The Age of Dreaming

by Nina Revoyr

  This, however, didn’t seem to trouble her. Although she never expressed regret that her film career had not lived up to its early potential, the irony of our situations was inescapable. For it was she who had first brought me into the pictures. But it was I who was now the star.

  Despite her lower profile in Hollywood, Hanako was— and always remained—a much-admired figure amongst our fellow Japanese. She was deeply involved in the world of Little Tokyo; she still appeared in plays at the theater, and she often organized productions starring Japanese high school students. She frequently dined in Little Tokyo establishments, and at least once a month she’d make a visit to the orphanage, where young discarded children of full or partial Japanese lineage would gather around her to accept the toys and books she brought them. Reviews of Hanako’s plays often traveled to Japan, and all of her films were shown there. She was loved by the people of Japan, recent immigrants to America, and the second generation alike.

  I, on the other hand, had become more removed from this world. There were practical matters that made it difficult for me to visit Little Tokyo. For one thing, it would have been impossible to move through the streets unharassed. As much as people had pointed and stared when I’d first begun appearing in the theater, my fame had increased a hundred-fold since then—it was, to be frank, of a different scale than Hanako’s—and any unscripted appearance now would have caused a near riot. For another, Little Tokyo—which was essentially a stopping point full of boarding houses, bars, gambling establishments, and small family-owned restaurants—had few venues appropriate for the kinds of dinners and events that now occupied so many of my evenings. On social occasions and even for business dinners, I preferred the Los Angeles Athletic Club or the Tiffany Hotel. Only in very rare circumstances did I dine at Little Tokyo establishments.

  This is not to suggest—as some unfairly implied at the time—that I avoided the company of other Japanese. And while it is true that I have not been to Little Tokyo for many years now, this has mostly to do with matters of convenience. Being so far removed from the Westside, it is rather out of my way; moreover, I hear that the area has changed substantially. Many of the old houses and shops have apparently been torn down in favor of apartments, and I doubt that any of my former acquaintances remain. My absence from Little Tokyo for all of these years is solely for these practical reasons, and any suggestion that it is due to a lack of gratitude—or even, as some have whispered, to shame—is utterly ridiculous.

  Contrary to common belief, I appeared in Little Tokyo frequently during the height of my career. Most years, I visited the Buddhist temple in conjunction with the summer O-bon Festival. And when important visitors were in town from Japan, I was often invited to functions in their honor. Many of them—I am thinking now of the young Crown Prince, as well as the opera star Yukari Irabu— specifically requested my presence. Most of these events were unexciting but pleasant—delicious food interspersed with conversation about life in Japan and America, preceded by much picture-taking and autograph-signing. But occasionally they grew rather tiresome, and sometimes people would regrettably embark upon topics inappropriate for social occasions.

  I remember one such event in September of 1917, a dinner in the honor of Dr. Ishii, the Japanese foreign minister. Dr. Ishii had sailed from Tokyo to San Francisco and then taken a train to Los Angeles, where he would spend two days before boarding a cross-country train to Washington, D.C. The dinner took place in the beautiful home of Ichiro Matsui, the president of the Japanese Association. Mr. Matsui and his wife were, as everyone knows, among the most prominent members of the community. He had been one of the original backers of the Little Tokyo Theater, which is how we came to know one another; now he ran a successful fioral distributing company, which helped finance his civic activities. The Matsuis’ home was a large Craftsman bungalow not far from my own first house in Pico Heights, tastefully decorated with a blend of Japanese and American furnishings. The guests were ushered at first into a large drawing room, where we were served cocktails by a young kimono-clad woman who giggled when she handed me my drink.

  It was a midsized gathering of perhaps twenty-five people, intimate and rather unremarkable. Dr. Ishii, a tall and fit-looking man whose hair was just starting to gray, spoke to the small group of people gathered around him with the air of someone who is accustomed to being heard. He had the self-assurance of a man whose privileged background and careful schooling have instilled in him an utter belief in his own importance. Something about him—perhaps his similarity to some of the prominent guests who’d stayed at the Ishimotos’ inn in Karuizawa when I was a boy— made me feel immediately on guard. His wife, a handsome woman in her middle fifties who was almost as tall as her husband, looked equally aristocratic, but the laugh lines around her eyes and a softness at her mouth suggested a warmth that seemed lacking in her husband.

  In contrast to the Ishiis, the Matsuis were more inviting, moving from person to person to ensure that everyone was comfortable. Mr. Matsui—a short, rotund man whose fiushed cheeks and ready smile always reminded me of a wooden Buddha—had successfully expanded the influence of the Japanese Association, which worked to increase the standing of the Japanese population in the eyes of city leaders. The Association had led the effort to boycott gambling houses in Little Tokyo, and was now engaged in attempts to Americanize recent immigrants by offering English classes and encouraging people to get driver’s licenses. Mrs. Matsui, who was equally as round and cheerful as her husband, did her part as well; she’d organized a cooking class to teach recently arrived Japanese wives how to prepare Western meals for their husbands.

