by Nina Revoyr
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 herself 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 NINE
October 23, 1964
It is late in the evening, and I am thoroughly exhausted, having spent the last few hours attempting to forget week’s events by doing bookkeeping for my various properties. Work has always been my way to put unpleasant things out of mind, and these last few days have seen more than their usual share. By this afternoon, I was so troubled by my recent encounters that I was grasping for something—truly, anything—to distract me. Then I remembered the paperwork that awaited me at my desk, and as I have so many times when I’ve needed to calm myself over the years, I settled into it as one might into a soothing bath.
Back in the late 1910s and early ’20s, when my income seemed limitless, I invested in a number of apartment buildings, as well as three houses, two commercial properties, and several empty parcels of land. My family’s farm had impressed upon me the importance of property ownership, and I’m sure this knowledge was significant in my decision, all those years ago, to buy as much real estate as I possibly could. I’d had to make my acquisitions through a friendly real estate management firm introduced to me by David Rosenberg, since Japanese were barred from owning property. But it wasn’t very difficult getting around this limitation, and I’d enjoyed the process of buying; I liked acquiring tangible things like land and clothes and automobiles, things that were purchased as a matter of course by white gentlemen of means. Of course, I only had the slightest inkling, when I bought those properties, of how dramatically their value would increase. But time has proven that my investments were wise. The combined income from my commercial and residential rentals has been more than enough to live on, and when I recently sold two large parcels of land in Malibu to an aggressive investor, I made a profit of nearly a million dollars. I was lucky—my investments meant that when my career came to its rather abrupt end, I had a source of income to fall back on. So many of my contemporaries, who frittered away the cash that fiowed like water in those pre-tax days, watched their incomes decrease and then dry up completely as their film careers drew to a close. In the ’30s, some of them, desperate for money, held large auctions of old movie memorabilia. Two or three of them even auctioned off their houses.
I have a property management company take care of most of the day-to-day items of business—showing apartments, collecting rents, arranging for repairs—and they only contact me when some particularly large expenditure is required. This was an especially convenient arrangement during the Second World War, which I waited out in England while so many others were herded away to the camps. My management people have been very dependable over the years. That said, to keep myself occupied, I still manage one of the buildings myself. It is the Chestnut Arms—you may have heard of it. It stands two blocks north of Franklin, at the foot of the Hollywood Hills. My former costar Evelyn Marsh once lived there, as well as Edmund Cleaves, and the building, with its hardwood fioors, fire-places, turrets, and courtyard, looks much the same as it did in 1919, when I bought it for what now seems like mere pennies. It gives me a certain comfort to know that the old place still feels the same in the midst of constant change, and since it is within walking distance of my town house, and since I have little else to do, I directly oversee the management of its four units. Most of the time this is a pleasant enterprise, as the tenants who can afford such a prestigious building are all stable, respected professionals. And this activity—the management, the tracking of accounts—has proven very useful; it gives me something to focus on when I am attempting not to think of other things.
As much as I have tried to absorb myself in bookkeeping, however, I cannot help but reflect on the last several days. For these days have been marked by events that have upset my peace of mind, and sent my thoughts along paths I have not wished for them to go. The first was all the more unsettling because I had not been prepared for anything disagreeable. I had awaited Tuesday’s lunch with Nick Bellinger and his friend Josh Dreyfus with both anxiety and excitement, and I’m still not certain what to make of what occurred.
It had taken me several days to call Nick Bellinger, days I spent looking back over his screenplay and rereading certain sections again and again. I had
wondered if I would find it less impressive when I returned to it; perhaps I had even hoped that would be so. Instead, the very opposite was true. With each successive reading, the themes seemed to deepen, the scenes became more subtle and engaging. And my interest in playing Takano continued to grow with each new day. The young man’s story was brilliant, an incisive and original work, and I knew now that I wanted to be part of it. I told myself to believe that things would go as smoothly as Bellinger had assured me they would.
The day after I’d visited David Rosenberg at the nursing home, I placed a call to Bellinger. “It’s wonderful,” I told him. “The characters ring true, the dialogue is sharp, and you are telling a story that has not been told before.”
