The Age of Dreaming

by Nina Revoyr

  “May I look around the lobby?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Suit yourself. The old dining room’s closed, though. They’re using it for storage.”

  I looked beyond him to the old wooden check-in counter, which remainted intact, but seemed out of place now in those dingy surroundings. The space above it was covered with plywood. “What happened to the stained glass?” I asked, remembering the beautiful thirty-foot windows that filtered in the afternoon light.

  “They covered ’em up. The bums outside were throwing rocks through ’em.”

  While I stood there staring at the old check-in area, the man in the ski jacket said more loudly, “Hey, can I ask you something?”

  The guard sighed impatiently. “Pete, shut the hell up! Can’t you see we’ve got a visitor here?”

  I turned toward the entrance to the bar. The heavy wooden door had been replaced by a glass door that had several cracks running the length of it. Inside were decorations from the dining room—tablecloths, paintings, broken chandeliers. I could not bear to look around me anymore, so I turned back to face the guard.

  “What is this place?”

  He looked over at the people on the couches and then up at me. “It’s a crash pad for people who got problems up here,” he said, tapping his forehead. “I guess you could say it’s one step up from a flophouse.”

  “This used to be—”

  “Some kind of fancy hotel. I know, can you believe it?”

  I thanked the guard and walked back outside and across the street to my car. I did not feel entirely safe— disheveled men lingered in doorways, and a younger woman in gaudy clothing and too much makeup looked me up and down before continuing down the street. By the time I got back into the driver’s seat, I was shaking all over. I could not reconcile the squalid hotel I’d just seen with the place I had frequented as a young man. I could not understand what the years had done—to the Tiffany Hotel, and to all of us.

  After a moment, I gathered myself and drove the four blocks west to the Biltmore. That hotel, thankfully, still had a restaurant and bar, and the patrons—while not as glamorous as the patrons of old—were still a respectable sort. I had several glasses of Scotch, and stayed in the bar all evening. For the first time, I felt truly old. And perhaps with all the talk of Thanksgiving approaching, I felt more melancholy than usual; I knew that this year, like every year, I would spend the holidays alone. I must have had more to drink than I realized, for when I got back in my car, I hit a curb turning the corner. Then, in need of something cheerful, I had the urge to drive over to the old DeLuxe Theater, where in my altered state of mind I half-believed that one of the old vaudeville troupes might be performing. I hit another curb or two as I made my way through downtown, and when I reached the old theater, I found that it had been abandoned. I got out of my car for a closer look, and when I returned, I discovered that my tire was fiat. For a moment I panicked; I’d never changed my own tire. Then I thought of Mrs. Bradford.

  She was kind enough to drive me home without asking any questions, accepting my explanation that I’d had a difficult day. She went so far as to accompany me into the house, which would have caused me discomfort under normal circumstances but seemed perfectly natural now. After seeing me to my armchair and asking where the cups were, she brewed me a pot of strong coffee. Then, as I drank it, she called the automobile club and arranged for someone to retrieve my car in the morning. After that had been settled and she was sure I was all right, she sat down on the couch across from me. I noticed, even in my altered state, the graceful lines of her jaw and neck, more apparent because her hair was tied back. She looked, at once, quite younger than usual, and also—given the hour—rather tired.

  “I’m starting to worry about you,” she said.

  I waved her away. “I’m fine, Mrs. Bradford. I’m fine.”

  “I’m not so sure about that. I tried to find something for you to eat with your coffee, and your refrigerator’s totally empty. There’s nothing in there but iced tea and some Japanese pickles.” She leaned forward, an expression of concern on her face. “Mr. Nakayama, you need someone to look after you.”

  I assured her again that I was fine and that all I needed was sleep, and so, after one last disapproving shake of the head, Mrs. Bradford took her leave.

  But I haven’t been able to fall asleep, and I’m not sure that sleep will come to me tonight. My mind keeps working like an engine that is idling too high. I can’t keep myself from going over what happened today at Perennial, when I went to do the screen test for Bellinger’s movie. I cannot stop reliving the troubling details—of the screen test itself, and of my meeting with Josh Dreyfus that followed it.

