by Nina Revoyr
It was a singular trip, magical, separate from time, as only an excursion removed from everyday life can be. We were our own little society, with its own norms and rules, self-contained, and never to be duplicated. I remember sitting with Elizabeth on those quiet afternoons, staring out the window at the changing scenery—the majestic mountains, endless plains, the countryside which was so varied and yet somehow all connected, the vistas of this endless land, America. I remember thinking, now that I had time to reflect, about the magnitude of my good fortune. Here I was, as famous and accomplished as a man could be, in a country not even my own. Two cars down from me were executives who wished me to sign a new, more lucrative contract. Across from me sat a beautiful and desirable woman. And I was finally, by my actions here, doing something I had never done—using my fame for a good purpose, helping America, and, in turn, helping my fellow Japanese.
And we did, indeed, use our fame for a good purpose. In every city where we stopped, there was a tremendous rally, and the crowds, swept up by the powerful combination of patriotism and celebrity, opened their pocketbooks and wallets to buy. With each rally the four of us grew more effective with our speaking, whipping the crowds up into such a state of excitement that I thought half of them might run off and enlist. I waved my hat, Buck Snyder struck shooting poses, Figgins worked an invisible baton as if conducting the crowd, and Elizabeth waved her fist in the air in a gesture both inspiring and adorable. Bands broke out into patriotic songs and babies were dressed up in colors of the fiag. In Denver, Chicago, St. Louis, Pittsburgh, every record for the sale of government bonds was broken. Our studio bosses were beside themselves—not because of the success of the war bond sales, but because this trip had made them realize the scope of our popularity. The size and enthusiasm of the crowds was overwhelming, and thrilling, and boded well for the future of motion pictures.
In retrospect, it is incredible how naïve we all were. Perhaps because none of us had witnessed war in our life-time, we thought of it primarily as a battle of ideas, a struggle against evil that was essentially bloodless, or that only involved bloodletting by the enemy. We were like cheerleaders exhorting our team to victory. There was a gaiety in the air, in the crowds, that had no relation whatsoever to the reality of what was happening in Europe. Even the small pockets of Japanese who came to the rallies, yelling my name and waving American flags, were caught up in the excitement. Little did they know of the suffering that was enveloping the world. And little did they know what awaited them two decades hence, when the country was pulled into an even larger conflagration.
After a rally, the whole party of travelers would be enlivened—government men, studio men, and actors alike. The train itself would seem excited, its whistles more hearty, its engine chugging along with renewed vigor. Eventually David would chase the others away and escort us actors back to our cars. There, he’d arrange for meals—the cars were specially out?tted with dining tables so we could eat in privacy—and bottles of wine and beer. And we’d slowly wind down, talking of the particulars of that day’s crowd, marveling at our own successful efforts.
It was on one of those nights that I escaped my bunk and made my way to Elizabeth’s car. Snyder had enticed another woman on board in Pittsburgh, a big-bosomed brunette with too much makeup and cheap perfume, and I’d prepared for another long night of sleeping with pillows against my ears. But then, around midnight, I felt someone slip into my bed. My heart skipped—for a moment, I thought my dreams had come true—but when I turned over, I smelled the strong, stale scent of the Pittsburgh woman. She was naked—her fieshy breasts slapped against my face—and she breathed, “Take me, samurai soldier, brutalize me!”
I grasped her around the waist—her whole body shivered in response—and heaved her over to the other side of the bed. Then I slipped down out of the bunk and threw on a robe and fied to Elizabeth’s car.
She came to the door in her nightgown—it was clear she’d been asleep—but she turned on the lamps and invited me inside. After I told her what had just transpired— which caused her much amusement—she arranged for someone to bring us a pot of tea. She led me over to the facing seats by the window, where we talked about that day’s rally. Then we were still for a while. As the movement of the train rocked us gently, we looked out into the night at the gathering of lights that marked each little settlement we passed. Elizabeth took a puff of her cigarette and said, “These small towns, all the people who’ll never travel more than ten miles from where they were born, they remind me of the place I grew up in.”
I smiled, for although I’d come from a completely different land, I knew precisely what she meant. “But you left,” I remarked.
“I know. I never belonged there. I realized there was something bigger. It was like my life didn’t really start until I turned fifteen and ran away to Hollywood.”
She told me of her girlhood—the departure of her father when she was seven years old, her mother’s daily trips to St. Louis to mend clothes and clean houses; the whiskey-soaked men her mother sometimes brought home; the bruises she woke up with in the morning. “She always picked the roughest, meanest ones,” Elizabeth said, the lights from outside the window fiickering across her face. “And then one night one of them came into my room. He put his hand under my nightgown, and when I screamed, my mother came in and started yelling at me for trying to seduce him. I left in the morning and went to my uncle’s house to borrow some money. Then I caught the next train to California.”
