The Age of Dreaming

by Nina Revoyr

  It was the fourth day’s news that changed everything. The headline was two inches high, all capital letters: “STAR-LET’S NIGHTGOWN FOUND IN SLAIN DIRECTOR’S CLOSET!!!” And then, beneath it, in regular headline type: “Long-Rumored Affair between Tyler and Niles confirmed.” There was a photograph of Nora looking lovingly at Tyler, on the set of The Noble Servant. The story reported that a pink nightgown had been found which bore the monogrammed initials NMN, and there was even a picture of the garment in question. The nightgown was one of many items of women’s intimate clothing that had been found among Tyler’s things, all tagged with initials and dates. There were also, apparently, pornographic photographs of the director with several of Hollywood’s leading ladies, as well as dozens of “passionate” love letters from Nora and Elizabeth, “so intense they could not be reprinted.” Nora Niles had been brought in for questioning the day before, “a grueling, five-hour session,” and then her mother had been interrogated separately. Both claimed that they had been home at the time of the murder, reading in front of the fireplace. I wondered who the other items belonged to, and who might have been in the photographs. But the press, despite a statement from Detective Owen Hopkins that the police were pursuing several different leads, had clearly latched onto a new favorite suspect, because they spoke of nothing else for several days.

  I was already concerned about how Nora was doing—I had thought of her a great deal in the previous weeks—and with this latest news, my worries only grew. Her devotion to Tyler was even deeper than Elizabeth’s, and this was probably the most devastating loss she had ever suffered. Now there was also the unpleasant complication of her own name being dragged into the papers. I wanted to write her about Tyler, but there was no secure way; a telegram wasn’t safe and Harriet would intercept a note. And I needed to talk to her for different reasons as well. I had been trying for some time to find a way to approach her, but now, with the death of Tyler, any efforts I made would undoubtedly be thwarted.

  The newspaper stories that came out over the next several days were increasingly breathless. One revealed that Nora too had been secretly engaged to Tyler; another insinuated that she was pregnant. Each of the stories touched upon the nightgown, describing some new detail—the lace fringe along the bottom, the burgundy monogram. One of the stories described Nora’s life with her mother, painting Harriet Cole as a clutching presence who was capable of anything, even murder, to protect her daughter’s career. These stories ran for about a week, and then the reporters turned their interest back to Elizabeth, and then on to more peripheral suspects. Owen Hopkins was quoted as saying that the police had one witness—one of the neighbors saw a man leave Tyler’s apartment, or a woman dressed as a man—but no clues as to the individual’s identity. While they knew that the bullet was from a .38 caliber snub-nosed revolver, the weapon itself had not been found. These details were dry, however, with no inherent drama, so the press focused once again on the famous suspects. After three or four weeks, when the papers were still full of insinuations but no hard facts, it was becoming apparent that there would be no arrest.

  Tyler’s funeral was held five days after his death at St. Francis Cathedral in Hollywood. I had not planned to attend—I didn’t want to be seen—but on the morning of the service, there was a knock at my door. I opened it and was surprised to find Hanako Minatoya standing on my doorstep. It was highly unusual for her to appear at my home unannounced, but I had refused to take her calls.

  “You must come, Nakayama-san,” she insisted in Japanese. “It is the proper thing to do.”

  Of course she was right, so after a halfhearted protest, I dressed quickly and went outside. Her driver greeted me as he helped us into the car, but otherwise, to my relief, he did not engage us in conversation. Hanako spoke little on the way to the service, and while I could not bring myself to meet her eyes, I noted, when I glanced surreptitiously in her direction, how dignified she looked in her black dress and hat. When we arrived at the church, there was a tremendous crowd filling the sidewalk and spilling onto the street. The driver cursed as he inched through the people. At the curb, someone opened the car door for us, and I groaned involuntarily at the crush of curious faces. I kept my head down as I walked toward the front of the church, worried what people would say. But Hanako squeezed my arm tightly and whispered tersely in my ear, “Stand tall. Jun Nakayama does not cower.”

