The Age of Dreaming

by Nina Revoyr

  “Yes, fairly well. Which is say, they broke even. But the fact is, Jun, you haven’t had a bona fide hit in almost two years, really since The Patron. And it’s making Stillman and the others nervous. Very nervous.”

  Now the smile had faded from my lips, and the pieces of apple on my plate could not have been less appealing if they were riddled with worms. “It may be true that I’ve experienced a bit of a dry spell,” I allowed, “but you must admit the material I’ve had recently hasn’t been first-rate. Match me up with a good script and good costar, let me work with Tyler again, and I’m sure the next film will do better.”

  Normandy looked even more pained now, and waved the waiter off when he came to freshen up our coffee. “I’m afraid it’s not so simple, Jun. There’s a history here. Not everyone’s been happy about you being with the studio, but they were willing to go along with it as long as your pictures made money. But the mood in the country is different now, especially here in California. Jun, you must feel it. If the studio were to sign you to another multiyear contract, why, it wouldn’t do either of us any good.”

  I sat still for a moment as I absorbed the implications of this last statement. “Are you saying that the studio isn’t planning to re-sign me?”

  Normandy was shifting in his seat. “I’m not saying that anything is certain yet, Jun. I’m just saying be prepared. Stillman is nervous, very nervous—and if we have any more scenes like we did during the filming of Geronimo, that will just about seal the deal. There’s no margin of error these next few months.”

  “But that incident was highly unusual,” I protested. “You can hardly judge my entire career by one unfortunate event. I shouldn’t have to remind you of this, Gerard, but my films are among Perennial’s biggest hits!”

  Normandy sighed. “I realize that, Jun. But that was yesterday. This business only cares about tomorrow. I’m sorry, you know I’m your friend; that’s why I asked you to lunch. The best I can tell you is to make your last few pictures under this contract, and we’ll see what we can do. I’ll try to pair you with Tyler or someone comparable. In the meantime, just keep your head down.”

  This is, to say the least, not a comfortable memory. Gerard had—as he indicated—met me out of friendship; a less caring executive would have simply let my contract go unremarked until the end result was obvious. After that day I still believed that everything would sort itself out; it seemed unreasonable for the studio to discard a star on whom so much of its own success had been built. And perhaps it would have, had other circumstances not intervened. It is possible, however, that even if the events of 1922 had never occurred, my career still would have drawn to a close. I was, by the day of that lunch with Gerard, at the beginning of my tenth year in Hollywood. My time in pictures had already been longer than most. As much as I am loathe to admit it, even without these additional complications, my season might have reached its denouement.

  But I see that I am once again speaking of myself when I’d intended to reflect on Elizabeth. This conflation is perhaps inevitable, since our careers now seem to have been so intertwined. And yet I feel it is necessary to explain more thoroughly the events of Elizabeth’s life. For the months immediately following my Independence Day party were surely trying for her as well. She was not cast in a new picture through the remainder of the summer and fall, and in October I began to hear open speculation that her contract would not be renewed. Her embarrassing behavior at my party had been noted by the studio, and there were whispers that she was drinking more heavily. I was certain that she was aware of the rumors about her contract, and I imagine she was deeply anxious about the outcome. Indeed, considering the uncertainty of my own contract status, it might have been helpful for us to discuss our situations.

  But we did not discuss our contracts, or anything else, for this would have required us to speak to each other. And that we did not do for several months. It is hard to say whether this silence was the result of my pride, for the image of Elizabeth in Ashley Tyler’s arms was still fresh; or of Elizabeth’s desire not to see me. But the fact remains that Elizabeth and I didn’t see one another through the summer and fall of 1921.

  In the meantime, the rest of my life went on. I resumed going to parties and studio events, although I was starting to find the other partygoers, with their constant talk of roles and contracts, to be a little tiresome. I also made two pictures during those months, including one in the fall with Nora and Ashley Tyler. Although I’d worried about how Tyler and I would behave with each other, his professionalism diffused any possible awkwardness. I cannot deny that it caused me a certain discomfort to be around the director, particularly since I knew that he was still spending time with Elizabeth. But he never mentioned that night at my mansion. He simply proceeded with directing the film and treated me as he always had, and for this distance, this propriety, I was grateful. Besides, by the middle of the film I was no longer so occupied by visions of Elizabeth and Tyler. Other things were happening that turned my thoughts in an altogether different direction.

