come here and look at this.” They stop in front of the pond, whose muddy brown surface rests peacefully within the frame of its whitewashed walls. Borja throws his money into the pond, only a few feet out, and at once the water is transformed into a raging tumult, as if sea monsters were at war in it. A huge paiche, a species of pike almost ten feet long, as thick as a man, sucks up the bundle of money with an ugly noise. Other fish fight in frenzied greed for a share of the apparent food. Fitzcarraldo is taken aback and deeply shocked, as Alfredo Borja puts on an overbearing expression. “You see how fast our money runs downstream,” he remarks

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superciliously. “You must have had a similar experience yourself—­a railway is bound to swallow up a lot of money. There must be something titillating about going bankrupt.” Fitzcarraldo is having difficulty maintaining his composure; we can clearly see him wrestling with his urge to throw Borja into the pool. “I have my phonograph with me, along with the very first recordings of Caruso, the ones from Milan and some later ones from New York. You only have to listen to them once, then you’ll understand me. And look at this man here, Bronski.” “Ah,” says Don Araujo, “this gentleman was supposed to recite something from Mr. Shakespeare. Could we start with that? You know, such a chance to meet all of one’s friends and rivals in one place doesn’t present itself often. Please start at once, and don’t make it too long. Ladies and gentlemen, may we have your attention for a moment please!” The party guests gather hesitantly, wrapped up in light chatter, their glasses still in their hands. Bronski begins with a monologue from Richard III, and after the first few sentences he works himself into such a hysterical fury that all conversation stops at once. Fear spreads through the crowd. Like a cripple, Bronski rushes toward a group of ladies, who scatter in terror. He whirls around, and a gentleman behind him stops chomping his cigar. Bronski, all in a rage, with a hallucinating leer, storms toward a young girl as if having a fit, and she flees at once. After less than two minutes, Don Araujo, evidently the host, feels forced to end the proceedings. At a signal from him, three black servants abruptly surround Bronski and hustle him out. With their white-­gloved hands they touch him as if he were a leper, a reeking, mangy cur. Another servant takes Fitzcarraldo by the arm to lead him away. All hell breaks loose as Bronski tears himself away with an incredible, mad jerk and screams lines from Richard III into the faces of the Borjas. “Don’t worry, ladies and gentlemen, these two gentlemen are harmless, they’ve just had some soul-­stirring experiences.” Don Araujo makes a studied bow in the direction of Fitzcarraldo. “Sir, my domestics will accompany you into the kitchen. My dog’s cook

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will prepare you a meal. Thank you very much, gentlemen, you were superb.” Bronski falls silent, he is now nothing but wrath incarnate, sparkling and glowing, pondering murder; now, in his muteness, he is one with the part. Suddenly Fitzcarraldo, icily controlled, pulls over one of Molly’s girls carrying a tray filled with champagne glasses. He grabs a glass, raises it: “To Shakespeare,” he says, and drinks it in one gulp. Immediately followed by the next one. “To your dog’s cook!” And then the next one: “To Verdi!” And another, and another. “To Rossini, to Caruso!” On a sudden impulse, Don Araujo grabs the last remaining glass, raises it, and addresses the entire speechless assembly: “To Fitzcarraldo, conquistador of the useless. Cheers!” Fitzcarraldo moves up, only inches away from Don Araujo’s face. Don Araujo doesn’t flinch. Fitzcarraldo speaks in a low voice, trembling with restraint. “As sure as I am standing here, one day I shall bring Grand Opera to Iquitos. I shall outgut you. I shall outnumber you. I shall outbillion you. I shall outrubber you. I shall outperform you.” “You pigs, you dirty pigs, you savage pigs!” Bronski screams in a voice that can no longer be called human. In an instant a fistfight with the servants breaks out. Molly, horrified by the way her friends have been treated, demonstratively departs the scene with all her girls. The whole thing ends in wild uproar, a wild melee.

Belén, Amazon Riverbank Vast and calm, the greatest river on earth flows by. It is raining in tranquil streams, everything is water in water. Ships draw calmly past. Thunderous clouds hang heavy in the sky. Fitzcarraldo is sitting with Wilbur and Stan in a cantina, protected by a palm roof. We see them from the rear, watching the downpour. A drunken cauchero lies near them on the floor, snoring. Mournfully and abstractedly Stan juggles some balls. The rain drips down from the roof in a thick curtain. There is a long silence.

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“I could kill myself, the best things always occur to me later. I should have said: ‘Sir, you are dead as a doornail, you’re not alive anymore.’ And he would have said: ‘I think you are mistaken, I am still standing firm on my two legs.’ And I would have said, ‘When you shoot an elephant, he remains on his legs for ten days before he topples over.’ And I should have, I wanted to say: ‘Sir, the reality of your world is nothing more than a bad caricature of the great operas.’” “We have to get rich with rubber ourselves,” says Stan. “How did these guys do it? They didn’t have anything to start with.” “First of all,” says Fitzcarraldo, “you need land. It costs almost nothing around here, but all the good areas, where the trees are worthwhile, have been parceled out. And then you need a big steamboat, to make shipments up and down river and bring in provisions for large numbers of forest workers. And we don’t have either.” “But,” says Stan, “on the Ucayali there’s still an area with millions of rubber trees, almost as big as Belgium.” “But you can’t get there,” says Fitzcarraldo. “It’s on the upper course of the Ucayali. Farther downstream are the rapids, the Pongo das Mortes, which you’ll never get past. You’re not the first clever person who thought of that.” “And the Pongo das Mortes?” asks Wilbur into the ensuing pause.

Pongo das Mortes, Early Morning Jungle, steep mountains, steaming fog. Parrots squawk, the water roars like wild bulls. The river below the narrow part of the Pongo das Mortes widens quickly to half a kilometer, but we can see distinctly that further up the Pongo the cliffs start rising vertically. Higher up they are overgrown with dense jungle. It is high water, yellowish-­brown as it surges along. Fitzcarraldo is standing at the water’s edge in the dense jungle, with Don Aquilino at his side, a fine-­boned man who looks like a Spanish aristocrat. Deeper inside the forest, a few ragged Indians with machetes stand staring out over the water.

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“And your territory?” asks Fitzcarraldo. “It ends right here where the Pongo empties. Downstream it reaches for thirty kilometers.” “And beyond the Pongo?” Fitzcarraldo asks. “Well, beyond . . .” Don Aquilino sighs. “I would like to be there myself. If you are good at climbing, and over the mountains at that, then good luck to you. We’ve thought about building a road across it, but it would be a crazy venture, and then there would still be something missing.” “A boat,” muses Fitzcarraldo, finishing the thought out loud. “And through the Pongo by boat—­nobody’s ever tried it?” “Want to see for yourself?” asks Don Aquilino. “You have to see it with your own eyes, or you’ll never believe me.”

In the Pongo das Mortes, Boat Trip We are with Fitzcarraldo and Don Aquilino on a powerful motorboat, steered by an Indian boatman. All three are wearing life vests. To the left and right, rocky walls vanish up into the fog. The rushing water forms huge whirlpools, which, like whirlwinds with a deep hole in the center, often drift in semicircles against the current. “What’s that?” asks Fitzcarraldo, frightened. “Shh, quiet, don’t talk,” the boatman calls in his native tongue. “What’s he saying?” Fitzcarraldo asks. “You must be quiet,” says Don Aquilino. “Whoever talks or makes noise will be swallowed up by the whirlpools. That’s what the Indians here believe.” The current becomes so violent and the waves farther upstream tower above them so threateningly that the boat must be tied to big boulders on the riverbank. Here we can see ground-­up pieces of tree trunks lying around, torn and filed smooth by the water into weird shapes. “In flood season the water rises more than thirty feet above this level,” says Don Aquilino. “Take a look at these marks.” And indeed, things don’t look so good; we can sense violent forces here. “We can go a bit farther on foot.”

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Riverbank in the Pongo das Mortes Fitzcarraldo and Don Aquilino have penetrated deeper into the Pongo on foot, up to the point where they cannot proceed any farther because the rocky walls plunge almost vertically down into the raging torrent. We are in the midst of the most furious rapids in the whole of South America, a pure inferno. We see Don Aquilino drawing Fitzcarraldo’s ear toward him, shouting over the roar. “The Indians call the rapids chirimagua, ‘the angry spirits.’ Anyone who falls in there is done for. The Indians also say, ‘The water has no hair to hold on to,’” he shouts, laughing. We see him and Fitzcarraldo, their life vests still tied around them, as they seek a firm hold on the slippery rock. Far above them the sky is veiled by fog. The rocky walls are lost in it. Colibri hummingbirds dive down out of the roiling fog. Lianas hang out of the nothingness, almost reaching the seething of hell. There is no passage through here, never.

Jungle Path The jungle is dusky and moldering, foul vapors of organic decay rise from the ground. Rain streams down incessantly, and incessantly the monkeys scream their wailing noises in the treetops. Shrill sounds of birds in the liana thickets, an enormous, mysterious orchestra reaches out to the edges of the world. A path, hardly visible to the naked eye, winds its way through dripping green profusion. We notice it only when a strange procession, led by a half-­naked Indian, passes by at a lope. The Indian has something resembling a miner’s lamp attached to his headband, and in his right hand he has a machete, sharp as a razor, which he wields with surprisingly lithe, swinging movements to hack through the constantly creeping foliage and lianas. Behind him hastens Don Aquilino in a grotesque-­looking hat hung with a mosquito net, tied at his neck, making him look like a beekeeper. Behind him follows Fitzcarraldo, stumbling, slipping, and beating about with his hands to ward off the mosquitoes.

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After him come some Indians with closely cropped hair, barefoot and half naked. Shy and soundless they glide through the sinister forest. Don Aquilino turns to Fitzcarraldo and says, “I told you this wasn’t a joyride.” Fitzcarraldo falls into the muddy, putrid, rain-­ soaked soil but is back on his feet at once, hurrying on bravely. The jungle swallows up the men.

Jungle, Rubber Tree The men have stopped at a rubber tree. “So that’s a rubber tree?” Fitzcarraldo asks, disappointed by such a small, stupid, ordinary-­looking tree with its gray bark. “Right. Hevea brasiliensis,” says Don Aquilino. The Indian with the lamp on his head carves a kind of fishbone pattern into the bark with quick, practiced movements, sticking a little wooden peg into it, angled downward, as a viscous, whitish juice immediately begins to ooze out of the cuts and flow together. The milky juice is channeled precisely to the wooden tap, from which it drips down into a tin can that one of the Indians has hurriedly fastened to the trunk with a wire. The Indian speaks Jívaro, and Don Aquilino interprets. “The word for rubber comes from their language, they call the tree cautchou, ‘the tree that weeps.’ These bare-­asses here are very fond of flowery language; gold they call ‘sweat of the sun,’ and bees ‘fathers of honey.’ It’s no easy job disciplining these bare-­ asses. That’s why each one is given his own separate area, and as the trees are pretty far apart, it’s quite a runaround. But that’s the only way to keep them from making mischief.”

Jungle, Settlement of the Rubber Gatherers In the middle of the dripping jungle is a small clearing, where some sad hens stand in the dripping rain. They stand apathetically, completely motionless, thinking intensely about nothing. Parrots fill the treetops with noise, rain gushes down, far away

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a mighty thunderclap rumbles. Moisture steams up between the tree trunks. A few very primitive huts are scattered about. In the center of the clearing are two protective palm-­roofs of differing height, erected almost vertically. On the ground between the two lean-­tos, a fire is flickering, and over it a wooden pole fixed in a forked branch is being rotated. On the pole a wild growth of brownish rubber has already collected. One Indian turns the pole as another carefully pours on the milky rubber juice, which, because of the smoking fire, coagulates quickly into a thin skin, making the ball thicker. Corrosive white smoke rises against the rain and lingers in the clearing and among the trees, refusing to disperse. Fitzcarraldo huddles under the steep lean-­to with Don Aquilino, trying to avoid the smoke by keeping his head down. In his hand he holds a cigarette, swollen by the humidity, and he approaches the blaze rolling it between his thumb and middle finger to dry it. It is getting too hot for him, and the cigarette is still swollen with dampness. The Indians work silently. “You are a strange bird,” says Don Aquilino, “but somehow I like you.” “I’ll tell you something,” Fitzcarraldo says. “There was a funny little Frenchman, at the time when North America was hardly explored, one of those very early trappers. From Montreal he went west, and he was the first white man to set eyes on Niagara Falls. When he returned, he told of waterfalls that were more vast and immense than people had ever dreamed of. No one believed him, they thought he was a madman or a liar. But he was a visionary. They asked him, ‘What is your proof?’ and he answered, ‘My proof is that I’ve seen the falls.’” Fitzcarraldo tries to light his cigarette with a glowing twig, but it refuses to catch fire. “Excuse me for having told you this now,” he says, coughing. “I don’t really know myself what it’s all got to do with me.” The camp is wrapped in mythical vapors, and the rain presses upon the sad forest with the full colossal weight of an entire continent. A grandiose music emerges. We breathe deeply.

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Don Aquilino’s House, Night A broad veranda, built on poles like the rest of this stately house of Don Aquilino. It is lit by kerosene lamps. From one of the rooms, the door of which is ajar, a strip of light spills out. A man crosses the light, casting a fleeting shadow on the floor of the veranda. Only now do we see that several Indian women and girls are huddled in the darkness between the braided-­cane chairs on the veranda. Steadily the rain drums its song on the rippled tin roof of the house. The living room, seen through the door of the veranda. Simple furniture, the quarters of a pioneer, with only a massive mahogany desk to suggest that Don Aquilino is one of the very rich people in this country. A young Indian woman whisks in from outside carrying two glasses of thick, rich papaya juice. Fitzcarraldo reaches absent­mindedly for a glass. He is not really paying attention to Don Aquilino, who is talking to him. “Women, that’s the only pleasant part of this business out here, there are enough of them. Unfortunately, for the first two or three years you’ve got to be out here sweating in it, or else everything goes cockeyed.” But Fitzcarraldo cannot tear his gaze from a map hanging on the wall. It attracts him magically. Don Aquilino steps up beside him. “This, here, from the Pongo to where the Ucayali empties into the Amazon, is my area,” he says. “And this here is Araujo’s territory, as big as Switzerland. And this here, Alejandro Borja’s, and this Gustavo Borja’s, and this over here, Clodomiro Borja’s. And up north of them, Hardenburg’s, you know, the only Prussian. Farther east you see the Peruvian Amazon Company, that’s a joint-­stock company.” He points to all these places on the map with cursory, magnanimous gestures appropriate for a landowner of his caliber. Only one big gap remains—­beyond the Pongo, up the Ucayali River. Closer to the map, we see a sector of the Amazon region with several tributaries branching out, which, in the Peruvian Andes, curve south into parallel mountain valleys, while in the Andes of

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Ecuador and Colombia they behave similarly, except that they all branch out to the north. The Pongo das Mortes lies between the last heights of the Peruvian Andes. The adjacent river parallel to the Ucayali is the Pachitea, which sometimes runs as far as one hundred kilometers distant, but in some places comes quite close. On the whole, however, one gets the impression that the two run approximately parallel to each other. The Pachitea feeds into the Amazon River above Iquitos, the Ucayali a little farther downstream from Iquitos. On almost all the other tributaries, gridded spaces of vast dimensions have been marked off, apparently the territories of the rubber barons indicated by Don Aquilino. On the upper course of the Ucayali, that is to say, beyond the Pongo, an ungridded rectangle has been marked, and on the Pachitea there is nothing at all. “What does that square mean?” Fitzcarraldo wants to know. “Well,” says Don Aquilino, “that’s the rubber region of the Ucayali, with about fourteen million trees, and look, it’s the only one that has yet to find an owner. You’d have to be able to fly.” “That’s been done already,” says Fitzcarraldo. “And what’s up there on the Pachitea? Why is there nothing marked there?” “There are no rubber trees there, that is to say, there are a few, but it wouldn’t be worthwhile,” says Don Aquilino. “The only thing you’ll find there are savage Indians. White civilization stopped short at their doorstep because it wouldn’t have been profitable for us.” An idea akin to madness has suddenly seized Fitzcarraldo. He stares along the Pachitea, and then he stares along the Ucayali. A sudden flash of inspiration shoots through his mind, but he doesn’t want to give himself away. He grabs Don Aquilino’s glass by mistake and drinks it down, trying to overcome his hoarseness, but he barely manages. “How exact is this map? Is there anything more exact?” he blurts out. “Yes,” says Don Aquilino. “Why?” Fitzcarraldo just stares at him glassy-­eyed. “In 1896 a group of surveyors got to the upper Pachitea, along with some soldiers, and some of them were murdered. Then the Jesuits penetrated a bit farther up the river. They have their last

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outpost in Saramiriza, and from then on it’s only Jívaros. Savages—­ you know what I mean? They make shrunken heads. Have you ever seen one?” “Yes,” says Fitzcarraldo. “I mean no . . . sort of.” Don Aquilino withdraws briefly to an adjoining room, returning with a shrunken head smaller than a fist, discolored and almost black. It is the head of an Indian with long hair. The lips have been sewn together with a fuzzy thread. “Genuine Jívaro, from this region here, but this one is from twenty years ago,” says Don Aquilino. But Fitzcarraldo is unable to pay attention because a great idea has taken hold of him.