  Dreyfus had instructed me to come at 3 o’clock, my first indication that the day would not go well. I like to work in the morning, when my mind is sharp and my body still full of energy. But there was nothing to be done, and so at 2:30 p.m. I arrived at the Perennial gate. Upon gaining entrance to the studio grounds, I was struck first by how familiar everything looked. The main buildings were the same, and the fountain in the courtyard, and the fiower beds along the south wall. But there were significant changes as well. For one thing, the grounds were much larger, taking up several city blocks, perhaps square miles. There were little golf carts everywhere, weaving through the people. Huge billboards dominated the sides and fronts of the buildings, with likenesses of current stars looming fifty feet high. The people, on the whole, seemed more aware of themselves now; even the stagehands and office people had too much makeup and expensive-looking haircuts. As I stood at the steps leading up to the main building, a cluster of about thirty people came moving slowly down the sidewalk, with a young woman bellowing a history.

  “This fountain was a gift from Gregory Coleman, the oil man. It was placed here in 1918 after one of the producers at the time, Gerard Normandy, gave Coleman’s mistress a part in a movie.”

  I wanted to shout a protest to this false information. Bessie Calloway, Coleman’s lover, had indeed starred in several films, but she only met Coleman—a close friend of Normandy’s—after the oil man had already given him the fountain. More fundamentally—and this was the stronger reaction—I could not believe that this woman was leading a tour; that more than two dozen members of the fawning public had been allowed to enter the studio. In my day, we would not have dreamed of opening the studio up that way—it was a place of serious work, and was not meant for public display.

  A few minutes before the appointed time, I made my way into the central building and asked for Dreyfus. The woman at the receiving desk directed me back outside and told me to look for Stage 4. I had never been to this part of the studio before, but her directions were accurate, and in a moment I arrived at the proper doorway.

  “Ah, Nakayama,” said Dreyfus as he opened the door. “Come in, come in.”

  He led me over to the stage, where a half-dozen people milled about. A camera was set up to face it, although the cameraman was busy reading a newspaper. Offstage to the right was a haphazard collection of props—a stuffed cow head, nineteenth century rifles, and dark green monster suits. Dreyfus introduced me to the other people—a man of about forty whom I recognized as the director Steven Goodman; a younger man named Tony, who was the assistant casting director; Kenneth Gregory, an older gentleman who would be the producer; and a girl named Star, who appeared to be someone’s assistant. Also present was an actress I recognized as having played supporting parts in several films, a lovely young woman in her late twenties whom Dreyfus introduced as Beth Michaels. I felt overdressed. After much consideration, I had settled on a tan suit, yellow vest, and navy-blue tie, but the other men wore casual slacks and short-sleeve shirts, with the exception of Dreyfus, who at least had on a jacket. Tony did not even have proper shoes; his large feet spilled out over a pair of leather sandals.

  “Where’s Bellinger?” I asked.

  “Ah, Nick,” said Dreyfus. “Well, Nick isn’t here. I know he wanted to be, but I find that i
t’s a mistake to involve the writer at this stage. He often has too strong of an opinion about who should play what, and can’t get past his own ideas.”

  I was not pleased, and wondered why Bellinger hadn’t warned me of his absence. But there was no time to worry about it, because then Dreyfus clapped his hands and walked to the front of the room.

  “We’re going to do two scenes,” he said. “Jun, Beth here is going to play Diane Marbur y. The first scene is the one where Takano’s working in his garden, and Diane comes up and introduces herself. The second scene is where Diane and two of the townsmen confront Takano about his role in the war. Star here has the scenes copied out for you to use. I take it you already have them memorized?”

  I nodded; of course I did. I had, in fact, committed all of Takano’s lines to memory; I had already begun to think of them as my lines.

  “All right then,” said Dreyfus, “why don’t you two assume your spots?”

  I did not quite know how to position myself, but when I saw Miss Michaels go to one corner of the stage, I moved toward the other. I looked back at Dreyfus and his colleagues, who observed me like a jury. “Just relax,” said the director, Goodman. “I know it’s been awhile. But the screen test process hasn’t changed, Jun. It’s much the same as it was in your time.”

