The Age of Dreaming

by Nina Revoyr

  “Well,” he said, after a short pause, “it’s still early. The project is moving forward, but in terms of actors and roles, we’ve put no real thought into it yet. All I can promise is that you’ll definitely get a screen test. And obviously I’ll want to look at some of your previous work. Is there any picture in particular you think I should see?”

  I thought for a moment and then pulled myself up straight. “Perhaps the two films that Mr. Bellinger mentioned. Sleight of Hand was my biggest success, but I believe The Noble Servant has also survived.”

  “Those were done by the directors that Nick just mentioned? Normandy and Moran?”

  “Gerard Normandy did Sleight of Hand,” I said. “And William Moran did my first two pictures. But The Noble Servant was directed by someone else.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” said Bellinger. “I’d totally forgotten. That one was by Ashley Tyler, wasn’t it?”

  I nodded, hoping we could leave the topic of directors and instead talk about the films themselves. But Dreyfus looked at his friend with new interest.

  “Ashley Tyler,” he said thoughtfully. “Now why do I know that name?”

  “He was famous in his own right,” Bellinger replied. “But you probably know his name because he was murdered in the ’20s, and they never figured out who killed him.”

  “Really,” said Dreyfus, and he looked from Bellinger to me and back again, his thin left eyebrow raised.

  The rest of the lunch passed rather uncomfortably, as I had to cope now with the prospect of auditioning for a role, as well as with Dreyfus’ interest in my previous work. Dreyfus, however, had a pleasant time all by himself, telling us detailed stories of projects he’d worked on, and behind-the-scenes facts about the stars of his films. I got the sense that he’d told these stories hundreds of times; that he switched into this amiable autopilot mode as soon as the business at hand was completed. The only time he broke out of it was when someone approached our table, which occurred three times through the course of the meal. Once it was a producer with a current project at Perennial who wanted to discuss the budget of his film. Once it was an agent who was trolling for work for his client, a popular B-movie actress. And once it was someone who was not in the business, a middle-aged woman who asked for his autograph and hinted about her unmarried daughter. Dreyfus handled all of these intrusions with grace; he was clearly used to this kind of attention.

  Through all of this, I sat there uneasily, feigning interest, and glanced occasionally at Bellinger. He could not take his eyes off Dreyfus’ face, and it troubled me to see this talented young man in the thrall of such an unpleasant character. Back in the teens and ’20s, the making of pictures had been a labor of love, a burgeoning art form that the creators took seriously. And if we became well-known, adored by the public, that was a by-product of our efforts, not the goal. But in present-day Hollywood, people are too enticed by glamour, and the art of making films, if it matters at all, is subsumed to the more alluring prospects of wealth and fame. This Dreyfus would have to do more than take me to lunch to convince me of his skill and commitment.

  We parted after finishing our rather disappointing meal, and I retrieved my car safely from the parking service. As I drove back home, I remembered a young man I’d recently seen up at Runyan Canyon Park who’d been reading a tattered old copy of Dubliners. He was dressed in jeans and a faded blue button-down shirt, his leather shoes were scuffed and the laces untied, and his socks were of two different colors. He was so engrossed in his book that a naked woman could have walked in front of him and he never would have even looked up. That young man, I thought, knew more about the need and value of art than Josh Dreyfus ever would.

  And yet, when Bellinger called me that evening, I told him I’d had a very pleasant time. Yes, I liked his friend Josh, I assured him; yes, I was willing to take the next step.

  “He’s a little much sometimes,” said Bellinger, “with his stories of all the stars he gets to work with. But he’s the best at making sure that a project goes through, and if he backs you, then you’re sure to get the part.”

  “He seems,” I said, reaching for the appropriate words, “a little less reflective than you.”

  Bellinger laughed. “Well, his job means he has to be kind of slick, I suppose. But don’t be fooled. He’s a workhorse— very committed.”

  I didn’t doubt that he was—but to what? Still, I said nothing about my impression of him and let Bellinger continue to talk.