Iquitos, Molly’s Brothel, Day A restlessness seizes events from now on, something urgent and insistent. Incidents crowd each other and pick up tempo. Molly is busy assigning one of her girls to a fat, rich client. He has narrowed it down to four of the young Indian girls, and the others are presently leaving the room. “So this is your final selection,” says Molly, very businesslike. “I guess so,” sighs the man, “now it’s getting complicated.” Fitzcarraldo bursts in and pulls the amazed Molly to one side; she hasn’t seen him like this for a long time. “I think I’ll take all four,” the man says, half apologetically, half like an accomplice. “Molly, you have to stake me—­every red cent you can spare,” Fitzcarraldo blurts out. “You won’t believe it.” “Oh God, not again,” says Molly. His voice becomes low, threateningly determined. “I have a great idea,” says Fitzcarraldo, spreading out maps, showing detailed sectors from some of the tributaries of the Amazon, on the nearest table.

Molly’s Bedroom, Night Molly’s bedroom is dominated by a huge, stylish brass bed from France; otherwise only a few indoor plants catch the eye, and a

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night table with expensive perfumes in cut-­crystal bottles. Molly and Fitzcarraldo lie in bed, pleasantly tired and a little rumpled, but Fitzcarraldo is in a terrifically good mood, with Molly weary but loving by his side. “First I have to see the notary and then I must get a boat, it has to be called Molly and then . . .” “But,” says Molly, “for a really big boat even my money isn’t enough.” Fitzcarraldo has no answer to this at the moment, but he is happy that he has got around Molly once again. He grabs under the sheet that covers the two of them, poking around near his knee. Molly wonders what he’s doing, until Fitzcarraldo suddenly produces a cockroach, an enormous specimen bigger than any we’ve ever seen. Fitzcarraldo lets go of the kicking monster, and it scuttles across the sheet in a mad sprint and disappears onto the floor. “We’ll have children yet,” says Fitzcarraldo, thinking himself witty.

Notary’s Office The notary’s office has everything that made turn-­of-­the-­century Peruvian bureaus unpleasant. Scrubbed, joyless wooden floors, racks stuffed with files in which nothing can ever be found, an ugly photograph of the reigning president, a dusty flag in a stand, and a desk that tries to be impressive but is merely repulsive. In a corner a couple of minor clerks are working on some papers, and even at this distance their incompetence is obvious. The notary is a gaunt, elderly, very tall man who is sitting behind his desk, slightly stooped in order not to tower above it too much. In front of him is a map with surveyor’s markings, a fully completed contract, and various other forms that have to be signed. Fitzcarraldo and Wilbur sit opposite him. Fitzcarraldo seems self-­assured, and Wilbur, who wants to imitate him but overdoes it, assumes an expression that is the picture of self-­confidence. Fitzcarraldo has a bundle of money lying on the table in front of him and still keeps his hand on it.

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The notary straightens up a little more in his chair. “You must sign with your full, given name; pseudonyms like yours are not permissible here, I’m afraid. Now the procedure. The acquisition process goes step by step: you and your partner sign first, then you hand over the money, and I complete the document with my signature. But before you do this, I must direct your attention to the option clause. The Peruvian government requires, through its legislative bodies, that a region of this size shall have been taken into possession by proof and by deed within nine months’ time, and that the first operational steps to exploit said region be undertaken, or else your rights of exploitation terminate with no compensation. The government is concerned that said areas be developed competently and speedily, so that they do not go to waste.” “Just hand it over,” says Fitzcarraldo. “We knew all that anyway,” echoes Wilbur. “Allow me one question of a personal nature,” says the notary. “Do you really know what you’re doing?” “We’re going to be billionaires,” says Fitzcarraldo. The notary’s gaze passes slowly from one to the other. Evidently he is dealing not with an idiot, but with an idiot and a madman as well. “Well?” says Wilbur. “Go on, sign,” says Fitzcarraldo.

Río Itaya, Tributary A fine, sad rain envelops river and forest. The yellowish-­brown Itaya flows lazily. An arm branches off to the side, with gray-­ black muddy banks and equally muddy sandbars. The hull of a completely rusted ship lies there in the mud half-­broken, with no housing on it anymore, no engine, the ship having no value even as scrap metal. With Wilbur’s aid, Fitzcarraldo poles his peke-­peke in shallow water right up to the wreck. But he knows already, and we can tell by his movements, that there’s no sense in it. “No,” he says, “that’s not it.”

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Jungle near Puerto Maldonado It is raining even harder, a thunderstorm emptying itself out over the jungle, rushing with a low steady sound down through the silent giants of the trees. Fitzcarraldo and Wilbur are standing in mud up to their ankles, covering themselves with large banana leaves that they hold over their heads. They are peering straight ahead from beneath the dripping curtain. We see what they see. In the middle of the forest, far away from the course of the Madre de Dios, a paddle­wheel steamboat of mammoth proportions lies stuck in the jungle, no doubt deposited by an enormous flood more than a decade ago. Lianas have slung themselves around it and made it grow into one with the giant trees. Out of the belly of the gaping hulk a tree has grown at least thirty feet tall. Fresh, proliferous greenery covers the deck and spills out of the captain’s cabin. A weird, mysterious sight, as if grown from the gloomy dreams of the jungle itself. Fitzcarraldo stands there and stares. “No,” he says, and turns around. With heavy steps, sloshing in the mud, he goes away.

Río Nanay Fitzcarraldo and Wilbur, they stand and stare. Clouds are towering behind them, white like fluffy cotton. The sun is shining. Fitzcarraldo wears a sheepish face, and Wilbur smiles like an acolyte during mass, a smile of religious trance. Fitzcarraldo removes his hat and holds it against his chest. “Wilbur,” he says solemnly, “that’s it.” We see what the two see. There it lies, the ship, the Nariño, the jewel, pulled carelessly onto land, covered all over with rust and showing some gaping holes below the water line, yet sad, beautiful, and inviting. The Nariño measures 120 feet, has cabins on two levels, and, on top of the second, the bridge, several lifeboats, and a smokestack sticking up at an angle. Added to this are masts fore and aft. It is no paddlewheel steamer (which are very rare in these waters anyway) but it originally had a screw propeller that is gone now, and we can still see the driveshaft leading into

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the interior. The rudder has broken off, the cabins on deck have only traces of white paint, and grass is growing along some of the edges. But the ship looks good enough to fall in love with—yes, at last, that’s it. We accompany Wilbur and Fitzcarraldo on an exploration through the boat, poking around with them in the cabins and the engine room. Nearby, almost surrounding the bow of the boat, there are some log huts on poles, and from the windows children and mestizo women stare over at them in sleepy indifference. The engine, a big, old steam engine, is still there, but evidently it no longer runs and hasn’t in years. On deck there are magnificent ornaments and fittings of brass, and the upper frames of the cabins are decorated with beautiful ornamental molding from which the paint is peeling away. In the cabins, which are somewhat cramped, there are bunk beds, although only their fancifully decorated metal frames remain. The galley is still almost fully equipped; there are even pots and spoons left. Fitzcarraldo is excited, and Wilbur runs around the decks, faster and faster, disappears into a cabin, then comes shooting out again from a different place. He falls into steps that are more like a strange dance. At the helm, a balding chicken broods. Screeching, it leaves its roost.

Office of the Borja Brothers The three Borja brothers, looking like Mafia bosses in elegant tropical suits, offer Fitzcarraldo a cigar. All four men in the room light thick, black Brazilian cigars; all business has been concluded, all papers signed, the money delivered. The three brothers show a feigned curiosity. “One thing,” says Clodomiro Borja, enveloping himself in a thick cloud of smoke, “one thing interests us, of course”—­he asks this question with slow, savoring pleasure—­“you are not by any chance thinking of a connecting link for your railway?” “Yes,” Gustavo Borja pretends in a servile tone, “a kind of traffic connection by boat from the Atlantic, up the Amazon, and

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from there across the Andes by train to the Pacific coast? Do correct us if we are wrong.” Fitzcarraldo veils himself in smoke and silence. “Or do you intend to brave the Pongo in the Nariño? Bold! Excellent! You know, the three of us have a bet going, how long it will take until you are bankrupt again. Don’t take it personally, please, we are all sportsmen, aren’t we?” “No, there is only one of us,” says Fitzcarraldo. “I shall move a mountain. Good day.”

Río Nanay, Where the Nariño Lies The place seems transformed, there is enormous activity around the boat and on deck. At least a hundred people are busily working. Scaffolding has been erected along the sides of the ship. There the rusty metal plates are being torn down. On deck there is sawing and planing. There is hammering and forging, shouting and singing. It is delightful to watch. Many of the workers are children, carrying things or painting. Fitzcarraldo is in constant motion, rushing about giving instructions, directing the carpenters as they hammer and saw. He crawls into the engine room, where the engine and boiler are being taken apart. On deck, Wilbur is sweeping with glowing enthusiasm. Stan sustains the children’s mood by way of speedily conjured tricks with a few balls. Bronski rushes like a raving fury into a group of men who are obviously about to fasten a metal plate to precisely the wrong spot on the hull. Anyone would be scared by him. Beside the ship a small carpenter’s workshop has been set up in the open air, and next to it an improvised forge, with a furnace kept glowing by some children with a big bellows. We become aware of something fascinating: at that time welding was unknown, so all metal plates were fastened with rivets. The rivets are heated red-­hot, and a human chain of rivet-­throwers brings the rivets with terrific speed and agility to the places where the rivets are required at the moment, often inaccessible spots inside the hull where the last riveter lies in a twisted position, catching the glowing rivet in an asbestos glove, then fitting it into

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the right place. Small fires are glimmering, where women cook fish and yucca on improvised grills, pots of fish soup are simmering, hens are being plucked, and little children crawl in the mud. We observe Stan closely, how he makes four balls dance. Children climb around him on the pipework on deck, scraping and brushing the rust off. Stan speaks in the rhythm of the balls; finally he drops one. “I just wonder,” says Stan, “what he . . . actually . . . plans . . . to do . . . damn, I’ve lost one.”

Foundry, Iquitos Into the clay ground a smelting oven of the most primitive kind has been set like a frayed iron volcano; bellows make the fire in the earth white-­hot. The foundry looks more like a forge of the bronze age than a modern construction. The plant is covered by a roof of corrugated tin set on poles. Near the foundry a workman is fashioning a clay mold; we see that it will be a large propeller. With a trowel he gives the last corrective touches to the contour. Half-­naked, sweating workers stand around; Fitzcarraldo is among them. Foundry pots lie about, fastened to metal poles for carrying. Pigs grunt in a fermenting garbage heap, ducks waddle around amid pieces of metal. In a corner a pig is slaughtered, women nurse babies, and a dwarfish, crippled woman works at a sewing machine. The leaves of a papaya tree hang into the chaotic yard. The bronze mixture, meanwhile, is boiling white; workers grab a foundry pot filled with sloshing, hissing, white liquid metal and pour it into the mold. There is a malevolent seething, steaming, and hissing as the propeller is formed.

Little Shipyard, Iquitos A small shipyard housed in temporary shelters has been installed upstream, as primitive and chaotic as the foundry. Frightfully huge tree trunks are being lifted out of the water onto land by a crane. Workers peel off the bark with gigantic crowbars. At the river a chaos of boats and people; ships ride the current up and downstream; vultures, sluggish with satiation, are shooed

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off, landing again on the same piece of stinking carrion. In the shipyard Indian carpenters work on two of the Nariño’s lifeboats, keels and rudder shafts jutting like skeletons into the sky. Piles of lumber, planed planks, fireplaces, smoking pitch for caulking. In their midst an elderly mestizo works on a life-­sized carving, the figurehead of the Nariño. Already we can clearly distinguish a girl’s body, with naked breasts and Indian features; a thick anaconda coils itself around her body and disappears behind her back, emerging below her left breast. A flat river turtle creeping toward her belly covers her sex. Fitzcarraldo is talking to the woodcarver, who does not stop working. “When is the señorita going to be ready?” he wants to know, and we can see that he would like to hurry him. “La señorita?” the woodcarver says. “Mañana!” “Tomorrow, tomorrow,” Fitzcarraldo says, half angry, half resigned. “For ten days you’ve been saying mañana to me. The launching is in four days, and you keep saying mañana. It’s enough to drive a man mad!”

Outside Iquitos Bar In front of one of the cheap bars, two to three hundred people are crowded far out into the street, all barefoot, in torn trousers, impoverished, disillusioned, destroyed by their life in the jungle. Disease, alcohol, and hopelessness have left their mark on their appearance. Near them, piled directly along the edge of the street, bales of rubber lie ready for shipping. A tall, crude, two-­wheeled cart, to which a pair of zebu oxen is hitched, stands there, and a drunk sleeping on the loading platform is snoring loudly. Pushing at the door, shoving for position, everyone wants to enter the bar at once.

Inside Bar Behind two tables pulled together, Stan, Wilbur, Fitzcarraldo, and Bronski are seated like a tribunal. Bronski cannot stay in his

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seat any longer. He jumps up and attacks the chaotic throng being shoved in from outside. He shouts in a cracking voice and actually succeeds in spreading so much terror and fright around him that, momentarily, something like order is created. Beside the tables stands a tall, quiet, rather heavy man with deep-­set eyes, a little embarrassed: Jaime de Aguila. Fitzcarraldo leans back contentedly in his armchair. “We’ve already got the most important man,” he says. “Tell me, do you really speak Jívaro?” “I lived fourteen years with the Jívaros,” Jaime says curtly, leaving no doubt. “You have been sailing the rivers safely so far?” asks Fitzcarraldo. “Yes, my last ship was the Adolfo,” says Jaime, “but I’ve been out of commission for a couple of years. My eyesight isn’t so good anymore, but I can’t be tricked.” “What do you mean?” asks Fitzcarraldo. “The jungle plays tricks on your senses. It’s full of lies, dreams, illusions. I have learned to tell the difference,” says Jaime. “And you took part in the Pachitea expedition in ’96?” “Yes,” says Jaime, “as helmsman. On the way back I was the captain. The captain died, there were only five survivors.” Fitzcarraldo stands up and extends his hand to him in a firm grip. “Jaime de Aguila,” he says a little solemnly, “you now have full captain’s authority.” Jaime returns the handshake wordlessly, and he radiates great confidence. A small, wiry man pushes his way forward, an American who somehow has stumbled into these parts, able to recite poems, who had heard they were looking for people for the opera, the great theater. And before Fitzcarraldo can stop him, he begins reciting a poem, faltering and pathetic. Bronski turns green, sickened by the ghastly recital, which Fitzcarraldo manages to interrupt at last. “We need people for the Nariño! What can you do?” “I know something about engines,” the man says, surprised. “Keep in touch,” says Fitzcarraldo curtly.

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Outside Iquitos Bar, Evening There are no longer so many people in front of the bar, the rows have thinned out. But there is still a good deal of pushing going on. With a slightly swaying step, barefoot and wearing only linen pants and a straw hat, a somewhat pot-­bellied man comes plowing his way through the crowd with great self-­assurance.

Inside Bar The selection committee is still sitting, as before, except that now Jaime de Aguila is sitting at the table with them, evidently exercising his rights, doing so with a completely natural authority. The man in the straw hat plants himself before Fitzcarraldo. “Hola, brethren,” he says. “I am Huerequeque. I am your man.” Fitzcarraldo turns to Jaime de Aguila, who, before he can ask his question, gives a short gesture indicating no. “Compadre,” says Huerequeque, whose attention the signal did not escape, “I am the best cook in the Amazon, I have been on every boat and, amigo,” he whispers softly, his eyes growing even smaller and slyer than before, his expression even more audacious, “I know what you are planning. I’m no blockhead. Now and then Huerequeque may spill one too many into his gills, but up here,” he says, pointing to his temples, “it’s electric. Eléctrico! I am the best gunman up and down the entire Amazon.” This remark makes Fitzcarraldo prick up his ears; he glances toward Jaime, who, in spite of himself, nods in agreement. “I took part in the Chaco wars,” Huerequeque says. “I was at the upper Napo when we had a hell of a fight with the bare-­asses. Amigo, I am Huerequeque.” Fitzcarraldo recognizes that this man has thought further ahead than all the others, and he doesn’t want the conversation to continue in this vein. “Huerequeque, you are our cook.”