  I nodded, but didn’t say what I had just then realized— that I’d never before had a screen test, or indeed an audition of any kind. Moran discovered me at the Little Tokyo Theater, and after that, all the parts had simply been offered. Nonetheless, I attempted to carry myself as if I had been through this process many times before.

  I stood there awkwardly until Goodman called out, “Action!”

  Beth Michaels walked toward me, and then she began: “Hello? Excuse me, sir. Are you the new owner of this house? I wanted to introduce myself—my name is Diane Marbury.”

  I stepped forward to face Miss Michaels and was met with a radiant smile and an outstretched hand. This was all in character, but the warmth of her eyes, the encouragement, seemed genuine. “Hello,” I said too loudly. “I am Takano. Yes, I have just moved into this house. And you are my neighbor, with the husband and son.”

  Once we started, everything changed. For after a few moments of initial discomfort, I remembered what it was like to inhabit a character; to become a being that, until that moment, had existed only on paper, and make him real for the rest of the world. As Miss Michaels and I settled into that first critical scene, I felt the last forty years fall away. Yes, I was doing something different than before—I was using my voice, speaking someone else’s thoughts—but the process of becoming a character was exactly the same. Miss Michaels and I had a natural rapport, and we played the parts well, knowing exactly how to look at each other and how to use the space between us. When we reached the end of the scene, she smiled at me brightly, and I was filled with a surge of exhilaration I hadn’t known in decades.

  But when I looked over at the studio people, they were stone-faced. I must admit that at that moment I felt rather deflated, since I thought we had done so well. Then the casting director, Tony, shook his head.

  “I wanted to rib by za rake,” he said. “This pu-race is berry du-rye. Live by the lake,” he said. “Very dry. We’ve got to do something about that accent.”

  I did not know how to respond to this, but it was clear he wasn’t talking to me. “Yeah, it’s pretty pronounced,” said Mr. Gregory, the producer. “Much worse than I expected.”

  “Well, you know, he was in all those silents,” said Tony. “Back then, it didn’t matter what they sounded like.”

  Goodman, the director, glanced up from his notes. “Well, it’s not that big a deal to just loop the voice,” he said. “But the other problem is that he’s so uptight. That whole containment thing might have worked back in the ’20s, but for this part we need some pizzazz.”

  With that, they looked up at Miss Michaels and myself, as if they’d just remembered we had functioning ears. Star gave us each a glass of water, Tony played with his hair, and Dreyfus said, “Let’s try the second scene.”

  “I have a question,” I interjected, and I was suddenly more conscious of the sound of my voice. Was it heavily accented? I hadn’t thought so before. Now I would have to be more careful when I spoke. “This scene, with the townspeople. Do you think Takano is primarily angry or frightened?” Dreyfus shrugged. “I don’t know. You’re the Japanese man. What would you be?”

  “It is not a matter of his being Japanese—and anyway, he’s Japanese-American. It is a matter of this individual man and his particular character. I myself would be angry, but in truth probably frightened as well. After all, he’s a man under unjust suspicion of being a war criminal.”

  Gregory shot Dreyfus a glance, then looked away.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  Dreyfus sighed. “Well, see, that’s the thing, Nakayama. We’ve rewritten the story a bit. Ken, Steve, and I all think that it would be more interesting if Takano actually was a war criminal. If he was one of the men who led a death march, or something like that. Just think about what it would be like for these poor townspeople to have a monster like that living amongst them.”

  It took me a moment to find my voice. “But that would defeat the whole point of the film. The point is that people project their fears on this man unfairly, and that’s dependent on the premise—the unshakable premise—that this man is not the villain they imagine.”

  Dreyfus gave Gregory the kind of look that two adults exchange over the head of an impudent child. Then he turned back to me. “Listen. All that psychological stuff is interesting on paper. But the fact is, a war criminal with a secret past is a lot more compelling than a man who has nothing to hide.”

  “But that is not the film that Bellinger wrote.”