  Inevitably—months later—I did run into Elizabeth, at a Thanksgiving party at Evelyn Marsh’s mansion. We nodded politely from across the room but did not approach each other. This happened again at Perennial’s holiday party early in December, and then again a week later at Buck Snyder’s ranch. At this last party, however, Elizabeth gathered the nerve to cross the room and speak to me.

  “You’ve been quite the social butterfly lately,” she said. She was wearing cowboy boots, a denim skirt, a red bandana, and a cowboy hat, in keeping with the Western theme.

  “It’s unavoidable,” I said noncommittally. “It’s the height of the party season.”

  “I suppose. To tell you the truth, I’m about ready for it to be over. These things aren’t all that fun if you’re not drinking.” She held up her glass, which was filled with a dark brown liquid, and I noticed that there was no redness in her eyes, no sour smell of liquor on her breath.

  “Well,” I said, raising my own gin and tonic, “sometimes they’re no fun even if you are.”

  She smiled a chastened, self-conscious smile, and took in my cowboy hat and fringed leather vest. “You look good as a cowboy, Jun.”

  We stayed there together for a few more minutes, speaking of the holidays and Snyder’s ranch and the amusing sight of the studio executives dressed up in Western garb. We did not discuss anything substantive, and steered clear of mentioning Ashley Tyler. But it was a thawing, a beginning, and as my driver took me home, I felt more peaceful than I had in several months.

  I will never know what might have become of Elizabeth and me. I would like to think that, given time, we could have gotten beyond the impasse of that summer and fall. I would like to think that we could have moved to a new understanding—that even if our romance wasn’t meant to continue, we could have remained close colleagues, even friends.

  I have every reason to believe that such an end was possible. For in the weeks after Snyder’s party, Elizabeth changed. It was clear she was attempting to get her life in order—either to improve her chances of securing another contract, or simply for the sake of her health. I even heard from several people that her drinking had stopped—largely due to the help of Tyler, who stayed with her during the hardest hours and kept the suppliers away.

  After avoiding me for altogether for several months, she telephoned me twice. The first time was early in January, to wish me a happy new year and to congratulate me on my just-released film. Again we stayed away from any difficult subjects, but we had a pleasant conversation about the weight we’d both put on from all the holiday parties, and the havoc wreaked on our gardens by the recent rains. Elizabeth sounded well, and I remembered how pleasant she could be when she wasn’t distorted by alcohol. As I laughed at her stories of trying to save her drowning plants, I realized how much I had missed her. We approached each other with the hesitation of new friends, potential lovers, and I enjoyed this careful tenderness, this polite feeling out, and looked fo
rward to what would happen between us next.

  * * *

  Elizabeth’s second call, in February, was very different. I had been up past midnight, drinking alone, and for this reason I was not totally myself when the phone rang at 6 in the morning.

  “Jun,” said the voice on the other end, and it was so racked with sobs that at first I couldn’t place it. “Jun, you have to come quickly. Ashley’s dead.”

  Now I realized that it was Elizabeth. And since her words made no sense, I assumed she was drunk, or else I was having a dream.

  “Ashley’s dead!” she repeated.

  “What?” I said. “What are you talking about?” I was still half asleep.

  “He was found dead this morning, right there in his bedroom. I was with him last night, Jun. He was fine!”

  I was starting to comprehend what she was saying. “You were with him?” I didn’t know whether the twisting I felt in my stomach was shock over the news or jealousy.

  “Yes, I was with him, but I left around 9, and he walked me out to the car. The next thing I know, I get a phone call this morning telling me he’s dead!”

  “Who called you? The police?”

  “No, no. The studio.”

  “The studio?”

  “Yes, I don’t know who found him, but the studio is calling people. Tom Stewart from Benjamin Dreyfus’ office called about half an hour ago.”