Iquitos, Hardware Store A big hardware store, in the typical chaos of all the shops and stores in this town, with rolls of wire lying around, kegs of nails,

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tools, cable drums, steel girders, corrugated tin. The owner of the shop, a small, bald Jew, scurries about and shoos a couple of helpers into the back room. Fitzcarraldo and Jaime de Aguila are inside and hand the merchant a list, which they check against their own copy. “Machetes,” says the merchant. “Two hundred,” Fitzcarraldo says. “Two hundred and fifty,” says Jaime. “Okay, two hundred and fifty,” says Fitzcarraldo. “Steel girders: two inches thick, one and a half inches, and one inch,” says the merchant. “Everything you’ve got,” says Fitzcarraldo. “Everything?” the merchant asks, more and more convinced that he is dealing with a madman. “Everything. Everything you’ve got. Cog wheels, crowbars, saws, winches: everything you have in stock,” says Fitzcarraldo firmly. “Do you have train rails?” “Rails?” says the merchant, sweat beading on his brow. “What? How? We don’t carry those. Your railroad, are you really going to . . .” “No, we aren’t,” says Fitzcarraldo, “but never mind, if you don’t have any in stock.”

Belén Market Fitzcarraldo and Jaime de Aguila are plowing their way through the teeming Belén marketplace, followed by Indian porters who, heavily loaded already, are carrying their loads on their backs with the aid of head straps. Jaime has apparently taken on the responsibility of buying provisions. They stop at a stall overflowing with black tobacco; several women are busy rolling primitive cigarettes with quick, practiced movements, almost like a small factory. Jaime gives some brief instructions in Spanish. The women pack the entire contents of the stall in two big bags. “All of it?” asks Fitzcarraldo, astonished. “Yes,” says Jaime, “we need tobacco. Now we only need guns, hammocks, and kerosene for the lamps.”

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The two of them stop at another stall, where in tin canisters a sticky black substance is for sale. The canisters are handled with the utmost care, as though there were high explosives inside. Some of the gooey, pitch-­like material is oozing out from under the lids. The Indian merchant touches the canisters with special respect. “This is going to be pretty expensive,” says Jaime. “What do we need curare for, actually, and why twenty kilos all at once?” Fitzcarraldo asks, surprised. “A milligram scratched into the skin is enough to kill a pig, after all.” But Jaime is sure of himself, he is a man with inestimable experience. “The Jívaros,” he says, “are a tribe that uses the poison arrow. Not knowing how to make the poison themselves, they trade with neighboring tribes for it.” The Indian joins in, and for the first time we hear the Jívaro dialect. “What does he say?” asks Fitzcarraldo. “He says,” Jaime translates, “for a knife-­point full of gold dust you get a white woman in the brothel here for one night, but for a teaspoonful of this here you get a Jívaro woman for a week.”

Iquitos, Riverbank at the Amazon A holiday. There it lies in its moorings, the Nariño, in a festive place cleared of the host of other boats: truly a glorious craft, beautiful enough to fall in love with. The decks have been rebuilt, the cabins gleam white with their fresh coat of enamel, the hull looks completely new, mended so perfectly and painted gleaming white, garlands adorn her. La Señorita, the lasciviously sensual figurehead, looms upward from the bow. Some ten thousand happy, curious people have gathered at the steep riverbank, high up on the edge of the city. A brass band is playing loud and off-­key, peddlers sell sweets and fried things wrapped in leaves, there are children in countless numbers: it is a big day. A zebu cow is heaved aboard with a crane. On deck the crew has assembled, lined up in formation, among

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them some pretty tough-­looking characters, the wildest to be found in the entire Amazon region. Jaime, the captain, proudly wears a gold-­braided captain’s uniform and looks like a Spanish grandee. Huerequeque arrives late, driving two young, very pretty Indian girls before him up the gangway. “I won’t have those women on my ship,” Jaime shouts down from the bridge. “Compadre,” Huerequeque shouts back, “I need them in the galley, they are my assistants. I can’t cook without them.” By this time they are already on board. In the general festivity this incident is quickly forgotten. Ashore, Fitzcarraldo stands in his white linen suit as proud as a king, with Molly by his side, wearing her finest, most elegant dress and a big Parisian hat. She looks particularly beautiful and radiant, a grand lady amid a throng of barefoot, shouting people. Fitzcarraldo holds a rope in his hand that leads to the bow of the boat, which is partly veiled. “Molly,” he cries, “you’ll be an opera singer again. You’ll make your big entrance. This is your day!” He kisses her freely and impetuously in front of all the people and pulls the rope. The cloth drops off the bow to reveal the new name of the ship. Molly Aida is emblazoned on it in shimmering, decorative golden letters. “Oh, Fitz,” says Molly, “that’s more than my poor weak heart can stand. I know it.” “Right, and now comes the highly official part,” says Fitzcarraldo proudly. “We couldn’t do a real launching at the Nanay, it was too shallow out there. We had to drag the Molly into the water with a tugboat.” He hands Molly a small champagne bottle that hangs from a rope tied to the bow. “Hard!” says Fitzcarraldo. Molly swings the bottle against the side of the boat, where it shatters, foaming. All of a sudden she begins to cry out loud. Fitzcarraldo hugs her to him. Cheers ring out. Jaime toots the big foghorn, and the brass band plays. Gringo and Verdi remain on the shore, wagging their tails. We see the Molly Aida shove off from the riverbank, smoke

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pouring out of the chimney. People wave, some toss their hats in the air. Yes, Fitzcarraldo has friends. The Molly Aida picks up speed and heads upstream. The cheering dies down; the people stare in disbelief. On the riverbank we see Molly. Shouts are heard. “Wherever is he going? He’s going upstream!” The three Borja brothers step up to Molly in incredulous astonishment. “He’s not going to the Ucayali River. He should be heading downstream,” says Clodomiro Borja. Molly suddenly stops weeping; pride surges up in her. “Yes,” she says, “you have seen right. Brian Sweeney Fitzgerald is moving against the Amazon!” We see Fitzcarraldo on deck with his most faithful comrades, Wilbur and Stan. They wave back. Iquitos, with its houses and thousands of people, shrinks to a single line. Like a lake the river widens between the town and the ship.

Amazon River Violently, a distant thunderstorm is building up over the vast river. Lightning flashes far away across the sky, so far that the thunder rolls but softly from horizon to horizon. In heavy, hanging streaks, a dark gush of rain pours down over the endless forest. The boat has set its course toward the horizon, and our hearts become lighter. On deck, many of the crew have stretched out in their hammocks to get some sleep. All is quiet. The vessel is stuffed with equipment, cables, provisions. Fitzcarraldo’s ice machine is lashed securely to the upper deck, and up on top, on a specially built platform, sits the phonograph. Fitzcarraldo is just covering it from the first solitary raindrops. Wilbur is asleep in his barber chair, which he has unfolded almost horizontally—­the sleep of the just, his mouth wide open. The steam engine throbs evenly, reassuringly, and the decks vibrate slightly. Jaime de Aguila stands solid, sure, and calm, steering the boat. In front of him, the parrot Bald Eagle is preening what

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is left of his feathers. From the galley door one of the Indian girls emerges with a basket of tropical fruit and giggles. A hand stuck under her skirt still has hold of her. When she frees herself, a man takes a step out of the galley—­it is Huerequeque. “Ay, qué rico!” he says with a gleam in his eye. Jaime de Aguila is leaning against the railing of the bridge, alert, his head tilted at a strange angle. Fitzcarraldo has taken over the rudder. “Starboard!” shouts Jaime. “Further starboard, we’re approaching shallow water. There must be a sandbank there.” “I can’t see a sandbank,” says Fitzcarraldo. “How do you know there’s a sandbank coming?” “Shallow water,” says Jaime, “sounds different from deep water.”

Jungle Railroad Station, toward Evening The boat glides softly along a narrower leg of the wide-­branching river, toward the railway station landing. No other boats are tied up there, as it seems to be one of the deserted connecting links on the upper course of the Amazon, with all the sadness, desolation, and somnolence characteristic of places like this. The station lies there dead and abandoned; only a few yards back begins the jungle. A ramp with tracks slants directly down into the water, and further up, on solid ground, is the main building with its corrugated tin roof. Trans-­Andean Railways is written there in big, rusty letters. Part of the roof has torn loose, and shreds of tin rattle malevolently, dangling in the light evening breeze. The station house gives an even greater sense of desolation with the iron parts scattered around it and a deserted forge and mechanic’s workshop nearby. Behind it we see the stationmaster’s hut and the smokestack of a locomotive. The stationmaster, a gray-­haired, seedy man in his official uniform—­which he evidently has rarely worn and which looks newly ironed with its brass buttons all polished—­is standing with his Indian wife and several grimy, half-­naked children in a row. Beneath his uniform jacket he is wearing no shirt; he must have just slipped on his uniform hastily, and his bare feet protrude from

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his trousers. From his splayed, powerful toes we can tell that he hasn’t worn shoes for years. He is standing at attention, giving a half-­military salute, in order to control his emotion. “Fitzcarraldo is here! At last! With a ship!” Fitzcarraldo is the first to jump onto land, and he returns the salute. The stationmaster, struggling for self-­control, delivers some sort of official report, but then it all comes pouring out of him, all the things that have been piling up throughout the years of desperate waiting. As Fitzcarraldo, followed by his crew, mounts the ramp to the railway with the stationmaster, the latter starts talking like a waterfall. “I knew you’d come back one day,” he says. “I’ve been here six years now without salary, the station is ready for action, just look at the children. I’ve taken an Indian wife, the locomotive is still in good shape, although I must admit I was forced to sell a few iron parts, but those were all parts of no great importance, it’s still running, this steam engine, you know, there’s no iron anywhere around here, and the Indians need it for their machetes and things, I had to do it, for I had been forgotten at this post. Oh, am I glad you’re here! When will you resume construction?” Fitzcarraldo is embarrassed and silent. “You know,” he says, “we had some financial problems. But we haven’t completely given up the project.” They reach the platform where the railroad begins. There really are tracks, caked with rust, starting at a buffer block, from which a clothesline hung with wet washing is tied to the next tree. And there stands the sad locomotive. It is a big model from the turn of the century, with a huge boiler and big steel wheels, but everything is covered with rust; the engineer’s cab has lost almost all its housing, and only part of the rusty roof struts jut into the sky. Grass has taken root on the steps, and beneath them some bushes are growing, though they apparently have been trimmed now and then. The rusted tracks run straight ahead, and after about five hundred feet they plunge into the dense labyrinth of the jungle. They probably end a few yards farther on, for no cleared right of way can be seen. Near the tracks are the sad headquarters of the stationmaster.

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Above the front door we read Amazon Terminal in large, splendid letters, but in fact it is nothing more than a slightly sturdier wooden hut on poles. Neglected dogs doze on the narrow veranda, butterflies flutter drunkenly around the house, from the forest the cicadas cry at night. “Come in,” the stationmaster says to Fitzcarraldo, but he declines. He has something painful to say, and he keeps putting it off, not knowing how to get it out. He pulls himself together and clears his throat. “The rails, you see. The thing is, we’ve come here because of another project, a very big one. Our whole financial situation will change overnight, if it works. What I’m trying to say is, we need the rails.” The stationmaster is dumbfounded, and his face turns gray and old. Night is falling.

Jungle Railroad, Early Morning It is getting light. Fitzcarraldo’s crew is busy prying the rails off the wooden ties with crowbars. Everyone is working, lending a hand, except for Huerequeque, who is chasing one of his maids into the darkness of the forest. Jaime de Aguila looks up quickly; something like that does not escape his attention. The zebu cow is grazing between the tracks. The stationmaster is in a state of shock, his eyes gazing into the void; he rushes around from one to the other, having to look on helplessly as his railroad is dismantled bit by bit. As a small group of men starts to loosen the big spikes near the locomotive, he comes back to life, a desperate resistance surging up from within. “No, not these, please not these.” He hurries over to Fitzcarraldo, who is working in the midst of a group of men and obviously wishes he could hide himself among them. “Don Fitzcarraldo,” the stationmaster gasps, “the men are taking away the rails by the locomotive as well. I beg you, leave at least a few yards around the locomotive, or how can I keep it in shape? Thirty yards would be enough for me, just to roll it back and forth.”

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Fitzcarraldo looks up. He has to answer for this. “Stop your men, for God’s sake. Look there, in the jungle, the entire route continues on two tracks,” says the stationmaster. “Hey,” Fitzcarraldo calls to his men, “we don’t need those, there are some more out in the forest.” From the bottom of his broken heart, the stationmaster looks gratefully at Fitzcarraldo.

On Board, Bridge The boat is again sailing up the main river. Jaime, the captain, stands outside at the railing with a cord to which a tin cup is attached. Fitzcarraldo, in the wheelhouse, is poring intently over a map. “We must have passed the Pachitea a long way back,” he says. “No, we haven’t,” says Jaime. “But according to the map . . .” Fitzcarraldo ventures hesitantly. “Then the map must be wrong,” says Jaime. “How can you be so sure?” asks Fitzcarraldo. Jaime lowers the cup down into the water and then pulls it back up by the string. He carefully tastes the brownish water, like a chef sampling a sauce. “No river tastes like the Pachitea. It’s just ahead of us.”

Amazon River, Mouth of the Pachitea The boat pushes on in its normal course; the river stretches out into the distance. The smokestack puffs evenly, and the engines work in their gentle rhythm. Toward the left riverbank, a little ahead, we see the mouth of the Pachitea. At first glance it is not recognizable as a separate river, since the main branch of the Amazon divides up again and again into individual branches with islands interspersed, so that the confluence of two or more branches always looks like the confluence of entire tributary systems. At this point, however, much darker, almost brownish-­black water comes flowing in distinctly in a straight line, set off from the rest as clearly as a knife slice. The horizon is wide, always with

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more sky than land, and in the sky mountains of clouds are towering high, whole countries, whole continents swelling up, joining and flowing into one another.

On Board, Bridge Jaime de Aguila is steering the boat, keeping a sharp eye out for shallows and driftwood. In some places we see extensive flat sandbars, and it doesn’t seem easy to find the navigable waters, even though the river is easily a kilometer across. In the cramped wheelhouse are a compass and other nautical instruments, beautifully set in brass. Fitzcarraldo stands beside Jaime, staring at the river ahead and at a detailed map in front of him. Jaime casts him a furtive glance, and they nod to each other. Jaime throws the rudder to the left, and from now on the voyage follows a different course.

On Board, Lower Deck Part of the crew hangs around the galley door like bluebottle flies, and some are hanging on to the window as well, annoying and horny. A girl’s hand playfully slaps a rag at one of the more aggressive ones. The zebu cow is asleep on the lower deck on a bed of fresh leaves, twitching its ears to get rid of the flies. Farther up the deck, in an area free of cabins, is a long, heavy, polished wooden table with beautiful fixed mahogany stools. Some men are lolling about there, playing cards and boozing. They are so tanked up that they are playing as if in slow motion. One is asleep, bent forward with his head on the table. Suddenly he wakes up and looks around in surprise; he is the only one who has noticed the change of course. “Su madre,” he says, drawing out his words, “where are we going, puta su madre!” The card players lower their cards and stare at him. The men leave the galley door, turn and scrutinize the riverbank before them.

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“What?” one of them says. “Hey, what’s that?” “Amigos,” says Huerequeque, stretching his body out of the galley, tenderly stroking the rifle in his hand, “this is the Pachitea, well known for its native hospitality. Nobody told you that, did they?”

On Board, Bridge Stan leans in the door of the wheelhouse with a worried expression and speaks to Fitzcarraldo in a low voice. “Something’s brewing down below,” he says. “The crew doesn’t quite agree with the course, to put it mildly. I must say, I’d like to know myself where the hell we’re going.” “I’m coming,” says Fitzcarraldo curtly.

Lower Deck The crew has assembled; even the mechanic has appeared, smeared with oil, and only Huerequeque and his two young assistants are missing. Besides Wilbur and Stan there are fourteen other men, standing in a semicircle, angry and belligerent. “Where is Huerequeque?” asks Fitzcarraldo. “He said he’d rather relax a bit with the señoritas, he knows where we’re going anyway,” says a sinister-­looking man with an open shirt and tattoos on his arm. “Okay,” Fitzcarraldo says. He takes a deep breath. “What did I say in Iquitos?” he asks them. “I need men, real men, not pansies who shit in their pants, understand? You can go straight back to Iquitos. Who wants to go back to Iquitos?” Fitzcarraldo seems to know his men well; not one wants to go back to Iquitos. He prods them further. “I’ll pay your full wages at once. Whoever wants to return to Iquitos, step forward.” Silence, hostility, but no one steps forward. One of the crew is a man as strong as a bear, his cheek stuffed with chewing tobacco. First he shifts it to one side, spits out the brown juice, and then speaks up. “Where are we going?” he says threateningly. “We want to know,” he says, pausing to spit again, “what course we’re taking.”