  “Bellinger sold his script to the studio. It’s not his anymore.” Dreyfus said this coldly, though when he spoke again his voice was much softer. “Look, Nakayama. I can see it’s no use doing this other scene right now. Let’s go up to my office and talk. I can tell you where we’re thinking about going with this movie, and why. Everyone else, just take a break. We’ll be back in half an hour.”

  I was sure he was taking me away to tell me I would not get the part. But I had concerns that went beyond my own possible involvement, for I was disturbed by the film as he envisioned it. What he was proposing was the kind of villainous role I used to play fifty years ago. I would have hoped there’d been some progress since then.

  With a genuine bow to Miss Michaels, and a nod to the others, I followed Dreyfus toward the door. Instead of going to his office directly, however, we headed outside to a different building, where Dreyfus carefully opened a door marked Stage 3 and indicated that I should follow him in. He took us to the edge of a set. Several actors, who all looked vaguely familiar, were seated around a table, in what appeared to be a holiday dinner scene. We stood watching for a few minutes, Dreyfus gesturing for me to move closer. And what was noticeable about the set—the first working set I’d visited in decades—was how quiet everything was. The director would give directions, but after he yelled “action,” nobody spoke but the actors. There was no coaxing director, no cameraman wrestling with his equipment, no noise from the adjoining set, no live music. It was just the voices of the actors, everyone else working quietly so their sounds would not be captured by the microphone. Watching this, I thought of the irony—silent films had never been silent. Quiet sets like this one had never existed until the advent of sound.

  After a few minutes, Dreyfus led us out again, speaking as soon as the door was shut behind us. “That’s a little family picture due out next Thanksgiving. I just wanted to show you a modern-day set.” With that, we went back into the first building, up some stairs, and into his grand-father’s office.

  I had not been in this office for forty-two years, and the sight in front of me—much like the rest of the studio that day—was both different and familiar. Where Benjamin’s office had been chee
rfully untidy, papers falling off desks and scripts piled high, his grandson’s was perfectly neat. There was not a loose scrap of paper anywhere, not a thing out of place. Benjamin’s office had been a place of excitement and activity. Josh’s office lacked that comfort, that casual reality; it was as if the space existed merely for show, and no actual work was conducted there.

  He waved me to one of the chairs that faced his desk, then lit a cigarette and sat down. I glanced at the pictures on the walls—there was one of him with Frank Sinatra, another with Susan Hayward, and a shot of him, leering, with Sophia Loren.

  “You have worked with some true stars,” I ventured, not knowing what else to say.

  “Yes, I’ve been lucky.” His voice, however, suggested nothing of the sort, and I realized that he truly believed his enviable position had come about through his own work and skill. He took a long drag on his cigarette, blew out a mouthful of smoke, and leaned forward. “Listen, Nakayama. I’m sorry about all that down there. It wasn’t fair of me to put you through that when I already knew what the result was going to be.”

  I cupped my hands over my knees and looked at him. He scratched the back of his neck and continued.

  “I think you know that I’ve been asking around about you. I did check out a couple of your old films, and Nick was right, you were great. But success in those old movies doesn’t mean that someone can hold their own in the movies of today, you know what I mean? So I wanted to get a better sense of who you were and what you were like to work with. And I ended up uncovering a lot of other stuff too.”

  My heart began to race, but I didn’t speak. Dreyfus took another drag of his cigarette.

  “When Nick reminded me of the Tyler murder, I realized I had heard your name before—my grandfather mentioned it when I was a kid, and I knew there was some connection. But I didn’t know that you’d actually worked with Tyler or that you knew the actresses involved with the murder case. When I found that out, I figured it might be worth my while to look into things a little more deeply.” He tapped his ashes into an ashtray on his desk. “Then I started hearing all these theories about the murder— Elizabeth Banks’ drug dealer, Nora Niles’ mother, maybe even Nora herself. I asked the archive guys to dig up everything they could on the case, and they came back with a lot, mostly from my granddad’s old papers.” He took another drag and blew out a mouthful of smoke. “Apparently, Elizabeth Banks was on the outs when Tyler was killed, and Nora Niles wasn’t the surefire box office draw that everyone had expected, not to mention that her mother was a pain in the ass—so no one was going to stand and catch them when they started to fall. But there’s much more to the story than that.”