  Once inside, ushers helped us to the front of the church. Hanako greeted our acquaintances and led me to my seat, and I tried to ignore all the whispers. Gloria Swanson was there, looking as beautiful and cold as ever. She was seated next to her great friend, young Rudolph Valentino, and his soon-to-be bride Natachka Rambova. Across the aisle sat Doug Fairbanks and Mary Pickford, her sober expression evoking the tough businesswoman she actually was rather than the young pixie that America hoped she would always remain. Chaplin was with them, as he often was, unusually still in this atmosphere of sadness. Bill Hart sat behind them with his rival Buck Owens, both men appearing uncomfortable in suits rather than their usual cowboy garb, and Norma Talmadge held tight to the arm of Joseph Schenck. Scattered among the stars were the directors, Tyler’s peers— DeMille, Griffith, Allan Dwan, even Erich von Stroheim, who had not yet created the opulent films that would make his reputation. The executives were there as well—Normandy, Stillman, Mayer, Goldwyn—although they all seemed un-approachable. They could not be pleased with this turn of events. Tyler’s murder fed into the growing perception that Hollywood was full of immorality and excess, and these men would be the ones who had to deal with it.

  Although many actors and actresses were in attendance that day, Nora Minton Niles was not among them. I hadn’t expected her to come—I knew she was overwhelmed—but she’d sent five thousand white roses, so many that they lined the aisles and were arranged around the coffin, which was placed in the center of the stage. Beside the coffin was an empty director’s chair with Tyler inscribed on the back-rest; next to it, on a table, was a megaphone. I was staring at this absently when I heard a buzz move through the crowd. Elizabeth Banks had arrived.

  She was wearing a heavy black dress with a large hat and veil, and leaning heavily on her maid. From the hesitant, uncertain way she was walking down the aisle, I knew that she was probably drunk. Even from fifty feet away, I could hear the sound of her sobbing.

  “It’s all right, Miss Elizabeth. It’ll be all right,” her maid said. Her voice echoed in the sudden silence. Although Elizabeth was having difficulty even staying on her feet, nobody rose to assist her. Finally, an usher gestured toward one of the pews, and the maid helped Elizabeth into a seat three rows in front of us, next to David Rosenberg. As Elizabeth sat down, it looked to me—although I couldn’t be sure—like David moved slightly away from her.

  I do not recall much of the service itself—what the priest said, or the eulogies, or the music that was played. What I do remember is the faint shouts of the people outside pressing against the door; the steadying grasp of Hanako, who kept hold of my arm; and the sobs of Elizabeth, who never stopped crying. I watched her through the entire service, and I could feel my anger rising. She had not acknowledged my presence or even glanced in my direction. If there had ever been a doubt about where her affections lay; if I’d ever allowed myself to think that I might mean something to her, then her behavior on the day of Tyler’s funeral disabused me of those notions. For it was clear she didn’t care for me, not in the least. I knew that our friendship was over.

  After the service, a caravan of dozens of cars made its way to the Hollywood Cemetery. Hanako and I did not join them. Instead, she guided me back toward her car, shielding me from the cameras and grasping hands. When we were almost to the sidewalk, though, a reporter pushed through the crowd and stopped in front of us. “Jun, Jun!” he called out, waving his notebook. “Is it true that you and Tyler were riding double on Elizabeth Banks?”

  The crowd went quiet as everyone awaited my response. But then, Hanako stepped in front of
me and faced the reporter. She did not excuse herself or explain what she was doing there with me. She did not chastise him for being inappropriate. She simply fixed him with a cold and withering look, a glare so devastating that although he was several inches taller, she appeared to be looking down at him. She stared at him this way for what seemed like half a minute. Then, lowering his head, he slinked away.

  We didn’t speak during the drive back from the service, and when we reached my house, Hanako looked at me squarely. “I’m afraid to leave you alone, Nakayama-san.”

