by Nina Revoyr
She looked at me, not with the surprise or anger I expected, but with an expression of sad resignation. Perhaps the losses she had already suffered, as well as her own experience with the vagaries of show business, had inured her to these inevitable transitions. “I am sorry to hear that,” she said. “I have enjoyed working with you.”
“And I with you. My debt to you is immeasurable.”
“You will go far, Nakayama-san. I have no doubt. Your talent is unequalled by that of any other young actor. Indeed, it drives me to work harder.”
I did not reply at first, for I was again moved by her assessment, which was more meaningful than any critic’s praise. “Thank you, Minatoya-san,” I finally said. And then, having no idea of how true this would be: “You will always be the standard against which I measure myself. May I always fall just short of your mark.”
She glanced toward the ocean and my eyes followed, but not before I saw her face in profile, the exquisite jaw, the long and graceful neck. “These last few months,” she said. “I wish …” And here she stopped, just as a particularly large wave broke against the cliff beneath us, sending a spray of water almost to our feet. “You will be missed. I hope that no matter where our lives may take us, you and I will continue to be friends.”
“I would like nothing more,” I said, looking into her face, and our eyes met for a moment before I turned and walked away.
CHAPTER FOUR
October 5, 1964
The Green Lantern, on Santa Monica Boulevard, is one of the few true coffee shops in Hollywood. It is still rare in this part of the country to find a comfortable place that lends itself to discussion or study. In New York, in San Francisco, such cafés abound—perhaps because of the greater concentration of people; perhaps because of the higher value those cities place on the workings of the mind. But in Los Angeles, where one needs a car to run even the most mundane errands, and people seldom gather to engage in substantive conversation, it is still difficult to find a place where one can spend the afternoon relaxing with a book or companion.
When young Bellinger suggested the Green Lantern as a place for our next meeting, my opinion of him only improved. It had already risen, frankly, since I’d read the articles he gave me. His piece on Faulkner’s screenplays struck the appropriate balance between appreciation for the presence of this great talent in Hollywood, and sadness that such a genius set aside his primary work in order to pursue a stable livelihood. His article on the film adaptation of Truman Capote’s first novel was astute in its observations on the limits of film in conveying the subtle rhythms of written language. His long essay on the activities of certain Hollywood stars in politics included several interesting points about the interplay of real life and image, although I was uneasy with the notion that actors should attempt to get involved in the great issues of the modern world. Nonetheless, I saw in the body of Bellinger’s work a sensitivity and wisdom that belied his years, and this greatly increased my willingness to speak with him about my own career.
I arrived at the Green Lantern ten minutes before our meeting time; Bellinger again was slightly late. He seemed harried—his dark hair was even more unkempt than the first time we met, and his eyes darted back and forth across the room. While we were waiting for our drinks to arrive, I told him how much I’d enjoyed his articles. At this, Bellinger brightened again and thanked me. Once the waitress arrived with our coffee and tea, he took out his notepad and asked me to recount my early career—how I had gotten involved in the theater, and how I’d come to meet William Moran. Bellinger remained quiet through most of my monologue, speaking only to ask about Hanako Mina-toya and my impressions of Moran. I described the fierce competition between the various small movie outfits, the directors who carried guns to work to fend off potential rivals, and the sometimes difficult untangling of contracts and jobs when several small companies were absorbed into larger ones.
Bellinger listened and nodded. “Was there any discussion of you losing your contract when the Normandy Players were rolled into Perennial?”
“No. In fact, when Perennial was formed, I received a new contract as well as a significant raise.”
“And the parts changed, I noticed. You went from light comedies and Japanese period pieces to roles that were more substantial.”
I straightened my back and lifted my chin before I answered. “Mr. Bellinger, the roles I played were never in substantial.”
He fumbled with his cup and leaned anxiously over the table. “Oh yes, sir, I know. What I mean is, at Perennial you became a genuine star.”
I nodded. “Well, yes, I would say that’s accurate.”
“They knew they had something in you, obviously.”
“Yes, they certainly did. I had made perhaps twenty films by that time, and most of them did well. But my time at Perennial was certainly the height of my career. Gerard Normandy ensured that Perennial acquired suitable material—and Benjamin Dreyfus, a top executive there, was a genius at distribution and marketing.”
“Benjamin Dreyfus!” exclaimed Bellinger, so loudly that he startled me. “I know exactly who Benjamin Dreyfus is!” Then, more to himself than to me: “No, no, I shouldn’t even bring this up yet.”
“What is it?” I knew that whatever he might have in mind, it was not a living Benjamin Dreyfus. Dreyfus had been a key figure in the studio’s growth, but he died twenty years ago, and I attended his funeral, where I sat in the back of the crowded Westside synagogue to avoid the familiar faces.
There was a new excitement in Bellinger’s eyes—he seemed more animated, even, than in our first meeting. “Well, his grandson, Josh, is a vice president now at Perennial. And he’s a very good friend of mine.”
I looked at him patiently, wondering what he would think I could possibly find interesting in this fact about Dreyfus’ progeny.
