Billy Wilder on Assignment, Noah Isenberg [the beginning after the end read novel .TXT] 📗

but it would take the authority of a prophet to pass off this high school physics experiment as a “miracle.”

The next day I brought my rose back to the flower shop. “Miss,” I complained to the saleswoman, “I don’t like your miracle. Please exchange it for me.” Since there was no other miracle on hand, I settled for a cactus. A cactus always comes in handy. For instance, the thirtieth of the month was Aunt Emma’s birthday. Seven years earlier I had presented her a silver-plated pencil I found in the subway. Since then that unfortunate date had not permitted me to buy any more birthday presents. This time I will delight her with the prickly plant. “But, my boy,” she’ll say, “you have money for a present on the thirtieth? Will wonders never cease?”—Which goes to show that the Rose of Jericho at least indirectly confirmed the quality ascribed to it.

Berliner Börsen Courier, August 19, 1927

Little Economics Lesson

Thirty-five years ago, I was given a present of a children’s chocolate vending machine. You would beg your relatives desperately for money, throw it into the machine, give one pull—and right in front of the buyer or seller, a bar of chocolate would appear, turning gray at the edges, and it was happily offered to your aunt. When the machine was empty, it could be opened with a little key, and the available money had to be used to purchase new supplies, which in bulk came out somewhat cheaper than getting them from a vending machine. In addition to having a toy to play with, you also got a nice little lesson in the workings of a supply chain. You earned profits, replenished your inventory, and functioned as an entrepreneur. “Business personified,” in the guise of a fairy-tale prince, peered into the nursery through a crack in the door. It was there that sales prowess was trained from an early age, pushiness perfected, and business sense aroused and placed in the service of national wealth.

The chocolate vending machine was the model. It’s hard to grasp that it took until now for the seed planted in me so far in the past to sprout; just recently this productive idea has ripened, an idea I am now preparing to implement to make myself rich and powerful. “Each his own middleman” is the motto by which I now intend to live and whose meaning and contents I hereby convey to the public.

One example: I shave my own face. I buy soap, brush, styptic pencil, aftershave, and powder. I sharpen the knives. I spend time, effort, and money on removing my beard neatly. What use do I get out of that? Where do the capital revenues and output of my daily efforts wind up? Has it ever crossed my mind, in all my heedlessness, to remunerate myself appropriately for all my labor? A criminal waste of economic capital! From now on this will be different. I will pay myself. I will shave my face a bit more cheaply than the guy who does shaves, because I’ll want to compete with him. But I’ll pay myself.

I’ll give myself food that I’ll buy at cheap prices and pass along to myself more expensively. How happy I will be to pocket the profit that the restaurant gets for a couple of sausages!

For all the necessities of life that I fulfill for myself as an entrepreneur, I’ll add a middleman surcharge of 20 percent to the cost of the goods and services.

I’ll get my chewing gum from a vending machine set up in my hallway, and the profit will go straight to me.

I’ll get myself cigarettes for no more than the price that waiters charge.

When I unlock the front door I’ll give myself a tip.

I’ll constantly court myself as a consumer for whom only the very best will do, and to whom demonstrating the greatest obligingness is one of my immutable business principles.

In my apartment are posters that employ sumptuous and invigorating words to tout the high quality of cosmetic items, the beneficial nature of well-established wine and liquor brands, and the effectiveness of tried-and-true medicines.

I’ll prudently regulate supply and demand, constantly increase consumption with well-considered methods, and conduct effective advertising.

On a lectern there is a thick, bulky ledger in which I note down my business dealings under debit and credit with the meticulousness of a shrewd businessman. I take stock daily. I know at all times what I need to achieve.

Unfortunately, I am somewhat lacking in working capital. Recently I gathered some information about myself from Schimmelpfeng. Should I continue to extend myself credit? As a businessman, I need to exercise caution.

I fear I’m not looking good.

Berliner Börsen Courier, August 21, 1927

Film Terror

ON THE THREAT OF BEING PHOTOGRAPHED

This has been going on for months already, twice a day, at noon on the way to the restaurant, and barely an hour later when I come back, always at the same inevitable spot, this person harasses me, ambushes me as he calls out his solemn, menacing message: You have just been filmed. The first few times, I was seriously frightened, and actually thought that some director on the hunt for characters had chosen me without my knowledge to play an extra. Now that I know this nonsense has nothing to do with the world of movies, only a modern new type of business that represents “action photography,” I’m less thin-skinned about it. Even so, the formulation of this statement, this insulting passive “being filmed,” never ceases to bother me.

It rankles me that without even obtaining my consent, this picture-hungry yellow box can keep taking possession of my face, even though I go to great pains to avoid appearing in front of any camera lens. But what annoys me even more than this intrusion is actually the blind idiocy of the cameraman, this witless wastrel who went to great effort a hundred times to capture my portrait, a hundred times in vain sent his leaflet distributor to get