  “Why did he call you? What did he say?”

  “I don’t know. But I’m going over there. I think people are there already. Jun, will you please come with me?”

  I couldn’t answer right away—this was too much information to consider all at once. Tyler, my favorite director. Tyler, the man who everybody seemed to admire. Tyler, my rival for Elizabeth’s affections. Could it be true that he was dead? I couldn’t believe it, and I had no desire to go to his house, not even for Elizabeth. But in the end I couldn’t deny her, not when she was in such a state, so I agreed to meet her at the director’s home.

  Tyler’s bungalow court was not unlike the one I live in now—a group of two-story buildings arranged in a U-shape around an open courtyard. I arrived before Elizabeth and stood there in the morning winter cold, still trying to absorb the news. There were no police yet, no reporters, no indication that there was anything amiss. I saw a drape stir behind the window of another apartment, but nobody came outside. Elizabeth appeared shortly, her eyes red and her coat drawn tightly around her. She gripped my arm hard and I remember thinking, bitterly, that she never held me with such urgency when I made love to her. I resisted the urge to shake her off and placed my hand on her back, guiding her to Tyler’s front door.

  I didn’t recognize the man who answered our knock, but he appeared to recognize us, for he stepped aside without speaking and let us in. I had never before been inside Tyler’s home, and my first thought, as I laid eyes on the couch, the fireplace, his fine paintings and pieces of sculpture, was to wonder about the hours he passed there with Elizabeth; how often and in exactly what posture they had talked. Despite the good furniture and expensive art, the place already felt lifeless to me. It was dark and sad and too carefully decorated—the home of a man concerned more with appearances than comfort.

  But perhaps it was unfair to judge Tyler this way, for his home was already changed. What we found when we stepped inside was five gloved men engaged in frantic activity; the sounds of furniture being moved around above us indicated that there were more upstairs. These were studio employees, several of whom I recognized, and they were working so fast they didn’t stop to acknowledge us. One of them was going through Tyler’s desk. Another was examining the hutch in the dining room, removing and replacing every plate. A third was lifting each painting, touching its frame, and feeling the wall behind it. Yet another was on his hands and knees, peering beneath the couch. I didn’t know what they were searching for, but there was a growing collection of papers and photographs on the dining room table, along with two bottles of whiskey. The whole tableau made me think of a film set, the final frantic preparation that went into making it perfect before the actors stepped in to perform their scene.

  Elizabeth gasped when she saw what was happening and gripped my arm even tighter. She wavered a bit as she walked, and I wasn’t sure if her unsteadiness was due to alcohol or grief. She led me to the kitchen, and I realized with a fresh spasm of pain that she knew every inch of the place. We found an older black man sitting at the table, and when he and Elizabeth saw each other, they both let out a cry.

  “Willy!” she said, rushing over to him.

  “Oh, Miss Elizabeth,” the old man answered, “I can’t believe it.”

  Once again I suppressed my distaste. The man seemed respectable enough—he was neat and well-dressed—but this was the person on whose behalf Tyler had testified in court to combat the morals charge. After some more tears and sounds of grief, Willy relayed his story. He’d come in right at 5 a.m. as always. He first took in the dishes that Tyler and Elizabeth had left by the couch, and then fixed his boss a pot of morning tea. But when he took it upstairs, he found Tyler on the bedroom fioor. He knew immediately that Tyler was dead, but was uncertain about what to do, so he called David Rosenberg at home.

  “I thought Mr. Rosenberg would ring the police or the doctor,” he said. “And then the next thing I know, all these men showed up. I don’t like them disturbing Mr. Tyler’s things, Miss Elizabeth, but what can I do? Maybe they’ll listen to you.”

  Elizabeth sat down at the table and didn’t answer. It occurred to me—as it must have to her—that there were certain things she might want removed. “Where is he, Willy? I need to see him.”

  “I’m not sure you want to do that, Miss Elizabeth.”

  “Please, Willy.” And after considering a moment, he said, “All right, then. Let’s go upstairs. He’s in his room, right where I found him.”