Bellinger shook his head like a wet dog trying to rid himself of water. “No, I’m going about this all wrong.” He leaned over the table and considered me intently; for a moment, I thought he might grab my collar. “Mr. Nakayama,” he said, “I’m not just a reporter. I’m also a screenwriter. I’ve had three short films produced in the last two years, and I’ve just finished my first full-length screenplay. The reason I’m telling you about my friend Josh Dreyfus is that he and Perennial are interested in buying it. And the reason I suddenly got all worked up is that if Perennial does decide to make this picture, I’d really like for you to be in it.”
I just looked at him; I did not know what to say. Bellinger must have seen my surprise, because he leaned back and spoke more calmly.
“I know this is coming out of left field, Mr. Nakayama, and I’m sorry. But you see, there’s a part in the film for an older Japanese man, and I wrote it with you in mind, even before I knew I’d ever get to meet you. Then when I did track you down for the article, I didn’t want to mention it right away because I wasn’t sure if you’d still have … if you’d still be … oh, I don’t know. I didn’t know if I’d still feel the same way about you. But you’ve still got it—the looks, the presence, everything.”
By this point I had gathered myself sufficiently to fashion a reply. “I am fiattered, Mr. Bellinger, but really, I cannot imagine doing another movie. It’s been more than forty years since my last one, and the making of films has changed so much since then. The movies of today bear little resemblance to the pictures we made in my time. Besides, I have grown comfortable with my privacy.”
“I understand all that, sir, and I realize this whole thing must seem very strange. But I can assure you that Josh Dreyfus is as excited as I am about bringing you back to the screen. And before you break my heart by saying no, would you at least take a look at the script?”
I sighed. I was, in fact, fiattered by the young man’s proposal, but the idea of appearing in front of a camera again was ludicrous. I am an old man now, four decades past my prime. It would be like an aging athlete trying to recapture his youth, despite his aching joints and bad vision. Certainly
I didn’t want to dash the young man’s hopes, but I was comfortably retired. “All right,” I said, “I will at least read the script. But I am telling you the answer is no.”
Bellinger beamed brightly at this modest concession. “Thank you, Mr. Nakayama. My mother will be thrilled— she’s so excited I’ve met you. And my father … well, maybe if I get this film made, it will help him calm down about my future.”
“Does your father not approve of what you do?”
“Oh,” said Bellinger, glancing down at the table, “I don’t know. I don’t want to burden you with my troubles. They’re kind of silly.”
“Young man, one’s troubles are never silly. What is silly is when one chooses not to acknowledge them.”
He looked up at me uncertainly, and his whole bearing seemed to change. “Well, all right. Maybe you can understand this a bit. My father’s getting impatient with this whole writing thing. He thinks it’s unstable and he wants me to go to law school or business school, something that will make me some money.”
“But you appear to be doing very well.”
“Kind of, I guess, but not to him. I mean, I do get occasional pieces published in bigger magazines, as you see. But I’m a staff writer for a left-leaning weekly, which doesn’t exactly impress the parents. As you can imagine, writing screenplays isn’t very secure.”
“What does your father do?”
Bellinger smiled wryly. “He’s an accountant. And my mother’s a teacher. Two rocks of Gibraltar. They don’t understand people who live creative lives.”
We both sat in silence, sipping our drinks, while I thought about what he had told me. It was the age-old dilemma of youthful dreams and parental expectation. “Nick,” I said, “your father may seem narrow-minded or misguided, but he only wants what’s best for you.”
Bellinger looked up at me, surprised. “Do you think I should go to law school or business school? I think I would die if I did.”
“I have no opinion on your actual path. I am only saying that your father is not speaking out of selfishness, but rather out of genuine concern for your future.”
“My future will be fine,” Bellinger insisted, “as long as I do what I really want to do. As you said yourself, I’m not doing badly. I mean, I’m twenty-nine and I have three small films under my belt, plus more than a book’s worth of articles.”
“I don’t doubt your talents or your dreams, Mr. Bellinger. I am merely stating that your parents know more than you think. And if they want something for you, no matter how disagreeable it seems, there is usually good reason.”
He stared at me in disbelief. “But Mr. Nakayama, did you always do what your family wanted? From what I’ve read, your father was a government official, a very important man. He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who would have approved of his son becoming an actor.”
“My father’s opinions always carried great weight, but no, he would not have approved of my choices. And in some ways, you see, he was actually correct. After all, my career was finished by the time I was thirty.” I paused, fearing that I sounded too harsh. “I am not suggesting that you blindly follow the path your father proscribes. I just think you should respect his opinion. If you act without your family’s best interest in mind, you will at some point question the wisdom of your choices.”
Bellinger nodded thoughtfully, but I could see that I had given him no comfort. And so, somewhat awkwardly, we resumed talking about his screenplay, and arranged for it to be delivered to my town house.
Of course, Bellinger had been correct about my father. He wouldn’t have approved of my becoming an actor, although to my great sorrow—and relief—he didn’t live to see it happen. My father tried to understand his son’s unusual notions about the world, but he was of an older generation, one still steeped in tradition, with strict ideas of tasteful behavior and legitimate careers. He could not have fathomed the allure of such a frivolous occupation; he hardly understood my interest in the world outside Japan. This lack of understanding was most clearly apparent when I decided to come to college in the United States.