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“We are going up the Pachitea, about three days’ journey,” Fitzcarraldo says very calmly, as if it were the most harmless kind of destination. “But Saramiriza is only one day away,” interjects the man with the tattoos, “and then what?” “You can stay in Saramiriza and become missionaries if you want,” says Fitzcarraldo. “Fitz,” Stan joins in, “I’ll do everything with you, everything really. We’ve got rifles with us and rails and tools, and provisions for months. I’ll do anything you want, you know I’m not afraid, but I would really like to know what you’re up to.” Fitzcarraldo just stands there. After a long pause he starts talking. “You know, my plan is so wild that I’m not quite sure myself if it’s going to work. We’re going up the Pachitea two days past Saramiriza. We have the precise maps from the expedition of ’96. I am planning something geographical. If it succeeds, we’ll all be richer than in our wildest dreams.” “Do you know,” asks the one with the chewing tobacco, “how many started in ’96, and how many came back?” “I know,” says Fitzcarraldo, “but this isn’t ’96 anymore. Once we get there, we’ll see, and I’ll explain everything to you.” The crew is not really satisfied, but no one wants to leave the ship, that is clear. Sullenly the assembly disperses.

Saramiriza, Missionary Station An oppressively hot, sultry day: dangerously slow the sky is hatching its thunderstorm, which does not want to form just yet. The river flows so sluggishly that it seems afraid to move. The air is still, the forest motionless, the flies alone are buzzing malevolently. The missionary station lies dormant there, some huts in a square, one of them faintly reminiscent of something like western civilization. Along the front of the square is a small church with a tin roof on which vultures are dozing, contemplating carrion; some are even perched on the faded wooden cross on the gable. In front of the church, fastened to a tree limb, hangs a bell without a clapper. Beside it, strung up on a wire, dangles a piece of iron, just the right size for striking the bell.

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The buildings face a flat plaza on which a freshly mown lawn, with stripes of reddish clay, has been planted. The lawn is divided geometrically by paths sprinkled with sand. In the middle, where the paths meet, a whitewashed flagpole stands, fenced by a pathetic wrought-­iron railing. By the flagpole the pupils stand in quasi-­military formation, divided into groups like teams of gymnasts. They all wear khaki shorts and have their hair shorn, yet their Indian features create a strange, incongruous contrast to their formation. Far from them, on the bank of the Pachitea, stand two Jesuit padres in clean, light-­colored cassocks; one of them is already rather old and has a white, biblical beard. Both look like men who have worked long, hard years in the jungle. Where they are standing on the riverbank, the river has torn holes many feet deep. Large, loose clumps of earth still hang down over the river, and there are deep fissures in the lawn. Soon part of the empty square will have disappeared. One of the buildings on the riverbank is abandoned, half collapsed, teetering on the edge of the scarp. Pilings have been driven into the bank to prevent its deterioration, but the law of the river has visibly gained the upper hand. All is motionless, expectant. Then, suddenly, a boy standing alone by the bell starts beating the clapper against it. The result is a rather miserable, almost tinny sound. In the middle of the square the flag is being hoisted, a heavy, limp fabric that refuses to unfurl in the stationary sultriness of the air. At the moment Fitzcarraldo’s ship comes into view of the square, the children begin to sing the Peruvian national anthem, in Spanish and horribly out of tune. The ship docks and the gangplank is lowered, which is no simple task since part of the bank crumbles away immediately. Fitzcarraldo is the first to step ashore. He greets the two missionaries with a handshake. “Welcome to Saramiriza,” the elder one says. “We thought you were a government commission; no one else ever comes here.” “We would like to spend the night here,” says Fitzcarraldo. “Could we bring our cow ashore? You really have nice grass here.” “Yes, of course,” says the younger one. “You may do that, but

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you must tether her farther away from the riverbank, or else she’ll loosen the soil here with her hooves, as you can see for yourself. We have been forced to give up three buildings already, and if this keeps up we’ll have to abandon the station soon. Terrible. The Lord is incomprehensible in his resolutions. For twenty years we’ve been building this mission, and now this.” “I’d like very much to talk with you,” says Fitzcarraldo.

Missionary Building, Night Night encloses the main building of the mission. A simple table has been set for the guests with white linen, upon which stand several glasses of fresh mango juice. Braided cane chairs surround the table outside on the plain veranda; around it sit the two missionaries, Fitzcarraldo, and Jaime de Aguila. In the background, illuminated by a kerosene lamp, we see the interior of the building. There are almost no solid walls. There are two beds covered with light-­colored mosquito nets, simple chairs, and an extremely austere table. Outside on the convocation square, not far from the boat, the crew has kindled a big fire. There is drinking and noise. Occasionally Huerequeque’s señoritas can be heard laughing and shrieking, but Fitzcarraldo pretends not to hear it, feeling embarrassed in front of the two padres. He feigns particular interest in an old school primer he is leafing through. “Tell me,” says Fitzcarraldo, “when I look at this, these texts and pictures, I ask myself how anyone can learn patriotism from a schoolbook?” “We have a hard time with it,” says the younger padre, “but the government requires it; otherwise we wouldn’t be allowed to stay on here. You’d never believe how difficult the simplest things are out here: I could tell you about our vaccination program for hours.” “People just refuse to be inoculated,” the elder padre says. “But the children, that’s easier, they all feel like little Peruvians already. The other day I asked them in class: What is an Indian? Are you Indians? And they said no, we are not Indians; the others farther upstream, they are Indians, not us. And when I asked, what are

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Indians, they told me: Indians are people who can’t read, and who don’t know how to wash their clothes.” “And the older people?” asks Jaime in the ensuing pause. “Well,” says the elder missionary, first taking a hesitant sip from his glass, “we can’t seem to cure them of their basic notion that our normal life is just an illusion, behind which lies the reality of dreams. In a certain way this does relate to our basic concept of Salvation, but . . .” “This interests me very much,” interrupts Fitzcarraldo, suddenly attentive. “You see, I am a man of the opera.”

Mission, Convocation Square The men are flocked around a big campfire, drinking, singing songs, and yelling. Standing around them, still and solemn, are Jívaros from the station, their dark eyes gleaming in the semi-­ darkness. Huerequeque’s señoritas are the center of attention, they are being passed about and fondled. The girls laugh and rap the knuckles of the impertinent men. Suddenly a fight erupts in the dimness, two men become entangled in a scuffle.

Missionary Station The padres and their two guests are still sitting around the table as before. Jaime de Aguila now leads the conversation. “What do you know,” he asks, “about the Jívaros on the upper course? I was there during the disaster in ’96; have you had any contact since then?” “Yes, eight years ago, not so long after your misfortune,” says the younger missionary, “two of our brothers set off with some natives. One of them returned a day later and said that the Jívaros had withdrawn deep into the forest. After that we heard nothing for weeks. And then, as you probably heard, one of our brothers was washed up, he was rotting away already. His head was gone, and they had filled his belly with stones. But it was God’s will that this outrage should come to light, and He let the corpse appear when the water had dropped.”

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“Ah, that was the time when the military planned a retaliatory expedition,” says Jaime. “But nothing came of it,” says the elderly missionary. “There was a lot of talk, but nobody did anything. Since then we’ve had no contact. Now and then a canoe shows up, the people are peaceful enough and want to trade, but really we don’t know anything. Anyway, what do you want up there?” “We are planning something geographical,” says Fitzcarraldo. This has apparently become his standard reply. From outside the noise is getting wild, it can no longer be ignored or hushed up. Jaime rises. “Padres, please excuse me for a moment, I must attend to things outside. The men . . .” We see that Jaime de Aguila is assuming an increasingly dominant role. In the darkness we hear him shouting at the men, and quiet is restored almost immediately. In the ensuing lull, only the mosquitoes can be heard, buzzing malevolently. Fitzcarraldo is slapping at them. “You have to get used to them, young man,” says the elder missionary to Fitzcarraldo, who isn’t so young himself. “We have more than enough of them.” The first faraway, soundless flashes of lightning pierce the distant sky. “I hope the rain comes soon,” says Fitzcarraldo.

Saramiriza, Missionary Station, Next Day Dawn is breaking, misty stripes hover over the dark river, and the jungle is steaming. The birds greet the day with their infernal jubilation. It has rained during the night. The grass on the convocation square is glistening wet, and puddles have formed in the red clay. All men are on board. Children stand mutely on the riverbank, looking at the ship. The two padres are with them. On board, on the lower deck, there is noise and confusion. We can’t quite make out what it’s about from this distance, but most likely the battle for the señoritas has flared up again. One of them is bickering angrily. The men are pushing and shoving each other.

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On Board, Bridge Jaime de Aguila has taken Fitzcarraldo aside. Serious and resolute, he demonstratively removes his captain’s cap, which he hasn’t worn in a long time and obviously has put on only to enhance his gesture. “You must crack down on the men now, and I mean at once,” he says, “or else I quit, and you can find yourself a new captain!” “Who is it?” asks Fitzcarraldo. “It’s Evaristo Chávez and Fabiano, the Brazilian. They’re the main ones, and then the señoritas, they must be put ashore immediately. I mean immediately, or you can steer this tub yourself. And Huerequeque, I don’t trust him an inch either.” “But he’s cunning,” says Fitzcarraldo. “He may booze a lot, but he’s got more brains than the rest of them put together.” “The rest,” Jaime says disdainfully, “they aren’t worth much, either. Go on, do something, you’re the boss.”

On Board, Lower Deck Fitzcarraldo descends the bronze-­trimmed stairway from the bridge, and at once the quarreling dies down. Unruffled, he plants himself serenely behind the mess table and counts out four piles of money, one beside the other; casually, almost offhand, he calls, “Evaristo! Fabiano! And the two señoritas!” The four step forward with foreboding. “Your services,” says Fitzcarraldo, “are no longer required. I thank you. Here is your wage till the end of the week. You have two minutes to get your things. To put it more precisely, in a hundred and twenty seconds you’re off the ship.” This hits home. Huerequeque, who has just taken a step forward to say something, stands rooted to the spot and doesn’t make a sound. The four of them leave the ship, and one of the señoritas is crying. “Maybe we are the lucky ones,” says Fabiano somberly as he leaves the ship.

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Pachitea, Early in the Day The Molly Aida follows its course up the middle of the river. To the left and right the jungle towers above the waters, but for this it pays a big price. Here and there, trees on the riverbank have been uprooted and have crashed into the watery clay; in some places the bank has been so undermined that entire groves of trees are searching in the void with their bunched roots, while in other places big clumps of earth have been washed away along with several trees. Branches stick up out of the water, swaying and shaking their denial against the current. Fog still hovers in the treetops, which obliviously grow, crowd each other out, give birth, and are overgrown with lianas, engulfed, rotting. The trees sweat and sleep and doze and grow and fight for the light and lie dormant, and in the morning, after a night of rain, they piss, like cows, hundreds of thousands of them, a hundred thousand million. And that makes the birds happy, and they screech, ten times a hundred thousand million. Tense expectation settles ponderously over the decks. No one is sleeping or drinking or playing cards. All the men are leaning side by side over the railing, staring silently into the dusky green of the forest. Up ahead the first hills emerge, overgrown by the jungle, with clouds of fog billowing up the slopes. The forest falls strangely silent, as if it wanted to hold its breath. Time passes, slowly. On the bridge Fitzcarraldo searches the forest with his binoculars. Nothing. Then suddenly, from a distance, from the depths of the forest, comes the sound of drums, at first almost inaudible, wafting away with the fog. Then they get stronger, closer. Huerequeque steals quietly to his galley and cautiously grabs his rifle. One after another the men follow his example. Only Wilbur seems to feel fine, lounging in his barber chair, soon to become his throne. On the bridge, Jaime de Aguila bends down to the speaking tube that connects him with the engine room. “Choke the engine, half speed ahead,” he says. “Half speed ahead,” the funnel replies. “What are the men doing?” asks Jaime.

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Fitzcarraldo leans over the railing and looks down to the lower decks. “They’ve armed themselves,” he says. “On no account are they to shoot,” says Jaime. “If there is any shooting, then we’re lost. That’s exactly the mistake we made on the first expedition. They are only to shoot if we’re directly attacked. Go down and tell them that, or there might be another disaster.”

Jungle by the Pachitea, Night With our eyes we scan the edge of the forest; our glance moves very slowly, seeking to penetrate the depths of the shadowy forest. But nothing stirs; there is only the dim silence and the hollow, rumbling, incessant drumming of a whole group of drums at once. The sound is disquieting, menacing, coming closer, swelling up. Our eyes burn with the strain, yet we can see absolutely nothing.

Aboard Ship Fitzcarraldo climbs atop the uppermost roof with his phonograph, to the small wooden platform. Now it’s Caruso’s turn, he says to himself. “The cow,” he calls down. “Put the cow right up at the bow, right in front so she can be seen.” This is done. Huerequeque is the driving force. “I bet those bare-­ asses have never seen anything like this,” he says. “That’ll teach ’em respect.” There is a sudden, hard thud beside Huerequeque’s head, and an arrow as long as his arm vibrates in the cabin wall with an evil twang. “All right,” says Huerequeque, “this is it.” The men spring into motion; most of them dive for cover, and one of them jerks up his rifle. “Don’t shoot, you asshole!” roars Jaime from the bridge overhead. The man lowers his rifle and flees into one of the open cabins. And then, suddenly, Fitzcarraldo’s music resounds, the voice of Caruso, sad and beautiful and stately and very scratchy. The

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music mixes with the drums, swells up against them, and gradually silences them. One drum after the other falls silent. Wilbur jumps up and dances a strange, ecstatic dance on deck. He is the only one visible. From the forest, silence comes back. Only the ship vibrates gently, the engine chugs softly, the forward movement is barely perceptible, almost at a standstill. “My armies,” says Wilbur, “have reported for duty.” Up on the bridge, Fitzcarraldo has spotted something with his binoculars. “There’s a canoe,” he says. “I can see just the rear part, it must have been drawn ashore fast.” Through the binoculars, we can see that he is right. Between the hanging branches of a big tree, whose twigs reach down into the water, lies an Indian dugout, half hidden and partially drawn ashore. Besides this, nothing. The jungle seems to be paralyzed with emotion by Caruso’s beautiful, sad voice.

On the Bridge The music is over. A foreboding silence pervades the jungle, nothing moves, even the birds are mute. Jaime strains to listen, and Fitzcarraldo stares ahead intently. “There are silences and silences,” says Jaime. “And I don’t like this one.” Fitzcarraldo has discovered something. “I can see something. There’s something on the water.” Jaime can’t see it. “Something black,” says Fitzcarraldo, “on the water, floating toward us.”

Water of the Río Pachitea Something black drifts on the water of the Pachitea. It comes closer, it’s not large. Like a black bowl with a small mast. Then we see what it is: a black umbrella, opened and placed on the water like a nutshell, the handle sticking up in the air like a mast—­an ominous object of unknown meaning.

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On Board, Lower Deck Fitzcarraldo leans far over the railing and fishes out the umbrella with a pole. The men, armed, cluster around him. “What the hell is an umbrella doing here?” asks Fitzcarraldo. “The Jívaros took it off one of the missionaries they killed,” Huerequeque surmises. “The gentlemen in the forest mean it as a last warning. They love flowery gestures.”

Fitzcarraldo’s Cabin, Night Fitzcarraldo has called almost everyone to his cabin, which is simply arranged but a bit larger than the rest. The men crouch all over, packed into the room. Some are smoking, and the fumes fill the air. “From now on,” says Fitzcarraldo, “everything depends on how we behave. With the first expedition, they were expecting the ship. Word had gotten around that some sort of divine vehicle was on its way, with Viracocha, the White God, sent to lead the Jívaros out of the jungle. The Jívaros probably left the interior of Brazil about three hundred years ago, and for ten generations they’ve been criss-­crossing the jungle. It often happened that whole tribes began to wander.” “Yes,” agrees Jaime de Aguila, “their language doesn’t belong to any of the language groups that settled around here: the Huambisas, the Shapras, the Campas, all belong to a quite different language family.” “These Jívaros,” says Fitzcarraldo, “were driven by religious faith to seek a land without sorrow and death, and, at the end of their pilgrimage, a White God, Viracocha, would lead them there. We have to take advantage of this. But this God doesn’t come with cannons, he comes with the voice of Caruso.” “What the hell has that got to do with us,” says the man with the tattoos. “If a bare-­ass gets too close to me he’ll get one right between the eyes.” “The good Lord doesn’t mean shit to us,” says one. “Let others stick out their ass for the good Lord, not us,” another murmurs.