She told me all of this without a trace of self-pity, as if she were speaking of someone else. She’d put a robe on over her nightgown and she wore no makeup, and her face looked softer somehow, more revealing. Her hair was tied up but several strands had come loose; she kept brushing them away distractedly. And although it was she who was talking, it was I who felt exposed, and had she looked up into my face just then she would have read there all my turbulent feelings.
“Maybe that’s why I haven’t had too much luck with men. It’s not like I’ve had much of an example. But you,” she said, smiling again, “you sure have a lot of luck with women.”
I laughed—I’m sure a bit too loudly. “You exaggerate, Elizabeth. It’s our friend Buck Snyder who’s having all the luck with the opposite sex.”
“Only because you’re pickier, Jun. I see all the screaming women throwing fiowers and undergarments. And those women in Cleveland who spread their furs on the ground so you wouldn’t have to walk through a puddle! You could have had your pick in any city.”
I did not reply, and certainly didn’t say what I was thinking—that the woman I wanted, “my pick,” as she’d put it—did not appear to have any interest in me.
“This has sure been a better trip for you than for me in that department,” she continued. “After all, no one’s tried to crawl into my bed.”
There was something in her voice when she said this, and when I glanced up at her face, I couldn’t tell if what I saw there was amusement or invitation.
“I didn’t know,” I replied casually, feeling out the moment, “that you were seeking company.”
“Oh, Jun,” she said, and now her voice did something else, “that’s only because you haven’t been paying attention.”
I met her eyes, and the message there was unmistakable. A door that had previously been closed had now, unbelievably, opened. As if of their own accord, my hands reached out and pulled her toward me. She moved easily from her seat over to mine. And then her mouth against my mouth, her fingers on my face, the robe and the nightgown falling open.
I could hardly believe it. I could hardly believe that this woman, this goal for so long out of reach, was fiesh and blood, right there beneath my hands. But my nervousness was quickly subsumed by my knowledge of how to live in this moment. For she was, after all, a woman, with a woman’s desires, and as I lifted her and set her back down on her seat, as I bent over her with the strength and assurance of a man accustomed to taking what was offered, I felt her give hersel
f over, felt her loosen and release, her body quivering and open now, for me.
We didn’t spend another night apart for the rest of the trip. This did not escape the attention of David Rosenberg, who rolled his eyes but refrained from comment; or of Buck Snyder, who said to me one day, winking, “Glad you finally pulled that gun from its holster.” If Figgins noticed, he didn’t mention anything, although his manner toward me grew colder. I didn’t care, though, about any of them. Because finally, in those last few days of our trip, I had everything I wanted. Mornings with Elizabeth over coffee and toast. Afternoons of laughter with our amusing companions. And nights, finally the endless nights, whose joy and completeness I could never describe, and of which there could never be enough.
When we arrived in New York, it felt not like the culmination it was intended to be, but rather like a premature coda. Our final rally was spectacular—red carpet and bands, stars of pictures and Broadway, the governor, the mayor, front page coverage in the New York Times. Tens of thousands of people all gathered in Times Square, people leaning out of windows and waving from rooftops, the sale of millions of dollars worth of bonds. Even our elusive studio chief, Leonard Stillman, turned out for the occasion, sitting with the politicians on the side of the dais. But after one last grand party and a night at the Plaza, we all went our separate ways—Elizabeth on a train back to Los Angeles, Figgins to his second home in Westchester, Snyder to an apartment where he was staying temporarily while he was in town for his upcoming opening; and myself out to Perennial’s East Coast studio on Long Island, where I was set to begin my next film.
The success of our tour had far surpassed all expectations, and set the stage for the even grander tour the following spring featuring Mary Pickford, Doug Fairbanks, and Charlie Chaplin. Yet ours had been the original, and when it was over, I felt a tremendous sense of loss. Although I enjoyed the culture and nightlife of New York City—which was, along with all of its other attractions, a more hospitable place for Japanese—I could not escape my feeling of sadness. The month I had spent on the war bond tour had been the best month of my life. Even then, in those first few weeks after the tour, I knew I’d experienced something that could never be recreated. Never again would I feel as useful, as much a part of something bigger, as I did aboard that train. Never again, in all my years, would I feel so close to happiness.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I suppose I should take a moment to discuss more fully the state of Hanako’s career. It had been, by 1917, five years since we’d met; five years since we had appeared together in those early films for William Moran. Since then, however, our trajectories had been markedly different. While the relative size of her roles and the significance of her films remained essentially the same, my own films grew bigger and bigger. Part of the difference may have been attributable to her being a woman. The most common parts available to lead actresses at the time were charming comic figures, or plucky heroines, or romantic leading ladies—roles for which Hanako, being Japanese, could of course not be considered. In addition, Hanako seemed reluctant to make strategic decisions that would have advanced her career. Rather than move to one of the large new studios, for example, she re-signed with Moran, whose pictures had been decreasing in both frequency and profit as they competed with Perennial and Goldwyn. Thus, while Hanako continued to receive positive notices, she appeared too infrequently—and in films too insignificant—to remain in the top tier of actresses.
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 g
uests 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.