I was sixteen years old, an age that seems much more childish here in America than it did in Japan, where a boy of sixteen has already contributed several years of labor to the family farm or business. Because I was always an exceptional student, I had already completed secondary school—and because my school was run by a Catholic mission, I had a strong command of English.
The school my brother and I attended, the St. Francis School for Boys, was in the city of Saku, a ten-minute train ride from our village. My studies at St. Francis ignited both my love for theater and literature and my interest in Europe and America. The teachers—particularly our history teacher, sister Mary Martina, who’d grown up in Ohio, and our literature teacher, Nakayama-sensei, who’d studied in California—described America as a vast and friendly land, where books were as plentiful as the apples in Nagano, and where people from any station of life could rise to prominence and become a businessman, a professor, even a governor. Because Akira was two years my senior, he had no choice but to remain on the family farm and assume more of the burden of running it. But since I was the second son, I had more freedom, and after graduation I found a job in the nearby resort town of Karuizawa.
Karuizawa then, as now, was the favored summer retreat of the business and political elite of Tokyo, as well as of visiting tourists from the West. Within the town itself, there were lovely old temples on quiet, deeply shaded grounds where one could meditate for hours. Just outside of it, streams meandered through vast fields of growing rice, with green mountains rising above them all, sometimes shrouded by willowy fog. The land was sublime, and I could hardly believe my good fortune in being able to live there. I worked as an all-purpose hand at the inn of the Ishimoto family, driving important visitors from the train station, bringing firewood up to their rooms, preparing hot baths for the guests. I would also take on odd duties for which there was no assigned help, such as securing alcohol for guests; escorting ladies into gentlemen’s rooms through the secret back hallways; and acting as a caddy for the visitors who wished to golf on the pristine new courses near town. I worked Tuesday to Sunday, returning home to my family’s village from Sunday night to Monday evening, and I enjoyed my new feeling of independence, as well as earning my own money, even though it mostly went to my family. My father disapproved of the work—he saw it as undignified and beneath my capabilities—but he could not object to the money I contributed every week, nor to the fact that, as everyone in the family remarked, I was growing into a fine and independent young man.
I might have stayed on at the Ishimotos’ inn forever— working hard, drinking during the evenings with my fellow employees, practicing my English on the Westerners who passed through town—had it not been for the visit of Paul and Ann Warren, the wealthy American store owners from Wisconsin.
The Warrens arrived in May of 1907, just after the rainy season, before the country was paralyzed by summer humidity. They were staying in the inn’s finest quarters, a ten—tatami mat room with its own private adjoining bath. I first saw them on the day they arrived. They stood in the lobby with the third member of their party, who appeared to be their guide. This man, whose name I learned later was Bill, was considerably younger than the Warrens. He looked to be in his middle thirties, although at that time, with Americans, it was hard for me to tell. He was, like Mr. Warren, dressed casually in linen pants and a loose cotton shirt, but on him the clothes looked somehow ill-fitting. Although he had a rough command of the Japanese language, his proficiency was nowhere near the level to which we had grown accustomed in the service of such prominent guests. This weakness was immediately apparent. As I waited with two other employees to carry the Warrens’ luggage, the young man turned to Mr. Ishimoto and said, “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Bill Harmon. I am Mr. Warren’s interpreter, as well as his anus.”
We looked at each other and bit our lips. Mr. Harmon didn’t notice our reaction.
“You have a lovely inn here,” he continued. Then, turning to us, “I assume these room boys are a gift?”
Now some giggles escaped from our mouths, and Kagane, who was standing directly to my left, hit me with the back of his hand. There was even a glint of amusement in old Ishimoto’s eyes.
“Not exactly,” said the proprietor. “They are too valuable for me to part with. But I hope you’ll find their services satisfactory.”
At dinner that night, I watched the Warrens and their interpreter closely. Mr. Warren—a handsome, fit, middle-aged man with silver hair and tanned skin—thanked each person who brought him a dish or refilled his tea. Mrs. Warren, who seemed less comfortable with Japanese delicacies like sashimi, was still clearly delighted by the colorful presentations of the food and the hustling, perfectly synchronized staff. At one point, as I was removing a plate from her setting, she glanced up at me and touched her fingers to her neck. “My, you’re a handsome boy!” she said, blushing. “Good thing you don’t understand me.”
But I did understand—that, and much of the rest of the conversation. Mr. Warren was telling Mr. Ishimoto— slowly, allowing for the garbled translation—about building his chain of hardware stores in Wisconsin and Michigan. He had started out with just one about twenty years earlier, and had parlayed his earnings from the first Warren’s to open another, then another, then another, until he finally had some thirty-one stores. He was so wealthy by that time that he no longer had to oversee the daily operations of the company. The Warrens’ oldest son had taken over this responsibility, leaving Mr. and Mrs. Warren to travel. Only parts of this story, however, were related by Harmon, who was getting red-faced from the sake, and so I would subtly, when Mr. Ishimoto looked in my direction, translate the missing pieces.