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Things don’t look too good. The atmosphere reeks of growing mutiny. “Sometimes I think,” another man challenges, “that you’re missing a few screws somewhere. This here ain’t no stage play. Those boys out there in the woods mean business.” And deep down Fitzcarraldo knows it’s true; he feels it too, and he says no more.

On Deck, Night Darkness surrounds the boat. It is pitch black. Some of the men, standing watch with their rifles, are straining their eyes, staring out into the night. The forest is filled with millions of wailing, croaking sounds coming from tiny tree frogs. Into the darkness, an entire universe is croaking sad messages. We too strain our ears to listen: wasn’t there something, aren’t there human voices among them, exchanging wailing messages about a sneak attack? Fitzcarraldo gently puts his hand on one man’s shoulder. “Go and sleep, I’ll handle this now,” he says in a low voice. “At four o’clock someone else can take over from me.” The man nods and glides over the darkened deck toward the cabins. The engine is chugging softly.

Fitzcarraldo’s Cabin, Next Day The darkness of night is over, and day slips through the wooden shutters in streaks of light. Fitzcarraldo lies under his mosquito net, sleeping soundly. Wilbur enters, cheerful, almost casual. He lifts the mosquito net and wakes Fitzcarraldo, who bolts upright with a jerk. He instantly grabs his rifle, which he has taken to bed with him. “Fitz,” says Wilbur, very friendly, “we’ll be having breakfast alone.”

On Deck Rifle in hand and hardly dressed, Fitzcarraldo rushes on deck. There he finds only the mechanic, bent over the railing and staring

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bewildered after something. Fitzcarraldo looks, too. We look with him. There, in the middle of the misty waters of the Pachitea, a lifeboat is floating, jammed with the crew. They are rowing like crazy, rapidly vanishing downstream in the morning mist. “Why didn’t you go with them?” asks Fitzcarraldo sarcastically. “I didn’t know anything about it, I was below deck in the engine room the whole time,” the man says.

Bridge Fitzcarraldo comes rushing up the stairs and tears open the door to the wheelhouse. There Stan is kneeling, bent over Jaime de Aguila, who is lying on the floor. Stan is loosening the ropes on his arms and legs with nervous movements. Jaime pulls the gag from his mouth in a rage. “These pigs,” he says, “all of a sudden there they all were with their rifles. I said all along they were good for nothing.” “Wilbur’s still here, and the mechanic,” says Fitzcarraldo. “I thought we were all alone.” Outside the drums start to drone again. “It seems to me,” says Fitzcarraldo, “that we’re now in great need of some Italian opera.”

Pachitea The ship is now in the midst of the last foothills of the Andes. To the left and right there are small but very steep mountains emerging from the morning fog. The smokestack is fuming, but the boat makes so little headway that it almost seems to be stationary, it pushes along so slowly. The music of grand opera wafts over from the boat to the forest and, as before, the drumming soon stops altogether.

Bridge The five men remaining are holding a brief council of war in the crowded wheelhouse. All of them, except Wilbur, carry rifles.

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Fitzcarraldo is composed and speaks quite calmly. “The dream,” he says, “is over. That was it, gentlemen. We’ll have to turn back. Stan will stay up here with you, and you go back down to the engine room.” “Sure,” the mechanic says. “I will. I can manage.” We look closely at the mechanic for the first time; slender and young and smeared with grease, he had always been inconspicuous to us. But now, in this hour of distress, the young man seems to have class, even if he would rather have taken off as well. He seems to have gained some power now. “And I’ll take over the center deck with Wilbur,” Fitzcarraldo says. “We’ll make a 180-­degree turn. Can we do that here?” “We can,” says Jaime, the captain. Before each of them heads for his post, Fitzcarraldo again quickly scans the edge of the jungle to the right and left. The Italian opera on the roof reaches a crescendo. Fitzcarraldo leans out the window and looks back. Very slowly, as if in slow motion, he pulls his head in again. “Won’t work,” he says, his words drawled, yet laconic. “What?” asks Stan, not comprehending. “If you would all please turn around very slowly, but no sudden movements, nice and slow.” Moving as one man, they all turn around slowly and look out the rear window. “Do you see what I see?” asks Fitzcarraldo. At last we share the same view. Abruptly we see that across the entire breadth of the river, the way back is blocked by dugouts, at least forty or more, following a short distance behind, perhaps a ship’s length away. Each canoe is manned by three or four Indians, paddling very smoothly and carefully maintaining a precise distance from the creeping steamboat. And now we see, farther back in the fog, more canoes appearing. We can tell from a distance that the Indians have long hair, their faces are painted with ochre stripes, and they seem to carry weapons. But they only follow slowly, at a cautious distance. “Great,” says Fitzcarraldo, “this is just what we needed.” “We have to keep going ahead,” Jaime says, gritting his teeth,

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“whether we want to or not. Breaking through back there would be the end of us.” He turns to the mechanic. “You go down to the engine room now, nice and easy, no abrupt movements, understand? We should put on a bit more steam, but very delicately. I think it would be good to pick up a little speed.” With calm, controlled movements the mechanic slips out of the wheelhouse. The Indians continue following at a distance. We see how the propeller at the stern gently starts producing a stronger backwash, the engine adds power and the boat picks up a little speed. Trailing them at the same distance, the Jívaros’ canoes also step up the pace. We notice that their numbers have increased in the meantime. In the wheelhouse, Fitzcarraldo stares through the window toward the rear. He looks through his binoculars. “They’re all men, some of them have spears,” he says softly. “They’re keeping their distance.” He turns to Jaime. “Did you experience anything like this in ’96?” “No,” says Jaime. “I’ve never seen anything like this in my entire life.” The music on the roof stops, the cylinder is finished. “I don’t think our friends like this,” says Fitzcarraldo. “It seems to make them nervous when Tosca is finished.”

Pachitea At some distance, seen from the riverbank. The steamboat glides upstream of necessity, now followed by probably a hundred canoes. Small but recognizable, Fitzcarraldo creeps slowly up to his phonograph on the roof. An overture begins, loud and exquisite and scratchy. The boats are trailing in a great procession. The fog has lifted above the treetops. On the center deck, the patient cow stands and gazes.

On Board, Bridge, toward Evening Jaime the captain and Fitzcarraldo are standing soaked with sweat and exhausted, staring straight ahead. A prolonged silence.

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Without seeing the canoes again, we know that they are right on their tail. “How long can this go on?” asks Fitzcarraldo. “Until we run onto a sandbank,” says Jaime curtly. “But I think it’s best to keep moving. If we do anything now it could be the worst move possible, for one reason or another. The initiative has to come from them.”

On Board, Quarterdeck At the stern of the ship. We realize to our horror that Wilbur, completely unprotected, is gesticulating wildly in the direction of the Jívaros in the canoes beyond. He performs a strange courtship dance and mouths great soundless cries in a language familiar only to those on the far shore of madness. He lures the canoes with the seductive movements of his wooing body. He summons his whole army. And indeed, three or four of the canoes in front come closer, hesitantly. One is extremely close now, almost at arm’s length. Altogether there must be four hundred canoes now following the Molly Aida.

Bridge In alarm, Jaime suddenly sees what is happening with Wilbur. “Wilbur,” he shouts, and with an obviously mistaken reflex, he pulls the lever to sound the foghorn.

Quarterdeck Precisely at the moment when the foremost Jívaro touches the hull with his fingertips, the foghorn issues its mighty blast. The Indian pulls back his hand at once as if he got an electrical shock from the contact. As when a gust of wind swirls into a pile of leaves and scatters them, the canoes whirl away in horror from the boat. Slowly they regroup again into a formation, like a school of tiny fish after they have been scattered.

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Bridge Jaime breathes a sigh of relief. “Excuse me,” he says. “I almost ruined it.” The sudden event has loosened up Fitzcarraldo, making him almost cheerful. He leans his rifle beside the wheel and goes to the door, perfectly normal, as if he were somewhere in the harbor of Iquitos. “I think I’ll take over now,” he says. “The sun is going down soon.”

On Board Fitzcarraldo comes down the steps, quite relaxed, crosses the deck past the astonished Stan, who lies under cover between two rolls of cable with his rifle aimed. “Hope that thing doesn’t go off by itself,” Fitzcarraldo kids him, stepping up to Wilbur. “Well, Wilbur, now we’ll wave our friends to come on over,” he says. With the senseless courage of fools and visionaries, he stands and waves. And then, suddenly, another one of their kind joins them. One of the cabin doors opens and Huerequeque appears, blinking sleepily, just waking up from his binge. He is barefoot and wearing only his pants, and his naked belly bulges down over his belt. “Hola, brethren,” he says to the natives, “what time is it anyway? Amigos!” he shouts. “Come on, you bare-­a ss sons of bitches—­t here’s beer for everyone!” Fitzcarraldo is momentarily rigid with amazement; he stares at him as if he were seeing a ghost. “Where did you come from, Huerequeque?” he asks. “This can’t be true.” “I just had a nap,” says Huerequeque. “Did the others take off already, those cowards, those degeneraditos?” During this moment of utter innocence and ease, the biggest canoe has tied up to the side of the ship, unnoticed, and a dignified man, with a particularly beautiful feather headdress braided into his hair, apparently one of the chiefs, has boarded with two companions. They are unarmed except for fishing spears with long shafts. Fitzcarraldo is the first to see them.

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“Keep quiet,” he says. “I don’t think they’ll harm us.” Fitzcarraldo extends a hand to the chief, intending to grasp his, but the Indian merely brushes over Fitzcarraldo’s fingertips with his own fingertips, very lightly, a soft, tender, beautiful first touch. Wilbur and Huerequeque get the same careful, shy touch. The chief begins to speak, very calmly and dignified; he and his companions now and then spit casually through their teeth onto the floor. “We need Jaime,” says Fitzcarraldo.

Pachitea Evening has descended over the river, and there the boat is lying now, still under steam but moored to several strong trees on the riverbank. It is surrounded by a thick swarm of canoes, all pressing close, hands hoping to touch the hull of the ship. At first glance it looks as if all the danger and apprehension is over for the moment. Between the trees, the first campfires are being kindled; the Indians seem to be making preparations for the night.

On Board, Evening An enchanting spectacle, the sky is consumed by red-­orange flames. The last screeching flocks of parrots seek their sleeping trees for the night. The wailing tree frogs begin their nightly orgies of grief for the state of the universe. The million-­fold croaking sets in. On the center deck sits the entire remaining crew, huddled together, and, in a wide semicircle around them, about seventy Indians. They have brought some clay on deck, confined within a square of thick wooden clubs, upon which burns one of their typical fires: three tree trunks arranged to form a star, with thinner dry branches in the gaps to feed the flames, and on top, placed directly on the glowing trunks, a broad earthenware pot, in which something is simmering. One or two Indians take turns talking, and for the first time we have time enough to listen to their peculiar

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soft-­sounding language. There seems to be a hierarchy dictating who is to say what and when. The gestures of their hands are striking and beautiful, foreign, gentle—­they move their hands like conductors scanning an inaudible, unknown melody that falters into the light from the darkest, most mysterious depths of the forest. It is a cautiousness, a shyness beyond compare. A silent lull ensues. Jaime begins to translate. “They’re talking about the white vessel, meaning our ship,” he says. “I think they expect something like salvation from it. They say a curse is weighing on the entire landscape here. They know that we are no gods, but the ship seems to be making a big impression on them, and they keep talking about the voice on the roof. I think they want us to stay with them, and the chief says he wants to give us a present.” Wilbur beams with enthusiasm. “The Jívaros,” he says, “my people! I have found my people. We shall establish a kingdom with them.” The chief rises and hands Fitzcarraldo two live turtles that have been pierced in front on the projecting rim of their shells and bound to each other with a liana string. Then he fills a bowl with the dark liquid boiling on the fire. “Drink,” Jaime says between his teeth. “It is chushuási, a little bitter, but it won’t kill you.” Fitzcarraldo drinks bravely, as he is told. He lowers the bowl and passes it on to his men, obeying a gesture from the chief. “Friends,” he says in a low voice, almost to himself, “I think this voyage continues.” Night has fallen darkly, the faint glimmer of the fire is reflected seventy-­fold in the dark eyes of the Jívaros.

On Board The new day fades in, bearing rain that cascades down steadily, indifferently. The whole center deck is filled with Indians; about a hundred of them are huddled silently on board, looking straight ahead. The boat steams slowly and smoothly up the river, while behind and around it throng the Indian canoes, now very close.

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The jungle slopes are not very high, but steep, and behind them we see towering cloud-­veiled slopes, the first hint of the eastern edge of the Andes. Right in the midst of the natives, Wilbur moves about, completely at ease. Stan, who is with him, seems a bit more mistrustful.

Bridge Fitzcarraldo is poring over detailed maps, and beside him Jaime is steering. Huerequeque has moved over to him and stares over Fitzcarraldo’s shoulder. Fitzcarraldo straightens up to his full height. “There, up ahead,” he says to Jaime. “Yes there, do you see that range of hills?” “I see it,” says Jaime. “That must be it.” “We’re here,” says Fitzcarraldo and turns to Huerequeque: “This slope may look insignificant, but it’s going to be my destiny.” Huerequeque has a knowing look on his face.

Heights of Camisea The boat has anchored; there is nothing to indicate why here, of all places, nothing distinguishes this spot. Like everywhere else, the jungle simply grows up the slope, damp and steaming. It is still raining. Farther ahead a more conspicuous mountain rises steeply from the river. Fitzcarraldo has gone ashore with his companions, and almost every Indian on deck has followed them. Fitzcarraldo is trying to keep his maps dry by hiding them under his shirt. A footpath, bearing the distinct imprints of many naked feet, starts here and snakes up the hill. “Follow me,” says Fitzcarraldo. “Now he’s showing his cards,” says Huerequeque.

Atop the Ridge Fitzcarraldo has counted the steps. He is peering around in the jungle. Vaguely we understand with him that the summit of the slope

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must have been reached. Fitzcarraldo pauses solemnly and waits until his crew and the Indians on the path have caught up to him. “This is it. This is what we were looking for, right here.” Stan and the mechanic look around in amazement; there is nothing here, just ordinary, dense jungle, like everywhere else. “We’ll have to climb a tree for you dimwits to figure it out,” says Huerequeque. With his machete he hacks his way through a tangle of roots and lianas to a giant tree. “We shall build a viewing platform for these gentlemen.”

Treetop, Heights of Camisea In the expansive crown of a giant tree a narrow, temporary platform has been built, adroitly lashed tight with lianas. Fitzcarraldo and his friends are crowded together up there. There isn’t room for all of them, so Stan and the mechanic have to perch lower down in a forked branch, but from there they can still see enough. “I don’t believe it,” says Stan. Now we see what they see, as we follow Fitzcarraldo’s pointing hand. The dark, clay-­brown upper course of the Pachitea stretches below us, and when we turn our gaze to the other side, where the slope descends again, we suddenly see, so close we can almost touch it, a much broader, much lighter river. At this point it reaches close to us in a bellying curve, but then turns away again to lose itself in another direction between the mountains. “That’s the Ucayali,” says Fitzcarraldo. “And all the upper course belongs to us.” “I knew it!” says Huerequeque. “We’re going to build a railway tunnel.” “No,” says Fitzcarraldo, “we’ll drag the ship over the mountain—­ and the bare-­asses are going to help us!” “How the hell are we going to do that?” asks Jaime. “Just like the cow jumped over the moon.” Emotion overwhelms the men in the treetop: so this is the goal, this is the task. A grandiose music, full of pathos, sets in as we look from the Ucayali to the Pachitea, and from the Pachitea to the Ucayali, and back again, amid the screams of the chattering

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monkeys. It is uplifting, we begin to soar, drunk with joy we rise with the wafting music high above the land. There they are, the two rivers, converging toward each other at a single point, and between them the heights of Camisea, densely overgrown with jungle, the mountain that is Fitzcarraldo’s fate. Here it is, his challenge, the challenge of the impossible.