  There were others in attendance that evening—the head of the Japanese Business Alliance, two more members of the Japanese Association, the pastors of two churches, the head of a Buddhist temple, and a local painter named Kato who was beginning to make a name for himself, along with his lovely fiancée, Miss Kuramoto. The Matsuis’ son Daisuke was there as well, a handsome lad of perhaps eighteen, who had his parents’ happy demeanor but not their rotundness, and who stared at me unabashedly all evening. Hanako Minatoya had not been able to attend, as she was appearing in a play in San Francisco.

  After a pleasant prelude of perhaps thirty minutes, during which I spoke briefly with most of the guests and took photographs for the Association’s newsletter, the entire party moved into a Japanese-style dining room with tatami mats, two long, low tables, and brightly colored seating cushions. Dr. Ishii was seated at the head of one table, with Mrs. Ishii directly to his left. Mr. Matsui sat across from her, and I to his right; his wife sat next to Mrs. Ishii. One of the pastors—a Mr. Hara—was seated on my other side. Across from him was Kato, the artist, along with his attractive companion. Young Daisuke Matsui sat at the end of the table.

  The food was excellent and had been prepared by the finest chef in Little Tokyo, who’d been hired by the Association for the event. I believe we had just begun our third course—raw tuna and halibut arranged delicately on handmade ceramic dishes—when Dr. Ishii turned toward me and said, “I hear that Nakayama-san’s most recent film represents a departure for him.”

  I lowered my chopsticks and nodded. “Indeed. I am playing a hotel proprietor who is hiding American soldiers from the German spies who are trying to kill them.”

  “I see. Perhaps the war has influenced the kinds of films being made here in America. It appears that prior to now, Nakayama-san has been most adept at portraying villains and fools.”

  I turned toward him but looked beyond his head, trying to quell my irritation. “I would humbly offer, Dr. Ishii, that all of my characters—even those who appear, as you say, to be villains and fools—try to conduct themselves with honor. Some of them are perhaps more troubled than others, but there is always a good reason for their behavior.”

  Dr. Ishii did not immediately reply. Although I might have been imagining it, I thought that other conversation in the room had hushed and that everyone was listening to our exchange.


  “Nakayama-san may not be aware of this,” he said finally, “but not all of his films are available in Japan.”

  I took a sip of my sake and nodded. “So I have heard. I’ve also been told that the films that are available have not been translated, and that theaters hire people to stand behind the screen and interpret all the titles.”

  “I mean that some of his films are not available,” the foreign minister continued, “because the theaters are not allowed to show them.”

  At this, Mrs. Ishii turned to her husband. “Oh, really. Why such dour conversation?” Then, turning to me and smiling, “You will have to excuse my husband, Nakayamasan. He is not a fan of motion pictures, so he does not understand how famous you are, or how much you have accomplished in America. Perhaps he’s just jealous because our daughter thinks so much of you. You see, Nakayamasan is her favorite foreign actor.”

  The other guests began to nod in acknowledgment; around the table there were a few nervous smiles.

  “He is important indeed,” remarked Mr. Matsui, with slightly forced cheer. “He’s raised the profile of Japanese here more than anyone else.”

  “I see,” said Dr. Ishii, looking at his host directly. “The question is what kind of profile he’s actually raised.”

  Everyone was staring at me now, and although I did not wish to engage the visitor on such complex issues, I felt that some response to him was called for. “I am well aware,” I said carefully, “that there are some who do not look with favor upon my past works. But you must understand that a mere actor such as myself has little control over the kinds of pictures that are made. I’m under contract with the studio, Dr. Ishii, and the only thing I can do—the honorable thing to do—is to make the best of the roles that are offered me.”

  These comments settled among the company for a moment, and then Mr. Matsui spoke again. There was an edge to his voice now that revealed his anxiety about his pleasant social evening slipping away. “Nakayama-san understands that some of his past films were less than ideal. In fact,” he laughed nervously, “the Association once had occasion to write to him regarding one of his roles. But his parts have changed significantly in recent films, and I think it’s time we recognized how much he’s accomplished.”

  “Certainly,” said Mrs. Matsui, smiling warmly again. “He is an unparalleled star in America, and his face is known all over the world.”

  “Exactly!” said Mr. Matsui. “Everybody knows him. He has stood bravely to represent the Japanese people in this state where there is so much hostility. And what better symbol could there be of modern Japan than a handsome, accomplished, sophisticated gentleman?”

  “Well, I like him,” said Miss Kuramoto, the artist’s companion. “All the girls do.” And the forwardness of this comment—particularly uttered by someone who’d barely said a word all night—made everyone turn in surprise.

  “That includes, as you’ve no doubt guessed, my own wife and daughter,” said Dr. Ishii. Then, glaring directly at me with a clear and cold gaze: “But I hear that Nakayamasan prefers American women.”

  At that moment, there was a commotion near the entrance of the room. A servant rushing in with a tray of food had collided with another going out, and now fish and tsukemono and dollops of seaweed were scattered all over the fioor. Both servers were embarrassed and moved between picking up the fallen plates and bowing and apologizing to the diners. Mr. Matsui had stood up by this point, and his face was bright red, but his wife had already scurried over to the scene and begun assembling more servants to assist with cleaning up.