“So you liked it?”
“Very much so.”
“Well, that’s terrific, Mr. Nakayama, because I have news.”
With that, he informed me that Perennial had indeed bought the rights to his screenplay, and was set to choose a director.
“My friend Josh is going to oversee production,” he said. “And since the role of Takano is basically the anchor of the film, he’d love to meet with you as soon as possible.” Bellinger promised to set up a meeting between the three of us, and asked if there was anything else I’d like to know.
“Yes,” I said. “How’s your article coming along?”
“Oh,” he responded, in the tone of a boy reminded of his homework. “Well, I have all the information I need on the theater itself. But I’m having a hard time tracking down surviving actors.” He paused. “Are you still in touch with anybody?”
“Like whom?”
“Oh, anyone,” said Bellinger. “I’ve heard that Louise Brooks is still around somewhere, and Gloria Swanson. Ramon Navarro is still alive—didn’t you work with him once? And I’ve heard rumors about Nora Minton Niles.”
I paused for a moment. “I haven’t spoken to any of those people in decades.” Then, trying to keep my voice as casual as I could: “What exactly have you heard about Miss Niles?”
“Oh, you know, the same things that people have always said. That she’s a recluse and no one’s seen her for years. That she never married or had a family. That her mother kept a tight grip on her until she died, and no one’s really heard from Nora since. She never really recovered, you know, after that business with Ashley Tyler.”
I had been standing by the window, and now I sat down, trying to keep my hands and voice steady. “Do you know where she is?”
“The last I heard she lived on the Westside somewhere, but that was while her mother was still alive. Harriet Cole lived to be ninety-five, the old witch. Poor Nora. By the time her mother finally died, she was already an old woman herself. You worked with her a few times, didn’t you?”
My pulse quickened but I managed to answer. “Not so much. On only one or two films.” With this turn in the conversation, my excitement had diminished. But as quickly as he’d brought up the subject of Nora, Bellinger moved on to something else, and I hoped his curiosity had been satisfied.
We met for lunch at an establishment called Castillo’s in Beverly Hills. I wore my best brown suit and drove the Packard down Sunset Boulevard, the old route I used to take those long-ago mornings with Hanako. Of course, Sunset is very different now—crowded with people and shops, and lit up with brilliant neon in the evening. And Beverly Hills used to be untamed land, so far removed from the original studios that it might have been Santa Barbara. Now, Beverly Hills is the height of wealth and prestige, and as accessible—at least in geographical terms—as any corner pharmacy.
When I arrived at Castillo’s, I was surprised to find that a young man in a vest—apparently employed by the restaurant—expected to park my car.
“I assure you,” I said, looking up at the boy, who had rudely pulled open my door, “I am fully capable of parking this vehicle myself.”
“I have no doubt, sir,” he said, his hand curled over the top of the door. “But you see, everybody uses the valet here.” He smiled a bit nervously, and I continued to glare at him.
“I would think that an establishment of this caliber would allow its patrons to park as they wished.”
The boy looked at me more closely and his eyes softened a bit—he seemed to understand that he was addressing a man of importance, and was now attempting to behave more appropriately. “Castillo’s is of the highest caliber, sir. That’s why we don’t want our customers to be bothered by the inconvenience of looking for a place to park.” He paused. “It’s really kind of normal now, sir.”
I did not feel like carrying the argument any further, so I reluctantly got out and handed the boy my keys. For a moment, as he drove my car away, I wondered if I would ever get it back. But since other arriving patrons appeared unflustered by this practice, I decided it was nothing to worry about. I walked into the entrance, and, seeing no sign of Bellinger, took a chair close to the door. There was a carp pond in the outdoor waiting area, and I watched the fish swim and bump into each other as I tried to maintain my calm. A few minutes later, Nick Bellinger appeared.
He was dressed in a jacket and tie, his hair was some-what tamed, and behind him was a young man who I assumed was Josh Dreyfus. Bellinger introduced us, and I could tell that he was nervous from the speed with which he talked and the way he kept brushing his sleeves. The other man, who was indeed Mr. Dreyfus, had no such apprehension. He gripped my hand firmly and looked directly in my eyes. “Good to meet you, Mr. Nakayama,” he said. “Nick tells me you knew my grandfather.”