Jungle, Heights of Camisea It rains. It rains solidly. It rains in heavy, dense streams. A giant tree, almost fully overgrown with lianas, aged by the pull of wild creepers and the fight for the roof of light, gone old and gray and mossy, suddenly shudders down to its roots. It groans a terrible, almost human groan, then, ever so slowly, it bends forward, bends farther, picks up speed, yes, we scream inside, it’s falling, the tree is falling! It falls in one last bow before human force, before human axes. With a terrible crash the giant collapses to the earth. And there, right next to it, the next one bends, and then another and another; a whole forest is swaying and collapsing. Deep inside the forest, the foul, moldering slope rises steeply in front of us. There the Indians have lined up along a broad front, hacking away with machetes at the dense jungle growth and knotted liana thickets. Clouds of mosquitoes swarm around them, and from above a drizzling mist of tropical rain is falling. With light, almost dangling movements, the Jívaros wield the razor-­sharp machetes with such elegance, such finality in their actions. And still we know that the jungle will close up again on its own, within weeks. As soon as they are cut, the dangling lianas hesitate for a long moment, as if denying at first their own destruction, as if needing a moment to understand, then they crash to the ground, collapsing into themselves. Fleshy bushes are hacked through with a single stroke, their big leaves bending aside as an angry, whitish juice oozes from the cut. Conjuring poison, orchids in heat glare at their reapers. On two giant trees standing side by side, the Indians have erected head-­high scaffolding, making a notch with their axes at the point where the high-­ribbed roots unite from all sides in the

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tree trunk. From the forest the axes resound, and the machetes accompany them with their music, each whistling and ringing in a different tone, depending on what it strikes. Almost casually, an Indian kills a snake with a stick. A clearing. Several big, flat stones have been placed on the clay ground, and a whole group of Jívaros are waiting their turn to sharpen their machetes. Much like scythes when cutting grass, the machetes must be sharpened after being used a short time. The Jívaros dip the blades briefly into a clay puddle to moisten them, then they hone the blades, pressing them on the stone and, in doing so, bending the steel. Fitzcarraldo is in the middle of the forest among the toiling Indians, indicating the direction that the towpath must take. We can already see that the jungle has been cleared in a strip about twenty meters wide. The trees crash, and the rain crashes, too.

On Deck, Camisea Landing, Evening Fitzcarraldo’s crew sits around the mess table on the center deck, eating. From an Indian basket lined with fresh leaves, Huerequeque takes a piece of smoked, dark meat, and cuts off a piece for himself. “Not bad, this wild boar,” he says and takes a swig of aguardiente from a bulbous basket bottle. The mood is more contemplative. Jaime de Aguila steps out from the shadows to the table, elaborately kicking the clay off his shoes. Only Wilbur sits apart from the others, by the railing, where he has stretched a linen sheet tautly with some cord. He holds a lamp up very close to it so that the cloth glows white on the other side. Gnats dance toward the luminous spot and huge moths flutter about excitedly; a few have already settled on the glowing material. We see them closer. Some of the moths are strange, almost primeval-­looking creatures, as if they have emerged from some deeply buried, distant epoch. Wilbur’s breath comes in short excited gasps. Branches from a large tree hang over the deck. The zebu cow sighs aloud in its dream. On land,

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fires flicker and low voices waft over. The parrot speaks a couple of unintelligible words. An eleven-­year-­old Jívaro boy is standing quite naturally by the mess table, now and then joining the circle of conversation with ease, in his own language. Wilbur evidently brought him aboard. “That was quite a good start,” says Fitzcarraldo contentedly. “What do you think, Jaime, will the Indians stick with us?” Jaime, wrapped in thought, keeps cleaning the soles of his shoes with a piece of wood. “I’m not sure what the Jívaros are really thinking. I spoke with some of them just now, but what’s really going on in their minds is a mystery to me. And it’ll take us a long time, too. I ask myself if this is going to work out at all.” “If it doesn’t,” says Huerequeque, “we’ll just build a tunnel.” But nobody seizes on this idea, and he is alone with it. “Once the stretch of forest has been cleared, we should be able to manage,” says Fitzcarraldo. “Theoretically, I could tow the boat over with one hand tied behind my back, provided I had a perfect pulley system. I would pull a chain as far as two miles, in order to move the ship two inches.” “But that’s just theory,” says Jaime. “It will take a long time, and we haven’t got that much.” “The shipbuilding has cost us two months already,” says Fitzcarraldo. “That leaves seven before the option runs out.” The Jívaro boy starts talking. “Our little amigo is absolutely right,” says Huerequeque, who of course doesn’t understand a thing. “What’s his name, anyway? Hey, Wilbur, what’s your friend’s name?” “McNamara,” says Wilbur. “McNamara is my footman,” he says. “An aguardiente for our little footman!” cries Huerequeque, moving to hand the bottle to the boy. “Leave it,” says Fitzcarraldo angrily. “That stuff has ruined enough Indians already.” There is a long silence. Then Jaime brushes a black, almost fist-­sized spider off the table with his muddy stick, after it had

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been sitting there motionless the whole time, attracting more and more attention from the circle of men.

On Board, Center Deck The day has begun with light rain, jungle and sky are dripping. A long row of Indians has formed on board, filing past Fitzcarraldo. The Jívaros are half-­naked, and some of them carry machetes, spears, and blowpipes, the latter wrapped along the stem with liana strings. Jaime de Aguila is giving each a spoonful of the blackish, sticky goo as they wait. The Indians scrutinize the arrow poison, sniff it, and stuff it into small wooden cases. By Fitzcarraldo stand a few dignitaries, among them the chief who made the first contact. Stan and the mechanic work strenuously in the background at Fitzcarraldo’s ice machine. “I need someone to take over, my arms are falling off,” says the mechanic. “Wilbur,” says Fitzcarraldo, “can’t you help?” But Wilbur can’t, for he evidently rubbed his arms with sugarcane brandy the night before, and now he is carrying on his carefully outstretched arms about twenty big, iridescent blue butterflies, which he cannot bear to shoo away. “We can’t count on Huerequeque today, either,” says Fitzcarraldo. “He took the aguardiente with him to bed.” Beyond we see the entire hillside teeming with Jívaros. Trees are still being cut, and work is proceeding on clearing the towpath. About a hundred men are needed to drag one fallen tree out of the way with liana ropes, levers, and axes. The activity is tremendous. Fleets of canoes are moored at the riverbank with tough cords of liana bark, and for the first time we also see women, most of them carrying children on their backs. They are dressed in tunic-­like reddish-­brown cloth, their long hair falling to their shoulders. Fitzcarraldo lets a shy, hesitant Indian try a test shot with his blowpipe, or else, he says, they might think we’re trying to pass honey off on them. The Indian takes a thornlike dart about four inches long from his leather quiver, wraps it in a wad of cotton that

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he takes from a second quiver, dips the tip into his bowl of sticky poison, and shoves the finished dart into his pipe. Fitzcarraldo steps a little to one side and points to a chicken a few yards forward at the bow, tied with a string on one leg. The Jívaro fires the dart with a short, strangely hollow-­sounding puff of breath and strikes the hen in the side. It spreads its wings with a sudden jerk and goes rigid in the instant paralysis of death. Foam gathers on its beak, forming bubbles. Then the hen topples over, as if frozen, and moves no more. There are murmurs of admiration: the curare is good. “I just hope it doesn’t occur to them to use it on us,” says Stan. “The ice is ready!” Fitzcarraldo goes over to his machine and takes the whitish, gleaming block of ice, partially wrapped in a cloth, from Stan. “Should I really give it to the chief as a present, Jaime?” asks Fitzcarraldo. “You must explain to him that it melts, that there will be nothing left of it.” “There is no word for ice in their language,” says Jaime. After some hesitation, Fitzcarraldo finally thrusts the block of ice into the arms of the chief. Caught by surprise, he stands as still as a statue, and Fitzcarraldo looks somewhat embarrassed. Some of the Indians fondle the dripping block, deep astonishment in their faces. As in an old photograph they freeze into a tableau as whispers pass down the line. Then we notice the Jívaros up front, who are working to clear the path through the forest. They stop and look over at the boat. Like a brush fire the astonishment spreads up the entire hillside, and we can see how it heads along the slope. In an instant the whole slope is still. Only the river flows, as always, and the rain rains.

Heights of Camisea At least two weeks must have passed, for now, as if sliced clean by a taut cord, a cleared strip stretches up through the forest like a ribbon of clay and disappears down the other side. The day is fairly clear; we can now make out the higher mountain ranges in the distance. The cleared stretch gives the impression of a foreign

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body in the sea, floating in the hilly waves of the jungle. We also see that the terrain is not flat: there are folds in it, and the incline levels off at first before starting up even more steeply. There is even a small gully that has been furrowed in the ground by a brook. Along the towpath the Jívaros have built temporary huts, from which thin smoke pervades the entire jungle in the vicinity. The steamboat is set diagonally to the Pachitea, tied to the other riverbank with strong, tightly anchored ropes so it cannot drift away. The bow touches the riverbank at its slope, which goes up at a treacherous angle there. From heavy logs an inclined ramp has been built from the water to the slope, in order to lift the bow out of the river. It looks a bit like a heavy, massive bridge, inclined and supported by sturdy pillars. About forty ropes and steel cables are stretched uphill from the bow. An equal number of winches, anchored deeply in the ground with poles and braced by the sawed-­off stumps of the strongest giant trees, are scattered along the slope. Each winch has cable wheels with heavy, bulky gearboxes, upon which two beams are set in the form of a huge cross. The beams are chest-­high, so that about twenty Indians pushing them in a circle can set them in motion. The first big moment has arrived. Fitzcarraldo’s crew has assembled on deck at the bow and on land by the ramp. Anything not nailed down has been removed from the boat and is spread about on the ground: the lifeboats, all the luggage, parts of the rudder mechanism, cables, and rails that haven’t been used yet lie in wild disarray, everything damp and smeared with clay. All eyes are turned to Fitzcarraldo, who gives the signal to start working. The Jívaros begin pushing in circles on all the winches simultaneously; they turn the crossbeams and a mechanical clicking of ratchets and creaking cogwheels begins. Across the river, the mechanic and some other men prepare to loosen the counter­tension of the ropes. As if in slow motion the steel cables slowly tighten until they are stretched horizontal in the air. With a slight lurch the boat gets stuck on the wood of the ramp, and the bow starts slowly digging into the wood. Somehow things don’t look too good; the force of the towing mechanism seems to be set incorrectly. From the terrible pull of the ropes

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the whole ship groans as the hull begins to buckle; we can see this from the uppermost supports of the deck housings, which bend slightly to one side. The highest platform on deck contorts, and with a vile noise a plank springs up from the deck and soars into the air. The bow has eaten its way into the slope by the ramp. “Stop!” roars Huerequeque. “The hull is breaking apart!” Jaime de Aguila shouts something in Jívaro and hurries up the slope because a few of the winch crews are still turning. Everything stops, and an ominous calm spreads. “Back up!” shouts Huerequeque. “Reverse the tension!” Slowly the tension is released. It takes a long time, since this procedure apparently has not been practiced. Fitzcarraldo examines the bow with his men. A rivet as thick as a man’s thumb has shot free, others are loose. “That almost did it,” says Fitzcarraldo. “I told you,” says the mechanic, “we have to divide the boat into at least three or four parts and get them over one by one.” “We rejected that idea a long time ago,” Fitzcarraldo says angrily. “We could take it apart easily enough, but to put it back together again we’d need a real shipyard, and where are we going to get one?” “Compadres,” says Huerequeque, who is not quite sober, “I know how we can do it. In Brazil I saw how a lady like this was put ashore—­maybe not such a fat one, but Huerequeque has seen more of the world than all you opera singers put together. First of all, we have to brace the ship inside with beams, then the force outside must be applied at several different places at once, and then we have to send our boys into the woods again. Now we need a lot of balsa trunks. Amigos, now let Huerequeque tackle this señorita. There’s nothing to be gained here by crude assaults; we need patience.”

Camisea, Edge of the Cleared Jungle Work has stopped, almost all activity has died down. The spidery webbing of ropes still stretches up the slope, but the cables are not fully taut. Naked children are playing in the slippery clay,

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smoke filters out of the huts and forms a long layer among the trees, weighed down by the closeness of the air. From a distance we hear a low singing. To the left and right we can see at least two hundred huts. A steady pounding can be heard, muffled by the dense jungle as some women work together grinding manioc in big wooden mortars. They stuff the moist, whitish pulp into a long tube woven of liana fibers, then attach it by a loop at one end to an overhanging tree branch. A stick is pulled through another loop at the bottom of the tube, and the women lean their full weight against it, tightening the mesh and forcing out the slightly poisonous liquid of the bitter manioc. A man works his way up the slope with a huge fish on his back almost bigger than he is, heading for one of the largest huts. Staggering under the load, he climbs the stairs, consisting of a tree trunk with steps carved into it, up to the platform of the chief’s hut.

Chief’s Hut The Indian places the fish on the floor of tough bark strips. The hut is composed of a large platform with a few pots and tools, one of the typical elevated clay fireplaces, some hammocks, and the carefully braided roof above. The chief squats on the floor with some children, and beside them sit Fitzcarraldo and Jaime de Aguila. A little to the side, two women are chewing peeled pieces of the sweet manioc root. They spit the chewed stuff into a big earthenware bowl in front of them, where it has already begun to foam and ferment. The chief has invited the guests to eat, and they are having a broth of yucca and turtle. The turtle carcass lies nearby, and the children are playing with the shell and the spiked feet. There is no conversation. Mutely the chief hands Fitzcarraldo a flat, shiny white stone that resembles a tortilla. “Salt,” Jaime whispers to him. Fitzcarraldo tries to scrape some off with his machete, but the salt tortilla is hard, and nothing comes off.

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“Look,” says Jaime, and he takes the stone from him and stirs his soup with it like a huge spoon. Fitzcarraldo imitates him, stirring for a long time. “Now I’ve made it too salty,” he whispers to him after taking a taste from his bowl. The chief pulls over a bowl of finished manioc chicha and hands Fitzcarraldo a pottery drinking bowl. “You must drink it,” says Jaime threateningly. “It’s just fermented saliva.” Fitzcarraldo gazes for a moment at the viscous substance, which looks a little like pale, watery yogurt, and then takes a bowlful of it. He drinks bravely, and gestures to the chief that it tastes wonderful. “My God,” he says to him, smiling, “how time flies.”

Pachitea, near the Boat With renewed vigor, everyone is back at work. The scores of canoes have been cleared away, many dragged ashore, and big rafts made of light, pale balsa wood, lashed with lianas, float near the bow, which still leans flat against the incline of the ramp. Indians are dragging some logs of the feather-­light wood under the bow, diving underwater, as others help by shoving the logs from behind. There is enormous activity. Huerequeque, who stands chest-­deep in water, is in command. On deck overhead, Fitzcarraldo and his crew are fastening the heavy cables at various points farther back on deck; it is a tedious job. We see the ship’s hull at the waterline. It has, indeed, risen a bit up front; the black-­marked line along the craft’s belly is already slightly inclined in the water. More and more trunks are pulled below the bow, which rises slowly. Huerequeque is happy. “Even from a peasant’s brain,” he cries, “you’ll sometimes get something clever.” “But you’re no peasant,” Fitzcarraldo shouts back. “You’re just the finest drunkard that ever staggered over God’s earth. To Huerequeque!” He grabs the basket bottle and takes a mighty swig.

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Mountain Slope, Camisea As one man, hundreds of Jívaros start moving at the same time, and like windmills placed horizontally, the winches begin to turn. The cables tighten, one after the other, stretching and groaning.

Pachitea, at the Boat By means of the mass of balsa logs the ship has been raised at a sharp angle; at the stern it seems almost to drown in the water. Supporting beams have been positioned on both sides. In a neatly arranged network, the ropes lead to different spots on the side of the hull, thereby relieving the bow of the main force pulling the boat. The Amazonian figurehead now juts sharply upward. We see the bow up close. Pulled with enormous power, the keel now presses against the ramp, which has been rubbed with lard or soft soap. The pressure increases, the whole ship sighs from deep within. Huerequeque, working like a madman, pours water on the slick trunks, and then all at once, almost with a jerk of liberation, the bow pushes up onto them. Huerequeque yells, “It works!” Inch by inch the keel pushes up the ramp. The Indians on the slope run in circles. After ten turns, the steamboat pushes forward a hand’s breadth. To the stern it is already dangling dangerously deep into the water. On the other side of the Pachitea the ropes are loosened. This is the beginning. “We forgot something,” Fitzcarraldo roars from on deck. “What?” Huerequeque roars back. “Enrico, Enrico Caruso,” Fitzcarraldo shouts. And then a beautiful, stately aria begins and enraptures us.