  “He wants me to bring him some of your old films, which I’m going to do tomorrow. And then I guess he’s going to talk to a few of the old guys at the studio—you know, to see what you were like to work with.”

  “I would think I’m past the need for recommendations,” I said. “I believe my work speaks for itself.”

  “Of course it does. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to imply he’s looking for a recommendation. I think he just wants to get a better sense of your abilities.”

  “Better than you’ve already given him?”

  He did not appear to hear the irony in this comment. “I’m just a young movie nut, like him; I wasn’t there during your career. Besides, I think he’s intrigued now by your whole era, period, and that can only be good for you.”

  I gripped the phone so tightly that several veins stood out on my arm. “Do you know what accounts for the sudden interest?”

  “No, I don’t. But I’m sure that whatever he finds will only hook him in further—to the silents, and to you in particular.”

  Even though this comment was meant to put me at ease, the effect was precisely the opposite. Despite my dislike of Dreyfus, despite my suspicions regarding his taste, I did not wish to be disqualified from Bellinger’s film based on a few people’s twisted recollections. I tried to think of who still survived from that era and thought immediately of Nora Niles; her memory of what happened all those decades ago was the only one that actually mattered. But I was not ready to see her yet, if I would ever be, and so I tried to recall the other names that David Rosenberg and I had discussed. He was right—the old executives and producers were dead; and Hanako, who we had not discussed, was too difficult to contemplate. But there was also the detective, Owen Hopkins. He probably had a good perspective on the events of that time, and he might also be the easiest to locate.

  And so I found myself driving out, two mornings ago, to the home of Owen Hopkins. I’d gotten the number from directory assistance and dialed him up the previous day. It must have been a shock to hear from a man he’d known only briefly more than forty years ago, and it took him a minute or two to place the name. Even when he did, he sounded cautious, uncertain, suspicious as to why I was calling him and what I could possibly want. It was only after I assured him that I bore no ill will that he consented to let me see him. He gave me directions to an exclusive neighborhood near the Santa Monica pier, and the house I stopped in front of, an old English Tudor, was huge, with a beautiful garden. I wondered how Hopkins’ career had progressed after the short time I knew him. Either civil servants were better-paid than I thought, or he had bought his house before the area had grown so costly.

  When I first met Hopkins, he was almost precisely my age—around thirty years old—although I remembered thinking he seemed older. Hopkins was not a tall man, but what he lacked in stature he made up for in heft—he was solid and plain, substantial, as if he’d sprung directly from the earth. He carried himself deliberately, like every movement was a conscious decision. There was something about him that inspired trust, despite his badge and firearm.

  The door was opened by Hopkins himself. Except for his thinned hair and a few fine wrinkles on his face, he did not look much different than he had as a younger man. “Mr. Nakayama,” he said, and he furrowed his brow, his face pinching into an expression I couldn’t interpret. He extended his hand and shook mine firmly.

  After an awkward moment of standing in the foyer, he invited me to sit in the living room. Dozens of colorful toys were piled haphaza
rdly in the corner. On the mantel, on the television, were framed pictures of children—sandy-haired girls and boys who were clearly related to the man I now sat across from.

  “My big brood,” said Hopkins, when he saw me looking. He kept brushing his sleeve with his hand, although there was nothing on it. “Five kids and thirteen grandkids. I thought I was going to be able to rest when I retired, but instead I run around after children all day.” He stepped forward as if preparing to explain who was in the pictures, but then appeared to think better of it and sat down. “I’ll tell you, it’s harder keeping track of a bunch of energetic kids than it is to find a criminal. But you probably know all about that.”

  I smiled weakly, not wanting to engage him on the topic of family. It was so strange to be sitting in a house with this man, all these years after we’d first crossed paths, when our lives—and indeed the entire world—had been so dramatically different. I studied his face again, and did, now, see that it had changed, in ways more subtle than simply bearing the marks of time. He seemed hollowed somehow, not quite himself, as if the package of his body had been emptied out and replaced with less substantial material.