I was somewhat taken aback by this. I had thought he already knew about my association with Ben Dreyfus; that perhaps Ben had even talked about me. But I forced myself to smile. “Yes, he was an executive during my time at Perennial.”
This younger Dreyfus nodded distractedly. Then the maître d’ appeared. “Mr. Dreyfus! So delightful to see you! Would you like your usual table, sir?”
“Yes, Peter,” he said, barely looking at the man. “I have special guests today.” I watched him as we were led through the restaurant to our table. Although he was shorter than I, no more than 5’6", he carried himself like a much taller man, and moved through the restaurant as if he had built it. Here and there people waved at him, and he nodded or waved in acknowledgment. His brown hair was clipped neatly and sprayed into place, and his gray suit looked as if it had been tailored.
We were seated at a corner table beneath a large potted palm. The restaurant was light and airy, with so many windows that it felt like we were dining outside. Around us, well-heeled men, mostly in their thirties and forties, laughed loudly over seafood and wine. The women—some of whom were with men but most of whom were clustered in small groups—wore suits in pale colors and glittering jewels and frequently stole glances at each other. Everyone seemed to be looking at everyone else, either directly or with the help of a mirror that took up an entire wall. A waiter appeared at our table with a bottle of Chardonnay, which Dreyfus sampled, considered, and approved.
“So you’ve read Nick’s screenplay,” Dreyfus said after our wine had been poured. “As I’m sure he told you, the studio’s going to make it.”
I looked at his face—the angular chin and nose, the brown eyes—and searched for some sign of his grandfather. There might have been some likeness, especially in the large forehead and slightly cleft chin. But where Ben Dreyfus had an optimistic air about him—as did so many of the young executives in the silent era who were giddy with the growth of their new industry—this boy’s eyes were devoid of genuine enthusiasm and hardened beyond his years. I thought of what David Rosenberg had said, his tone of disapproval. “Yes,” I answered finally, “I was impressed with the script.”
Dreyfus sipped from his wine without taking his eyes off my face. “You know, Nick has his heart set on you being in the film. And usually writers have no say over casting decisions—but Nick’s a friend, and this is a terrific piece of work, so I figured I should at least sit and meet you.”
Again, I felt sli
ghtly uneasy. “Well, thank you for taking the time.”
Dreyfus nodded. “Now, when were you at Perennial, some time in the ’40s?”
“No, in the teens and ’20s, right after the studio formed. I was there when your grandfather first started—he was younger than you are now.”
“In the teens and ’20s,” he repeated. “So you appeared in the silents?”
Bellinger leaned forward. “Remember I told you, Josh? He worked with Gerard Normandy and William Moran. He starred in The Noble Servant and Sleight of Hand.”
“That’s right,” he said. “You did tell me that. I’m sorry—I hear about so many people.”
Listening to this exchange, I realized that Bellinger— perhaps because of his own enthusiasm—had overstated Dreyfus’ knowledge of my career. “I made over sixty films,” I said. “You can read about them in Croshere’s history.”
Dreyfus looked at me blankly. “Who?”
“He’s a silent film historian,” Bellinger explained. “Also a big fan of Mr. Nakayama’s.”
Dreyfus studied me as if I were an interesting relic— educational, but not particularly of use. “The ’20s, huh? Well, that explains the vest chain and the two-toned shoes. You look like you just came from a party at Pickfair.”
I glanced at him, not knowing how to respond, but he continued talking.
“So how long has it been since you’ve worked?”
“A long time,” I admitted. “But I’ve stayed abreast of all the developments in moviemaking. In some ways it’s not terribly different. I played a broad range of characters over the course of my career, and although I’ve been retired for some time now, I certainly believe that I could still hold my own.” I stopped, disturbed by my realization that I was trying to convince him. But his ignorance of my work displeased me, as did the obvious difference between him and his grandfather, with whom he appeared to share a name and little else.