On Board, Deck, Night Near the mess table Fitzcarraldo and his men have tied hammocks, and only Huerequeque sits at the polished mahogany table. He is already heavy and slow from a great deal of aguardiente. He has a glass in front of him, and he keeps putting it back in its place when it slides toward him. With his bare chest leaned against the

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edge of the table, he stops the glass, refusing to acknowledge the steep slant of the table. From the way the hammocks are hanging, we can discern precisely the angle to the vertical. The men are daydreaming. Fitzcarraldo talks to his parrot Bald Eagle, but the bird just nibbles patiently at a wax candle, and doesn’t say a word. Jaime raises his voice from his hammock. “The cigarettes are going too fast, we have to ration them more carefully. And the kerosene for the lamps will be used up soon as well.” “My torchbearers will come then, my armies shall bring the light,” says Wilbur, whose hammock is slung beside his abandoned barber chair. “We shall proclaim the Ucayali and the Pachitea as the Kingdom of the Jívaros, and we shall stay here forever.” “Wilbur,” says Fitzcarraldo soothingly, drawing on his cigarette, which illuminates his face. “Fitz?” says Wilbur. “We’ll stay for a very long time,” says Fitzcarraldo. “How fast are we getting on?” he asks in the direction of Jaime, after a pause. “On a good day we can manage thirty feet, like the other day, but something always interferes. Today we didn’t advance at all, and yesterday it was an arm’s length, if anything.” A new pause ensues. “We’ll have to build ourselves a hut,” says Fitzcarraldo. “This lopsided life is getting ridiculous.” He looks at Huerequeque, who is trying to prop his glass with a knife handle, but the knife and the glass are now sliding toward him together. The sounds of the night drift over from the nearby forest. Otherwise it is dark all around.

Mountain Slope, Camisea The boat has been pulled up the slope farther than its own length. It is propped up on both sides, and additional trunks have been placed at the stern. Towed by ropes they have the effect of huge levers. Some pulleys with long chains are towing as well, and the work is in full swing. It is impressive to watch, hundreds of

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Indians working simultaneously at the winches, trotting in circles. The proper tempo has been found; it is no longer hectic, as it was in the very beginning. At the edge of the swath through the forest the women are working, their fireplaces burning everywhere. All told, there must be eleven hundred natives. A large group has assembled down by the river, something is going on. We recognize Fitzcarraldo and Jaime de Aguila among them. Wailing sounds reach us as we overlook the scene. About a dozen women are pounding bunches of a certain herb with clubs against peeled tree trunks, until a pasty green substance is produced. Men with spears are standing around; they have painted their faces and arms black. A woman sits on the ground, rocking the upper part of her body back and forth, singing a strange, wailing song. Something extraordinary is in preparation. Standing with his men, the chief is smeared with black as well. From the mountain slope, where most of the Indians have ceased working, groups of men are joining them. Wilbur approaches cautiously with the boy named McNamara. The boat, which has moved only imperceptibly forward, now stands completely still. Jaime carefully takes Fitzcarraldo aside. “I’m not sure what, but something is brewing, I don’t like the looks of this. The first time, in ’96, it started the same way. Do you know what the women are doing?” “No,” says Fitzcarraldo. “It’s a poison, a very potent one, not just for chickens,” says Jaime. “And the men painted in black. What does that mean?” asks Fitzcarraldo. “It means that they’re invisible, they do that before the hunt or going to war,” Jaime explains. “But the woman singing, I can’t place that yet.” “What’s she singing?” asks Fitzcarraldo. “Shouldn’t we get back to the boat and load our rifles?” “No, you know perfectly well we wouldn’t stand a chance. Let me listen,” says Jaime. “She’s singing to some kind of fertility

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goddess, it doesn’t fit somehow. She sings: ‘Thou art a woman like me, I always call the food. My little children, come ye to me happily, so come to me also, my beloved food.’” Then, all at once, life returns to the assembly. Fitzcarraldo is ready for anything, but what happens, unexpectedly, is this: the women spill the poison into the river, and the men with the spears jump into canoes, and now we learn the meaning of this mysteriousness. After a few seconds, several big fish rise to the surface belly-­up, unconscious, twitching briefly in paralysis. The invisible ones pierce them with their spears. In seconds, many of the nearly man-­sized fish have been killed. A wave of relief now runs through Fitzcarraldo.

Camisea, Mountain Slope It is difficult to tell whether it is day or night, raining as it is like the Flood, in a way we have never seen before. Lightning flashes without interruption, the thunder cracks the earth in two. The water pours from the sky in an almost solid mass, nearly smothering the people and putting a heavy load on the forest. In no time the entire swath cut in the jungle has become a broad, clay-­red stream, increasingly violent, a torrent rushing by. We see how the water instantly digs furrows and grooves, how it washes beneath the hull, how it carries away the supporting trunks and logs. We recognize Fitzcarraldo and his men, like specters in this deluge, as they try to drive the Indians out into the rain. They seem reluctant, anxious, as far as we can make out through the downpour. The thunder rolls frightfully and the lightning flashes, terrifying. In the flickering light and through the curtain of torrential rain, we can barely see a group of Jívaros who have set to work at one of the winches, but after only a few turns there is a terrible jerk, and the mooring, flooded by the red torrent, rips loose from the mud. Screams, men slip in the mud, a crash of wood drowns out the thunder, the hull breaks loose, starts to slip, wooden supports snap, mud and water splash up, the boat slides several yards down the slope. There is a horrible jolt and the sloshing water

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sprays everywhere. The ship stops dead and the ropes tighten and twang. Cries of pain, people hurrying, there has been an accident. In the pouring rain we see two Jívaros pinned beneath support beams ripped loose at the rear of the boat, squeezed together like victims of an earthquake. A burst of thunder hits like a grenade, then everything vanishes in the furious rain, as if it were only an evil apparition.

Camisea, Mountain Slope, Early Morning A misty, fresh, early morning, the birds rejoice with their infernal jubilation. On the hillside all is still, no people in sight, just smoke drifting from the huts at the edge of the swath. From there an oppressive feeling counteracts the exultation of the forest. Nearby we notice a confusion of logs, but the boat is stuck a good hundred yards up the slope from the Pachitea.

On Board, Fitzcarraldo’s Cabin In Fitzcarraldo’s cabin, his crew has gathered around him, depressed, everything but the open door looking lopsided on this inclined plane. The men are leaning in a peculiarly strained position against the cockeyed state of their world. Prolonged silence. Huerequeque tries to generate a little optimism with new suggestions. “We will start up the engine,” he says, “but instead of the propeller it will drive the anchor winch, and the ship will be wound up the mountain under its own power. And then we’ll fasten a rope from the ship to the other side of the mountain, and put a huge barrel on tracks, and we could fill it little by little with water from the Ucayali. That way a counter­tension would arise, and the ship couldn’t tear itself loose again. And we could even . . .” “We have two dead men,” Fitzcarraldo interrupts. “I only meant,” says Huerequeque after a pause, “that the weight from the other side could even pull our steamboat uphill.” Despite the general depression, we feel that the proposals

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may not be so bad, but at the moment there is no enthusiasm for them. “Two men dead.” Fitzcarraldo clings to his dark thoughts. “If that’s the price, then I don’t know. Something is wrong here, everything’s warped.” We hear voices coming from the huts outside, the Jívaros are obviously in council; we hear the sound of a violent argument, and Jaime de Aguila tries to hear what it’s about. We see at a distance several hundred Jívaros gathered at the edge of the swath. Loud shouting, gesticulating. The gestures have lost their harmonious center.

On Board, Center Deck, Night Completely filled with sleeping people, the hammocks hang against the incline of the deck. Only Huerequeque snores irregularly amid the calm breathing of the sleepers. Steps come up the staircase from the lower deck, a figure bends over one of the hammocks. It is Jaime. He gently wakes up Fitzcarraldo, who needs a moment to orient himself. “I’ve just been outside. Whether you believe this or not, they are all gone.” “What!” says Fitzcarraldo, waking the others. “What are you saying?” “I had this feeling,” says Jaime, “so I went out, and not a soul was there. Nothing. They’re all gone.” Beside Wilbur, who has sat up in his hammock, the head of the Indian boy pops up in the hammock next to his. “Only McNamara, my footman, has remained with us,” says Wilbur. Jaime turns to the boy and speaks to him softly in Jívaro. The boy answers low and hesitantly. “He doesn’t know anything,” says Jaime. “I must say this can mean they are planning an attack, but it can mean a lot of other things as well. I don’t really know what’s going on. It’s a mystery.” Stunned silence spreads. There is a low wailing and croaking in the woods.

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On Board, Center Deck A day veiled with thin clouds, a joyless rain drips thinly down. The steamboat hangs at an angle on the slope. The hammocks sway empty and dejected in a slight breeze. Some guns are lying around, always within reach. The crew lolls about idly. Huerequeque plays his sapo game against himself, but he plays so badly and hits so seldom that he starts secretly cheating himself. “Two thousand eight hundred,” he says, adding up the points, but everyone knows it wasn’t even a thousand. “Haven’t you got anything better to do?” Fitzcarraldo yells at him out of the blue. We notice the men are getting on each other’s nerves, the wait is gnawing at them. “For four days now,” Fitzcarraldo says, “nothing but sapo, sapo, sapo, sapo. I can’t stand it any more.” Jaime de Aguila sits on deck, carefully cleaning his toenails with a screwdriver. He says nothing. Wilbur and McNamara are the only ones who seem content, chewing on some fruit, spitting out the seeds, and lost in thought.

Pachitea Riverbank Fitzcarraldo, who can no longer stand being on deck, has climbed down to the riverbank. Behind him, the abandoned path of slippery clay soil stretches up through the jungle in a light rain. There the steamboat hangs on the slope; to the left and right, all life has withered away. The zebu cow has been tied near the bank and gazes with big, soft eyes at Fitzcarraldo, who scratches her on the forehead, between the horns. “We’re going to have to kill you soon,” he says in a low voice. Fitzcarraldo steps onto a sandbar that has just formed; evidently the water level has dropped a little. Lost in contemplation, he gazes out across the lazy current of the river, which flows past him monotonously and incessantly. The jungle stands mute, a light rain drizzles, the melancholy river passes by. Scores of tiny spiders, colored an almost transparent brown so that they hardly stand out against the sand, arouse Fitzcarraldo’s attention.

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They are long-­legged speedsters with small bodies, and whenever Fitzcarraldo puts one foot before the other they bolt upright and run for a while. The whole sandbank is covered with them, both resting and on the run. When Fitzcarraldo stamps his foot hard with a thud in the damp sand, all the spiders, hundreds of them, like a fine, semitransparent skin over the sand, dash in a long-­ legged sprint down to the river. The spiders continue racing over the surface of the water, and it supports them. They race out onto the river as if they had never heard of the law of gravity.

On Board, Center Deck, Night All the men are standing in a line at the slanting railing. They strain their eyes and look out into the night in disbelief. We hear voices, myriad sounds, a hum of voices and noises. We see what the men see. All along the edge of the forest, fires glow, shadows move, single shouts reverberate. “They’re back, as though nothing ever happened,” says Fitz­ carraldo, as if he were dreaming. “I don’t understand anything anymore,” says Jaime de Aguila softly. “It’s all a mystery to me.”

Camisea, Mountain Slope The work is in full swing once more, the place is teeming with people. The flat wooden beams of the winches turn steadily, the ropes creak, the boat groans gently, yet it is strangely quiet. The work proceeds in total silence. Suddenly, the smokestack of the Molly Aida makes a loud noise and belches a cloud of smoke, a solitary cloud that dissipates, then another one, and then dense smoke puffs out; the engine has been started, it begins rumbling and chugging steadily.

On Deck, Bow Fitzcarraldo and Huerequeque are standing by the anchor winch. The mechanic joins them. We see how the winch starts moving

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very slowly, how it begins winding up the heavy chain very slowly. The chain is stretched forward tautly, and about forty yards away the anchor is tied to a big stump with massive roots. The boat pulls itself up the mountain with the power of its own anchor winch. “It works,” says Huerequeque proudly. “That takes the pressure off the other winches,” says the mechanic.

Camisea, Mountain Slope, As Before A strange sight: the swath, the jungle, the smoking fires, the frenzied labor. And, in the middle of it all, on giant logs, the huge riverboat slowly rolling uphill, powered by itself under full steam. The chugging of the machinery chimes in with a grandiose music.

Camisea, Opposite Slope toward the Ucayali On the opposite slope a big, makeshift metal barrel the size of a railroad car, open at the top, rests on tree trunks, which function as rollers. The impression of a railroad car is reinforced by the fact that the rollers are set on rails, which extend downhill about two full lengths of track. The container is attached by a heavy steel cable leading over a securely fastened wheel on top of the ridge to the boat on the other side. A queue of hundreds of Jívaros is busy passing along buckets made of bark and filled with water; the line of people extends in a serpentine path down the swath to the shore of the Ucayali. The barrel is being filled little by little with water. We can see it will take days before it is full. Fitzcarraldo and Huerequeque slip and slide as they walk along the line of Jívaros. Huerequeque is obviously proud. This is his invention, his idea. The Indians have painted broad stripes on their faces with reddish-­ochre achiote and uricuri. As we pass along the queue with Fitzcarraldo, it strikes us that all of them avoid his gaze.

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Camisea, Fitzcarraldo’s Hut, Evening A new hut has been built at the edge of the swath; from the clothes, from the small wooden table with its detailed maps of the area, from the tin utensils, we know that this hut has been erected for Fitzcarraldo and his men. Otherwise, with its fireplace and hanging hammocks, it resembles the hut of the chief. Fitzcarraldo and his men crouch on the floor near the fire, having accustomed themselves to the posture of the Indians. The chief is their guest, and the boy named McNamara is with them as well. In the background, seen beyond the platform, we see the boat hanging on the slope, tied securely. It is fairly high up, and weeks must have passed. Outside, where the platform of the house almost touches the hillside, Indians are leaning on the inclined slope, silently looking inside. Wilbur lights a kerosene lamp and hangs it up as night sinks slowly down. The men eat yams, beans, and monkey meat with their fingers, like the Indians. The roasted monkeys look something like fine-­limbed, naked babies, contorted into painful physical positions. “Why are they doing this?” Fitzcarraldo keeps asking into the silence. “Why do they keep working?” “I don’t know,” says Jaime, “we can only guess. I can’t shake the thought that we’re taking too much time for all this, four months have gone by already. Maybe we’ll get the boat over the mountain, but maybe it will also be months too late and our option will have expired, and everything will have been in vain, and in the end they’ll celebrate by making shrunken heads out of us.” “I don’t think so,” says Fitzcarraldo. “I think we’re safe.” “How come?” asks Huerequeque. “Unless I’m mistaken, I can see a sure sign,” says Fitzcarraldo. “Look over there. Try to be inconspicuous, but look where I look. Do you see those hands on the railing?” We follow their cautious glances. Meanwhile, black night has fallen outside. On the railing of the bark-­covered platform we see several hands illuminated by the kerosene lamp, and the Jívaros face us from the darkness, motionless. In the black of night we can only guess where their eyes are, there is only darkness there.

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Fitzcarraldo stares directly at the spot where their faces should be. At once the hands silently withdraw from the railing back into the darkness, and only a single Indian hand far to one side remains. Fitzcarraldo turns to that hand, staring into the darkness toward the obscured face. The hand remains, and Fitzcarraldo keeps staring unflinchingly. Then, after a long hesitation, a finger moves and the hand slips cautiously back into the darkness.

Heights of Camisea Like a familiar companion the day has also brought streaming rain, yet the mood is festive. The ship has reached the summit. A strange sight. Atop the highest spot on the ridge, the big steamboat sits firmly fastened, all smeared with clay, and on either side the jungle swath descends to the Pachitea and the Ucayali, its reddish clay just bottomless mud now. Hundreds of Jívaros are swarming about the hull of the boat, seized by joyous excitement like the rest. Wilbur has set his barber chair up on the crest, in the midst of the mud and rain, and presides from his throne, with his footman McNamara beside him. “I’m going to stay here,” he proclaims into the tumult, “from here I shall reign over the united empire of the Jívaros.” Fitzcarraldo is sitting on the ground in the midst of the reddish mud, as a Jívaro bandages his swollen foot with a thin liana, up past the ankle. Apparently a little drunk, Fitzcarraldo sings. “Mosquitoes and fire ants and foot fungus don’t matter to us,” he sings, “we’ll get this babe over the mountain.” Jaime de Aguila comes over and slaps his muddy hand on Fitzcarraldo’s shoulder. “And even if we take two years, and it was all for nothing, we’ll finish the job for its own sake.” Not far from them, where some Jívaros at the edge of the forest are breaking open a rotten tree with their axes, extracting fat white grubs and eating them at once, Huerequeque lies in the pouring rain, stupefied, dead drunk. He spreads a drenched linen sheet over himself and goes to sleep as if he were home in bed. The mechanic tries to get him to his feet, but Huerequeque just

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turns onto his side grumpily, wrapping himself with the sheet in the mud. Stan has taken out a few balls and makes them dance, lost in his art, a sight we haven’t seen for a long time. The rain suddenly stops and wanders off like a dark, striped wall. The sun breaks through a little, and over all the festive crowd and the strange, crazy steamboat on the mountain, a strong, gleaming rainbow appears. Overgrown with jungle, the slopes in the distance tower up into the white clouds, right into the mysterious.