  “Did you stay with the police department throughout your career?” I asked.

  “No, just for a few years after your …” He gestured helplessly. “Your situation. But I moved up pretty quickly, and got to work on some big cases. The Stevenson murder, if you remember, and the Davis water scandal.”

  I nodded. Although I could not recall the details, I vaguely remembered that Hopkins had been a major figure in the investigations, unearthing corruption and making high-profile arrests. He had made his name as somewhat of a crusader; I’d seen his picture in the paper several times. “I went to law school then,” he continued, “and worked my way up to Deputy D.A., which is as far as I could get without running for office. But Crittendon was still top dog, and there was no way I could take him on, especially with how personal those races get.”

  “It doesn’t surprise me that you became so successful,” I said. I noticed that he didn’t ask what became of my career, but of course he already knew that.

  He sat back in his chair now, hands gripping his knees, the knees themselves bouncing lightly. His eyes wandered from my feet back to the wall behind my head; he’d not looked me in the face since the moment he opened the door.

  “Listen,” he said, and his voice took on that purposeful tone I remembered from many years ago, but with an undercurrent of something else. “I don’t want to waste your time here, or mine. What is it that you’d like to discuss? I’m thinking it has to do with that unfortunate Tyler case, since that’s the only reason we happen to know each other.”

  I was taken aback by his directness, but also relieved that he had broached the subject. I wasn’t sure where to begin or what to say, and so I settled on something harmless. “It was unfortunate,” I concurred, “for so many of those involved.”

  “Not the least for yourself, Mr. Nakayama.”

  I did not know how to respond to this, and felt rather discomfited. “Well, that is all in the past and cannot be undone,” I said. We sat there in silence for a moment. Outside I heard a child laughing, then a truck barreling down the street. When I spoke again, my voice sounded overly cheerful. “But things have been improving of late, Mr. Hopkins. You see, I have just been approached about playing a role in a new film for Perennial Pictures. As you may or may not know, this is the first such opportunity I have had in a number of years.” I paused. “I’m concerned, though, that people might look a little too hard at certain incidents from the past. I anticipate that someone from the studio, or even the press, might start asking questions. In fact, they might even come to you.”

  Hopkins leaned forward and pressed his hands together, looking like he was in pain. “Damnit,” he said. “Why can’t they just let things be?”

  “They might,” I said. “They might find nothing. They might just leave you alone.”

  “And they might not. They might find everything.” He glanced up at me now. “But why should you be worried?”

  I looked away from him and down at the fioor. “There are some perhaps unsavory details I would prefer to keep out of the public.”

  He reached out and straightened some magazines that lay on the coffee table, and I was surprised to see that his hands were shaking. “I understand. Believe me, I feel the same way. Some nosy reporter trying to dig up the past wouldn’t do any of us good.”

  Until now I had thought that his reluctance to talk, his concern about people recalling the Tyler case, had solely to do with the facts of the murder itself. But the intensity of his worrying—and his shaking hands—suggested something else. “What do you mean?” I finally asked.

  Hopkins leaned back and drummed his fingers on his knee. And when he spoke, his voice was strained. “It wasn’t done by the book, Mr. Nakayama. I mean, none of it was done by the book. We didn’t follow up on some obvious leads, we didn’t question everyone we should have.” He paused. “And they never let up on Elizabeth Banks, poor girl. I know how much you cared for her. They just let all those insinuations continue to fester, and let people imagine the worst.” He stopped and looked absently out the window. When he opened his mouth again, the words spilled out as if he’d been storing them up for years.

  “I thought I was going to crack it. I thought I was headed in the right direction. Nora Niles’ maid told me that Nora had tried to shoot herself once with her mother’s .38, after they got into a tiff about Tyler. The bullet was lodged in her bedroom wall, and I wanted to go look at it, to compare it with the one from the murder. But when I went to my captain, he told me to drop it. He had some kind of order, and my sense was it came directly from Crittendon. I didn’t want to let it go, you know, how could I? But my job was on the line. And then—well, it seemed like the promotions just kept coming after I backed off from the Tyler case.”