  “I’m fine,” I said, trying to sound steady.

  Hanako glanced down at her hands now. “You must take care of her.”

  “Who?” I asked, genuinely puzzled.

  “Elizabeth. You must take care of her. She has nobody else.”

  I did not know how to reply to this, so I nodded at her vaguely. It was difficult for me to think kindly of Elizabeth. It was difficult to think of her at all.

  After a moment of uncomfortable silence, I bade Hanako goodbye. As I made my way back to my own front door, I realized that I’d forgotten to thank her. I turned quickly, but the car had already gone around the corner. And it was only years later that I came to understand how difficult this day must have been for Hanako, how generous she’d been in escorting me. Absorbed as I was in my own sense of shame, I failed to comprehend this at the time. I failed to see that she’d put her own reputation at risk for the sake of a friend who did not deserve her, for someone who was not even half the man she believed and maybe wished him to be.

  Weeks passed, weeks I spent mostly at home, seeing no one but my servants. The maid soon resigned, then the chauffeur and the gardener, citing family obligations and better employment elsewhere; none of them could look me in the eye. Just Phillipe remained, and he was my only company. I tried to amuse myself by reading and drawing him into an occasional game of chess, but mostly I walked aimlessly through the rooms of the mansion, which suddenly felt like a museum after closing hours. Indeed, sometimes when we spoke to each other in the cavernous front entranceway, I could faintly hear the echoes of our voices.

  I did not hear from Elizabeth, although I read that she’d been escorted home twice by the police, who found her stumbling drunk outside of the Tiffany. And I did not hear from Nora, whom the papers reported had been “sent away because of a nervous condition.” After a while, the articles became less frequent and Hollywood started returning to its regular business.

  More than a month after Tyler’s death, David Rosenberg called to apologize for Perennial’s silence. Gerard Normandy was ready to talk, he said. Although they were still reluctant to draw up a new contract, they did have a potential project. He told me the last few weeks had been eventful. One of the things they had discovered in the wake of the murder was that Tyler wasn’t who they had thought. The director’s real name was Aaron Towland. Far from having a theater background in England and New York, he’d been third-generation antique salesman from Brooklyn. He’d left a wife and two children in Flatbush, and had disappeared in 1912 without a forwarding address. Mrs. Towland hadn’t known what had become of her husband until she saw him in a picture. With the news of his death, she had contacted the studio and informed them of Tyler’s true identity, hoping to secure assistance for their children. This information had thrown the studio into a frenzy, but they’d successfully kept it out of the papers, and they were just now getting their operations back in order.

  But that was all moot, said Rosenberg. They wanted to see me. Could I come in and meet with him and Normandy in a week? I told him I could, and I hoped the shaking in my voice did not betray my joy and relief. It was going to be all right, I thought, despite everything. I was going back to work.

  Had I not received an unannounced visit five days later, I might, in fact, have done so. I might have met with Normandy and found a way to continue my acting career. But I did receive a visit—one that, in some sense, I’d been expecting for weeks. After that day, I knew that I would never appear in a picture again—not for Normandy, or Perennial, or any other studio. And I would not see David Rosenberg for forty-two years, until I drove up to the nursing home in Culver City.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  October 30, 1964

  This has been a week of the most unexpected revelations, which have led me down a path of such reminiscence and regret that I find myself now at the top of Runyan Canyon Park, looking down at the lights of the city. I hadn’t planned to go for a walk this late in the evening, and certainly not after dark. But my thoughts were too unruly for me to stay still, and after today’s incident involving the bird, it seemed best to leave the confines of my house.

  I had been sitting in my dining room when something struck the window, the sound of the impact accompanied by a tiny cry. When I went outside to investigate, I found a small green hummingbird lying on the walkway. Its head was folded under its body, and the wings, which normally move so fast one can only see the blur, were now fiapping ineffectually. The little body shuddered as if it were racked with cold. I couldn’t tell whether the bird was seriously injured or just trying to gather itself enough to fiy away. But I felt like I was intruding on a private struggle, so I returned inside and began to brew some tea. I could not get the sound of the impact out of my mind, however, nor the sight of the struggling bird. So after another few minutes, I ventured back outside and found that the hummingbird was still.