Camisea, Slope toward the Ucayali A normal intensive work day, but now the bow of the ship points down toward the Ucayali, and the winches are all operating behind the boat, braking it with the same power that was earlier used to pull. The Indians are all leaning against the crossbeams, now going backward in circles. The boat has already made it a third of the way down the other side, but it seems to have reached a difficult point on the slope, where a deep furrow several yards wide must be crossed on some sort of bridge of cumbersome trunks and support beams. Fitzcarraldo is there with his men, and bending down below the boat’s belly he examines the movement of the mass. We see how the colossal hulk of the steamboat moves downward foot by foot, grating hollowly. “I wouldn’t have thought so, but downhill is just as difficult,” says Fitzcarraldo. “But now it’s a little faster,” says Huerequeque, “so we must have learned something.”

Banks of the Ucayali Again there is rain, but what a moment. The boat lies tied to a ramp, with its bow almost touching the light, clay-­colored waters of the Ucayali. The river is carrying high water and streaming by at a terrible speed; leaves and wood float on the surface, the sign of a rapidly rising flood. Eleven hundred Jívaros drag their canoes

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in a strange procession down the mountainside to the Ucayali, where the terrain is somewhat flatter than on the Pachitea side. Fitzcarraldo stands, axe in hand, by a tightly stretched rope, and gives his men a sign, to Wilbur, to Stan, to Jaime, to the others. Axes, machetes swoop down as they start hacking in turns, and with a final mighty chop, Fitzcarraldo cuts the last rope, stretched so tightly it bursts. With a clumsy, hollow wobble, the boat begins to move, sluggishly picks up speed, and finally slides with the full force of its weight into the Ucayali. The bow dives deep into the water and, a moment later, the boat rights itself on the brownish, foaming flood. This is its true launching, and amid the rejoicing Huerequeque gleefully fires his rifle, though its sound is drowned out by shouting and singing. The boat, with ropes still fixed to the bow, now turns parallel to the shore, where Fitzcarraldo’s men tie it up at once in front and back. The bow faces against the current. As proud as a father after the birth of his first son, Fitzcarraldo lights himself a cigar, his last one, he says, and at once serves aguardiente in great quantity, taking a whole bowlful for himself. We’ve never seen him like this, so beside himself, so totally given over to the joy of the moment. And how this man can be happy is a pleasure to watch. “Three weeks early,” cries Huerequeque in front of him, “three weeks before the deadline!” “Yes,” says Fitzcarraldo, “we’ve done it. Watch out, now comes the official part.” He makes a meaningful pause. “We need a harbor.” Then he roars with laughter, “I’ll found a town here! A hammer, quick! And stakes, and ropes!” Someone hands Fitzcarraldo the things he needs. He races madly back and forth on the shore, hammering on poles, tying ropes and uttering wild, snorting sounds of joy. “This here will be the marketplace,” he cries, “and that will be the mayor’s office, and Main Street will run in this direction, and here I’ll build my palace, and here we’ll have a small theater, and here . . .” “What’ll you call this town?” asks Wilbur, awestruck. Fitzcarraldo stops short in his creative raving. His face is

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marked with enthusiasm, bright with happiness. He makes a very sly face. “Fitzcarraldo,” says Fitzcarraldo. Indescribable cheering breaks loose and, as if they understood, the Jívaros cautiously join in. Wilbur is overcome by one of his seductive ecstasies. “I’ll weave you a hammock of living snakes!” he sings.

Banks of the Ucayali, toward Evening Pressing close to one another, Fitzcarraldo, his men, and the eleven hundred Jívaros are gathered on the bank of the Ucayali, which in the meantime has risen another three feet or more. The boat, however, lies securely tied at the riverbank. Fitzcarraldo is already rather drunk, he staggers with wobbly knees over to the chief and tries to shake his hand, but the chief simply touches his hand softly with his fingertips. The Indians are strangely silent now, they seem introverted, their gaze turns within. Over everything, Caruso’s voice resounds. Dusk sinks down on this scene.

Fitzcarraldo’s Cabin, Early Morning Fitzcarraldo lies in bed, sleeping off his drunk. From outside we listen to the voices of the jungle as they announce a fresh morning. The water of the river rushes and slaps the side of the ship. But the water is curiously loud, and the voices of the birds sound strangely hollow, like an echo. The boat shakes slightly, then it begins to sway. Fitzcarraldo’s bed sways so much that his body rolls slowly back and forth. His bed keeps rocking up and down as if it were bobbing on the high seas amid heavy swells. Fitzcarraldo wakes up all green in the face, hung over. He feels his head, his forehead is buzzing, the cabin is turning in circles, the floor is uncertain as it rocks up and down, his bed slides to and fro. He gets ready to vomit but, suddenly waking to full awareness, he recognizes it is not his head vibrating and going in circles, it is the cabin that is rocking. The whole boat is rocking. Fitzcarraldo flies out of bed.

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He dashes on deck, dressed only in his trousers. A few Jívaros are huddling on board, but that is not it: The boat is drifting pilotless down the Ucayali, and a moment later he understands it’s much worse than that, much more terrifying, there can be no doubt: the boat is drifting right into the Pongo das Mortes. For a second or two, Fitzcarraldo stares in disbelief—­distraught. The dramatic cliffs jut up to the left and right, and up ahead they narrow to the gorge through the rocks. At the same moment, Jaime de Aguila comes racing on deck as well. “The Pongo!” cries Fitzcarraldo with a voice no longer human. “We’re drifting into the Pongo!” The Indians sit motionless, staring into their profoundest depths, their eyes as wide and empty as the sea. The boat is reeling.

Engine Room Fitzcarraldo and Jaime hurry down to the engine room in a panic. They must grope for support with their hands as they are thrown from side to side with the lurching of the boat. The floor is slippery with oil. Jaime falls and staggers up again. “The valves first! Open the valves!” he shouts. “Where?” cries Fitzcarraldo desperately. At that moment the mechanic comes slipping down the narrow iron staircase. “Open the boiler, start the fire, quick!” he commands.

Pongo das Mortes, Early Morning It is high water in the Pongo, and it is even more terrifying than we remember. It roars and rages and thunders, and already the ship comes drifting at a frightful speed, hurled forward by the waves, whirled in circles by the swirling current, pilotless, ripped along by the elements. Foaming white waves loom up in rage, the boat rises on the towering waves and comes shooting down again into a bottomless valley.

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And then, all at once, smoke starts coming from the smokestack, cautiously at first, then thicker and fuller, and the smokestack, tossed to and fro, draws weird patterns of smoke in the gorge. But it is too late, no power in the world could now stop the Molly Aida’s voyage to hell. Then, in a narrow bend, there is a vile, atrocious, sick scraping sound as the ship smashes against a rocky wall, part of the superstructure rips away at once, then there is a crash, a muffled rumbling, and the elements hurl the ship through the foaming white maelstrom.

Pongo das Mortes, Lower End The Pongo das Mortes lies there before us, raging, the rocky walls above veiled in mists. And then, all of a sudden, it spits out the Molly Aida, which now lists in the water lopsided, smoking heavily. Its upper housing is torn apart in front, but somehow it is still afloat. How it was possible to come out of this unharmed strikes us as a miracle. Behind the boat the Pongo roars like a hundred thousand stags in heat, so proud of its monstrous power. And as the boat drifts toward us, having survived the inferno, we have time to let a terrible thought germinate. Here comes Fitzcarraldo, emerging from the lower end of the Pongo, and so everything was to no avail. Yes, everything was to no avail. And: why, then, how could this happen, why was the boat set adrift? The dream is over, all was in vain. In a single night, eight months of exertion are rendered null and void. Fitzcarraldo again ends up below the Pongo das Mortes.

On Board, below the Pongo das Mortes Parts of the upper deck are dangling down onto the center decks, and it looks like the aftermath of battle. Fitzcarraldo is dazed, he hasn’t fully grasped what has happened. This stroke of misfortune was too severe. Jaime, bleeding at the mouth after hurting himself somehow, questions the Indians on board, just four of them, who report to him with happy, relaxed faces. Yes, they seem relieved, almost overjoyed.

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“Now just sit down and hold on,” says Jaime. “Do you know what they are saying? Fitz, grab hold of something. They say they untied the boat themselves last night, so we would drift downstream all night long, and they did it on purpose. They say they always knew our boat, the divine vessel, was dragged over the mountain only so it could drift through the rapids. They say it was necessary, that they had been waiting for this since the time of their forefathers, it was necessary to reconcile the evil spirits of the rapids.” The Indians nod in affirmation. They are quite relieved and happy, and start singing a song. The boat limps toward the shore where, in the distance, we recognize Don Aquilino’s settlement.

Don Aquilino’s Settlement Fitzcarraldo and Don Aquilino are sitting on the veranda of the house. Fitzcarraldo is silent, almost catatonic. Don Aquilino makes an effort to help his guest get over the worst. But he is discreet in doing this and, to a certain degree, sensitive. He opens a bottle of champagne. “First of all, have a drink. Taming the Pongo das Mortes with a steamboat is a record that won’t be repeated.” He turns to the Indians and hands them a glass of champagne. “Formidable gentlemen,” he cries, “to the soothing of the evil spirits of the Pongo.” Fitzcarraldo remains silent. “Look here,” continues Don Aquilino, “out in front of the house, all the way down to the Ucayali, those are all champagne bottles, there’s always a reason to celebrate here.” We see that the road leading down to the river really is paved with champagne bottles, that is, empty bottles have been stuck in the ground in such a way that the bottoms form a paved road. At the Ucayali, Fitzcarraldo’s boat is moored; in the distance we can see his crew removing the upper structures. “To the Pongo das Mortes,” says Don Aquilino, raising his glass. Fitzcarraldo raises his without a word and drinks it down. “What will you do now?” asks Don Aquilino.

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Silence. Fitzcarraldo shrugs his shoulders. “You know,” says Don Aquilino, “I ask you that because I am interested in your boat, since for you it’s of no use anymore, while I myself could put it to good use. The business here has expanded a great deal lately. The hull and the engine have weathered the Pongo quite well, and within a week it should be possible to mend the damage. I assure you I don’t mean to exploit your delicate situation. . . .” But Fitzcarraldo doesn’t react properly, he is far away in his thoughts, where there is nothing but darkness. Don Aquilino feels rather helpless with his guest and his misfortune. He tries to direct the conversation to more pleasant topics. “From Manaus we have news of a European opera company that is giving a guest performance there at the moment, perhaps you should go there, I mean to relax. They say that there’s an opera by a sensational German composer there, one of the very modern ones, Federico . . . no, Ricardo, what’s his name? Ricardo Wagner, I think, and the opera is called Walkiria, one of those fat Teutonic goddesses, the whole thing is supposed to be very Teutonic.” Suddenly life returns to Fitzcarraldo, first to his eyes, then he sits erect. “Wagner,” he says, “really? The one who wrote Parsifal?” “It must be the same one,” says Don Aquilino. “Tell me,” says Fitzcarraldo, “about the boat, do you really mean it?” A sudden idea has seized him, he has caught fire. The fire has taken possession of Fitzcarraldo again.

Ucayali, near Don Aquilino’s Settlement Don Aquilino and Fitzcarraldo are coming down the road paved with French champagne bottles, toward the landing where the Molly Aida is moored. Fitzcarraldo is cheerful and full of energy, clutching a bundle of money in his hands. Upon arriving at the boat he calls his crew together. Now we see the devastation on the upper deck more closely; no vital elements seem to have been affected, although the boat is looking rather desolate. “My friends,” says Fitzcarraldo to his men, who, surprised by

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his effusive mood, have flocked around him, “may I present to you the new owner of the Molly Aida, Don Aquilino. But he has agreed to a clause that permits us to keep the boat for our own use for two more weeks. We’ll patch it up temporarily. Jaime, you will travel to Manaus, you’ll take a boat and all the money here, you’ll bring me back a tailcoat, and the biggest cigar in the world, and from the theater an armchair with velvet upholstery. I’ve made a promise to a pig that loves Caruso so much.” “Yes,” says Jaime. Fitzcarraldo makes a very secretive face and whispers in his ear: “And then . . .”

Ucayali, Landing It is early morning, one of the most spectacular, blazing up beyond the jungle in red flames. Quiet flows the river. We look downstream. All at once several peke-­pekes appear from the next bend of the Ucayali, a small flotilla of seven or eight boats, chugging up the river in a broad formation. Fitzcarraldo is standing at the gangplank of the Molly Aida, which has been roughly put in order; at least a week must have passed. Fitzcarraldo is looking hard, he recognizes Jaime in the lead boat, waving, and Fitzcarraldo draws a deep breath: here they come. The boats land, and now they come thronging ashore, exhausted, yes, but also exhilarated by the unusual boat trip: the musicians, the singers, the entire orchestra. “We shall make our entry into Iquitos, we shall bring Grand Opera to Iquitos,” Fitzcarraldo calls out, “just once in my life.” And then the sounds of the jungle vanish, the noises of the boats, the speech of man. Grandly the overture of the Walküre sets in, the music pervades everything, the landscape, the heart. We see Fitzcarraldo greeting the conductor with a handshake, helping the singers, mighty Germanic women, on land, as Jaime de Aguila hands over a cigar of unheard-­of proportions, a theater seat, and a tailcoat. And then the sound swells up, the music grows, becoming all-­embracing. A small pudgy Italian bassist

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is suddenly bereft of his instrument, which is drifting away—­an accident while unloading. With its wide belly, the double bass floats away on the Ucayali. The little Italian is sobbing after it, inconsolably.

Mouth of the Ucayali, at the Amazon There goes the Molly Aida, steaming proudly past us down the Ucayali into the mighty Amazon. There it turns upstream in a wide curve, in the direction of Iquitos. All of this has something uplifting about it, a pathos, a grandeur. The music increases, the singing begins, and we see that the entire upper platform is occupied by the orchestra, there the male and female singers stand with helmet, spear, and armor, imposing Germanic deities, singing. They have erected a forest of papier-mâché, their theater sets and the stage forest pass by the real jungle. What a sight!

On Board There lies Fitzcarraldo, slouched in his hammock, in tailcoat and laced shirt, smoking the biggest cigar in the world, and beside him he has the empty velvet chair from Teatro Amazonas in Manaus. Next to him lies Wilbur in his barber’s throne with his eyes closed. And the orchestra plays the Walküre.

Iquitos The riverbank of Iquitos resembles an excited beehive, people are streaming together in countless numbers, like a brushfire a shout spreads through town: Fitzcarraldo’s coming back. But a miracle seems to have happened; Fitzcarraldo, who had been lost for eight months, who disappeared upstream, is coming back from downstream! How is that possible? It can’t be, someone who’s gone upstream has to come back from upstream! A miracle, something incomprehensible has happened. Thousands of excited people rush together. The shore is black with people. We recognize Molly running up with some of her girls, and

234 Fitzcarraldo

how happy she is! Fitzcarraldo has returned. And Bronski is standing there, pale and quiet, staring straight ahead downstream. Music is wafting over from the river, the Walküre.

Amazon River We see the Molly Aida still at a distance, proudly steaming along, the boat following its course upriver in its last triumph.

On Board The music plays, swelling again into a great, painful jubilation. We see Fitzcarraldo stretched out in his tailcoat with the biggest cigar in the world. He makes his entry into Iquitos like a real king, just once in his life he has brought Grand Opera to this city. Then, suddenly, a voice above him squawks over the music. “Birds are smart,” says the voice, “but they cannot speak.” Fitz­ carraldo spins around. And there his parrot perches above him on the railing of the upper deck, almost featherless, with the bald ass; we had almost forgotten him, not having seen him for such a long time. He looks down at Fitzcarraldo, his head to one side. “You little bastard,” says Fitzcarraldo, “there you are again. I think I’ll have to teach you a new sentence: ‘There is no sin beyond the equator,’” he says to the bird. The shore comes into view, people are running along with the boat, trying to keep up. The boats appear, the huts, the town. The music of the Walküre drowns out everything else. Fitzcarraldo is puffing up a cloud. He makes his entry into Iquitos, a king makes his entry, and he brings Grand Opera with him. And Fitzcarraldo rejoices.

Werner Herzog was born in Munich and grew up in a remote mountain village in Bavaria. He made his first film in 1961 at the age of nineteen. Since then he has produced, written, and directed more than sixty films, such as Nosferatu the Vampyre and Grizzly Man. He has also written more than a dozen books of prose and has directed many operas.