  We walked past the men in the living room, who continued to ignore us. Willy led us up the staircase to the second fioor, and as Elizabeth’s breathing grew more labored, I thought I smelled a faint trace of liquor. There were two doors on each side of a long, lit hallway, and Willy led us to the second one on the left.

  Tyler was lying faceup on the carpet, just at the foot of the bed. His body was perfectly straight, hands at his sides, legs and heels together. He looked, as always, unfailingly proper, as if he’d observed his sense of decorum even into his death. He was wearing a heavy crimson robe, the top half of which was open, revealing a triangle of pale white fiesh. His eyes were open and he appeared startled; it was hard to know if this had been his final expression or if it was part of the mask of death. The sight of him was like a blow to the stomach. Beside me, Elizabeth let out a small cry.

  “Oh, Ashley,” she said. She kneeled down beside him and took one of his hands. “I didn’t know he was ill. I didn’t know there was anything wrong with him.”

  “Neither did I, Miss Elizabeth,” said Willy. “He always seemed like he was in such good health to me.”

  I stood there suspended, not knowing what to do. It was real, the body was real, the man was truly deceased. And yet what I felt more strongly than the shock of his death was jealousy at the sight of Elizabeth kneeling beside him, caressing his lifeless hand. I did not wish to look at Tyler anymore, so I raised my eyes to watch the studio men. There were two of them working in the bedroom as well, going quickly through Tyler’s closet.

  “What are they doing? What are all these men doing?” asked Elizabeth, as if she had just then noticed them.

  We heard the sound of someone mounting the stairs, and then David Rosenberg appeared. From his face it was clear he was surprised to find us there. He nodded at the studio men, who kept working. Then he walked over to Tyler’s body.

  “Jesus. This is terrible!”

  Willy faded back against the wall, making himself invisible, and Rosenberg kneeled down to question Elizabeth. “When did you last see him?”

  “Last night. I came to visit him abou
t 7 o’clock, and left about 9. He walked me out to my car and gave me a book and kissed me goodnight. I had no idea that …” And now the tears began again.

  “Did anyone see you?”

  “My driver,” she said. “And anyone who was near their windows in the evening.”

  David nodded. When he used a handkerchief to wipe off his face, I saw that his hands were shaking.

  “Sir,” said Willy from the back of the room. “Sir, has anybody called an ambulance? Or the police?”

  “Yes, we called the police,” said David. And then a statement I found very odd: “They’re giving us another ten minutes.”

  David got up slowly, his large frame filling the space of the bedroom. He moved around, looking at a picture here and touching a book there, as if he were an anxious visitor examining the furnishings while waiting for his host to appear.

  Elizabeth continued to kneel with Tyler, and I almost felt sorry for her. “Oh, Willy,” she said. “He was such a good man. What am I going to do?”

  It was not a frivolous question. His friendship had been critical—for keeping her fading career alive and, apparently, for her efforts to curtail her drinking.

  The stairs creaked again as someone walked heavily up them, and then several policemen appeared, wearing high-laced boots and mackinaw jackets. As they entered, I realized that I’d seen one of them before—at the studio, on sets, sometimes as security, sometimes filling in as an extra when the script required a police officer. “I’m Captain Mills,” he said to Elizabeth, and I saw that she recognized him too. Then he glanced over at me and lifted his eyebrows. “What’s the Jap doing here?”

  Elizabeth stood up. “He came with me,” she said defiantly. This did not address, of course, the question of what she was doing there, but that question remained unasked. Instead, the police went right to work.

  They all fanned out around the body and Elizabeth moved back, looking like she wanted to protect him; it seemed so odd, so improper, even to me, that all these strangers should see Tyler in this state. Captain Mills kneeled down beside his left shoulder and held his ear to the dead man’s nostrils. “Cold as ice. Been dead for a while, I think.” He stood again, and had just turned toward the other men when Elizabeth clutched my arm and made a sound. She gripped me so hard her fingernails broke through my skin, and I looked where she was pointing: at the fioor, where Captain Mills’ black leather shoes were leaving marks in dark horseshoe shapes all over the wood.