  He paused, looked down, and then back up at me again.

  “So no, Mr. Nakayama, I’m not anxious to talk. I mean, some good happened out of that mess for me, but a lot of bad came of it too. It changed my career, my whole life, can’t you see?”

  He gave me a pained expression, and I followed his hands, which took in the entire room. I did not understand his meaning at first. Then I noticed the fineness of everything—the crystal chandeliers, the handcrafted furniture, the Oriental rugs.

  I avoided his pleading eyes and said, “I see.”

  His breathing had grown more labored, his voice husky and raw. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Nakayama. I’m so sorry about what happened to you.”

  I continued to look away from him and tried to digest what he’d told me. “It was the others who suffered, Mr. Hopkins. I was fine.”

  “I always thought you could have come through it, though. You could have pushed back. I never understood why you didn’t.”

  I smiled wryly. “There were other things that kept me from resuming my work.”

  “Yes,” he said, nodding, “I suppose there were.”

  He lowered his head and we each sat alone with our thoughts. As I reflected on what he had said and implied, I suddenly realized that he was referring to my friendship with Elizabeth, as if that alone had been the reason for my visit. In his mind, that entanglement was problem enough— as indeed it would have been in our time. I decided it was best to let him continue to believe that Elizabeth was all I wished to keep private.

  Finally, Hopkins raised his head again, and spoke more evenly. “You don’t have to worry, Mr. Nakayama. If anyone does come around, I’m not telling them a thing. That case died and was buried with Ashley Tyler, and I’m not about to dig it up.”

  Two days after my drive out to Santa Monica, my conversation with Owen Hopkins stays with me. It is not simply that his face, aged and yet so familiar, took me back to the hours I spent answering questions in a dim room at the old police headquarters. It is also his regret about what happened to the rest of us. I was not surprised that Hopkins
had been dissuaded from pursuing his leads, but I didn’t know that the police had treated Elizabeth so cavalierly, and that news was deeply troubling. For more than anyone else, Elizabeth’s life was altered needlessly by the events of 1922. And it is not a stretch to think that everything that befell her in subsequent years was the direct result of Tyler’s death and its aftermath. Who is to say that, had the truth come out, Elizabeth could not have continued acting? Who is to say that she might not even be alive somewhere—years past her days of stardom, yes, but still full of the contradictions and passion and life that so compelled me in the time that I knew her?

  CHAPTER TEN

  In truth, things had already begun to change for Elizabeth before Ashley Tyler was murdered. The late teens and early ’20s were not kind to her, and it is possible that even without the Tyler affair, her time in film would have drawn to a close. Indeed, several historians have asserted that the Tyler situation only hastened the inevitable. For if one considers that period more closely, it becomes sadly apparent that Elizabeth Banks was on the decline.

  Although none of us could possibly have known it at the time, the war bond tour was the pinnacle of Elizabeth’s fame. Not long after the Great War ended, her stature began to change. It wasn’t obvious at first—she still had star billing in two or three films, and was still, for a while, a fan favorite. But gradually the roles got smaller and became distinctly fewer, with more and more time lapsed between them. The fan magazines began to feature her less often, and then buried her in their back pages. The most status-conscious Los Angeles hostesses—who had never been comfortable with Elizabeth’s inelegant background— stopped inviting her to parties. I do not fully understand why these things occurred, or why the studio executives lost confidence. In hindsight, it is easy to say that times were changing—that the sultry women and girlish pixies of the 1910s were being replaced by the urban fiappers of the ’20s. Or that the studio had finally tired of her drinking and inconsistency, when there were hundreds of other young hardworking girls lined up to take her place. But I believe that the answer was more mundane; that pictures were simply leaving her behind. Elizabeth was, at thirtyfive, a mature woman; she already had been when I met her years earlier. In picture terms, she was already old. What the screen loved was fresh-faced children.