  I felt responsible, as if I could have saved it. After my initial jolt of surprise, I moved closer to get a better look. The bird had settled on its side with its neck at a strange angle, and there was a small pool of clear liquid beneath its head. I stared at the lifeless body for a few more minutes, and then I took a shovel out of the garage, dug a shallow pit beneath the bushes on the side of the town house, and used the blade to push the bird inside. I replaced the dirt and packed it down, and then, because the procedure seemed incomplete, took a small fiat stone and lodged it upright at the head of the grave. It was childish, I knew, but the burial felt necessary, and afterwards I went inside and drank some tea to calm my shaking hands. I couldn’t concentrate on my book anymore, nor could I suppress the feeling that the bird had represented some kind of omen, and so I left the house and came to the split log bench on top of Runyan Canyon.

  It is silly, of course, to attach such significance to a single dead hummingbird. Yet with everything else that has occurred this week, I could not help but see this incident in relation to those other events, and to invest it with more than the appropriate level of sadness. The week had started uneventfully—I made my usual phone calls regarding my properties and took my regular morning walks. It all began to unravel when Mrs. Bradford came to get me, to pursue this mad idea she’d concocted.

  For the last month or so, Mrs. Bradford has been telling me that there’s something that she wished for us to do. She wouldn’t tell me what it was, and I, being a man who has never been fond of surprises, repeatedly declined. Then, over breakfast last Saturday, after another of my refusals, an expression of real disappointment came over her face. “Please, Mr. Nakayama,” she pleaded. “It won’t take long—and it would tickle me so much.”

  And that is how I found myself, five mornings ago, at an old Craftsman bungalow off of Franklin. Mrs. Bradford had picked me up ten minutes before, and when she pulled into the driveway, I turned to her. “You brought me to someone’s house?”

  She gave me a mysterious smile. “You’ll see.”

  The door was answered by a slight, rather short man about ten years younger than I. He had a pencil-thin mustache and was almost totally bald, except for a patch of hair over each of his ears, as textureless and fiat as fresh paint. “Mr. Nakayama,” he said, “this is quite an honor.” He bowed deeply, hands at his sides, in a manner that was meant to be Japanese.

  “This is Bernard Weisman,” Mrs. Bradford said. “We worked together for years. He’s the head of the research department at the L.A. Public Library.”

  “I�
��m very pleased to meet you,” I said, still baffled as to why we had come.

  Mrs. Bradford smiled and rubbed her hands together, like a little girl anticipating a long-awaited treat. “I recently discovered that Bernard is a huge fan of silent films. When I mentioned your name, he got very excited and insisted that I bring you over to meet him.”

  “I see,” I responded, forcing a smile.

  “Come in, come in,” said Weisman. “I’m being so rude. Please let me take your coat.”

  After he had relieved us of our outer garments, he led us into another room. I stopped as soon as we crossed the threshold. An old reel-to-reel projector had been set up behind the couch; against the wall was a portable screen. There was a film in the projector, and when I turned back around, Mrs. Bradford and her friend were watching me expectantly.

  “I see you have a film there,” I said.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Weisman. “A silent film.”

  I took a breath. “Oh, really? Is it one of the classics? I know that some of the old Griffith films are available now, as well as several Chaplins and Keatons.”

  Weisman folded his hands in front of him and looked extremely pleased with himself. “Well, I do own some of the Griffith films, as well as some of Chaplin’s and Keaton’s. But what I have here is something that’s harder to find. It’s one of yours, Mr. Nakayama. The Patron.”

  My heart began to race. I turned away from their eager faces as Mrs. Bradford exclaimed, “You see, I told you he was a fan!”

  “That film,” I said, after I’d recovered my voice, “I didn’t know any copies had survived.”