  “I apologize,” Matsui managed. “I only obtained these servants for the evening, and one never knows the quality of hired help.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” said Mrs. Ishii. Then, in a warm voice that seemed directed at the servants as much as it was to us, “I always have little accidents at my house. Why one time, I spilled a whole bowl of noodles on the fioor, and then my husband slipped and sat down right on top of them. I said, ‘Hideo, you should have told me you wanted flat noodles.’ My goodness, was he mad! I think that was the only time he ever considered divorce.”

  Her husband looked at her sternly, and we all waited nervously to see how he would respond. But Mrs. Ishii gave him a disarming smile, and the tension around his eyes lessened visibly as he relented to her good humor. We all relaxed, and within a few minutes, the dinner conversation resumed.

  The evening became more pleasant after the accident. Mr. Matsui discussed a recent visit to San Francisco; Mr. Shimura, one of the pastors—whose only mode of transportation was bicycle—told a story about taking a driving lesson; and Mrs. Matsui described the visit of three young women from Japan and all the attention they received from single men in Little Tokyo. Mrs. Ishii participated actively in the conversation, laughing easily and asking many questions. Dr. Ishii listened politely, chiming in occasionally with, “Is that so?” or, “How interesting,” but offering no more than the simplest responses.

  I thought we would get through the rest of the evening without further incident, but at the end of the meal, while we were eating manju and drinking green tea, Mrs. Matsui turned to the foreign minister and asked, “Excuse me, Dr. Ishii, but what will you be doing in Washington?”

  Dr. Ishii put his cup down and raised his head—waiting, it seemed, for all eyes to turn toward him before he began to speak. “I will be meeting with several members of Congress,” he said, “as well as the Secretary of State.”

  Around the table there were various exclamations of awe and approval. Mr. Shimura nodded and said, “To discuss the war effort, no doubt.”

  “Yes, that is so. The two countries have much to discuss regarding the best use of our respective forces. But,” he said, pausing, “there are also other pressing matters.” He took a drink from his tea and looked around the table. “While the war has helped form an alliance between the U.S. and Japan, there is still much to be desired in how Japan—and Japanese—are viewed here in America.”

  “Indeed,” offered Mr. Shimura. “The Alien Land Law and the Gentlemen’s Agreement have severely limited our ability to forge stable communities.” After a moment of reflective silence, he added in a more cheerful voice, “But that was years ago. We’ve made great strides since then!”

  “Tremendous strides!” agreed Mr. Matsui. “And I believe that things will continue to improve. The efforts of the Japanese Association, for example, will help ensure that we put our best foot forward with the Americans. Right now, even as we speak, we’ve been working on a war bond drive in Little Tokyo.”

  Dr. Ishii examined his half-eaten manju and then placed it back on his plate. “There is no question, Matsui-san, that the work you do is valuable. Although if the world were as it should be, such efforts wouldn’t be required. Yes, things are better, but the reprieve is temporary. When the war is over, I believe they will get worse again.”

  A somber mood fell over the table. No one spoke for several moments before Mr. Shimura asked, “Dr. Ishii, are you aware of something we aren’t?”

  “There is a move afoot,” Dr. Ishii answered, “that, if successful, will make things more difficult for the Japanese who live in America. Even,” he added, indicating young Daisuke, “for the ones who were born here. The efforts have been subdued temporarily because of the war, but there are still many men—many very powerful men—who are actively working on legislation that will curtail your standing. And, unfortunately, most of them are centered in the West, right here in California.”

  “It is regretfully true,” Matsui concurred, “that many of the state’s most prominent men are unfriendly to our interests.”

  “I tried to meet with members of the state legislature in Sacramento,” the foreign minister continued, “but they all refused to see me. They consider you a blight on the face of California, and there is tremendous resentment among them, particularly about the success of Japanese farmers in the Central Valley. They are afraid that the farmers will continue to fiourish, and t
hat more Japanese will come.” He paused. “Fortunately, the Americans who live in Washington and New York are generally much more rational. Being, on the whole, a more civilized sort, they do not see you as a national threat.”

  “What is there to do?” asked Mrs. Matsui.

  “You must be strong,” he said. “You must show the Japanese character. When there is blatant injustice, especially about land, you must stand up to those who would take advantage of you—or else we’re no better than the compliant Chinese. When unfavorable bills come forth in the California legislature, you must rally your friends and allies to defeat them. But—and this is of equal importance— you must also show your willingness to get along here in America, to play by American rules—as you, Matsui-san, have already done so effectively. Above all,” and here he looked significantly at me, “you must not do anything that presents us Japanese in a negative light.”

  “It is a difficult balance,” said Mr. Matsui, “to be strong, and yet to try and win over their minds.”

  “How can we do it?” asked Mrs. Matsui, almost to herself. “There are so few of us, really, and so many Americans. How can we affect the way they see us?”

  Dr. Ishii nodded. “You are correct, there are very few of you, Mrs. Matsui—not even 20,000 in Los Angeles. That is why I’ve never understood why those in prominent positions have not done more to advance our interests.”