The Age of Dreaming (21 page)
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?
I
n 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.
In the months after we returned from the war bond tour, we saw each other several times a week. Sometimes at my house but more often at hers, we would spend the evening together. Elizabeth would dismiss her maid for the night and cook dinner for me herself; she made what she said were the “foods of her youth”—Polish sausage and sauerkraut, beef and vegetable goulash, stuffed cabbage, and crusted tuna casserole. I would sit at the kitchen table drinking martinis while she cooked, and at those times, as she stood in front of the stove, hand on her hip and spatula waving in the air while she emphasized some point, I could see beneath the mask of the film star the Midwestern girl she’d once been, the beautiful, bored girl then named Laura Berenski who would have ended up, had she stayed in her small hometown, as a housewife raising babies. I saw that girl too as she sat, delighted, in front of the fire, as if she’d stumbled accidentally into someone else’s house and had been invited, unexpectedly, to stay. But then she’d open a bottle of whiskey—she was drinking more and more—and start to complain about how the studio was treating her or snipe about some rival actress. And then I’d remember who we were, and where we were, and that we could never really escape from our own personas, even when we were alone.
We never went out in public together—we couldn’t have, of course—and when I drove to her house, I took care to park my new Pierce Arrow in the back garage where nobody could see it. In truth, I did not mind these inconveniences. If we were alone, away from our fans, then I had her completely to myself. And in me, as she talked of her past life and her hopes for the future, she had what she wanted anyway: a devoted audience. Each evening we were together I would watch her intently—every move, every gesture, every unconscious smile or frown, every sweeping away of a strand of hair from her face. I would sit taut in my chair, using all the strength I had not to spring up immediately and take her in my arms. For despite our freeness on the train, our relationship—back on dry land—was now undefined. Elizabeth kept a certain distance from me always, even as she drew me in with her stories. On some of those evenings we made love and on others we did not, and it was entirely at her whim. Even when we did make love, however, I still felt like I was striving. Her body she gave to me willingly. But Elizabeth herself was always out of reach.
We saw one another regularly for more than a year. But then in 1919, after Elizabeth made a film with Ashley Tyler, our evenings together became less frequent. Part of this was simply logistical—when one of us was working on location, it was impossible to socialize. Yet a larger part—especially after they made their second film together—was simply that she enjoyed Tyler’s company. In the months after their film
Tea for Two
was released, she began spending as much time with the director as she was with me. He would tell her stories of his childhood and read her Browning and Shakespeare, in a voice that made her understand, she said, the beauty of their language. Once he discovered her love of chocolates, he sent her a box every week—a practice he duplicated with Nora Niles, I learned later, although in her case the treat of choice was licorice. “He’s wonderful company,” Elizabeth told me once when I pressed her on the matter. “And unlike some men,” she said, giving me a significant look, “he’s interested in my mind.”
I would like to say that none of this bothered me, particularly since Elizabeth assured me repeatedly that there was nothing romantic between them. Whether she truly saw Tyler as a mentor and teacher, as she claimed, I cannot really say. Perhaps his stable, caring presence suggested the father figure she never had, and indeed he was trying to help her—going so far, it was said, as to encourage her to get her drinking under control. Perhaps she was grateful that he continued to cast her, even as her star was clearly falling. Whatever the reason or combination of reasons, his own place in her life grew larger as mine diminished.
Several events from this period illustrate how our roles in her life were changing. There was the time, for example, when Elizabeth and I were playing croquet in her sprawling backyard and a delivery man came to her door. He brought a huge bouquet of spring fiowers, a box of chocolates, and a package of books, and if there had been any doubt in my mind who these gifts were from, they vanished when Elizabeth read the card, put her hand to her cheek, and exclaimed, “Oh, Ashley!” She did not share with me the contents of the card, or the titles of the books. But for the rest of our game she smiled to herself, and barely paid attention to me.
Then there was the night in 1920 at the Tiffany Hotel. I was dining with Hanako Minatoya, Steve Hayashi, Kenji Takizawa, and several others who had gathered to discuss the idea of forming a Japanese Actors’ Association. We had met at the elegant Tiffany because our group was less likely to draw a crowd of eager fans there than we would have in Little Tokyo. Despite the beautiful setting, however, our discussion was sober. There was growing concern that the tone of films depicting Japan had taken a turn for the worse, and there appeared to be fewer roles for Japanese actors. Amongst our group, there was no agreement yet on what should be done, or even on the basic premise, and as we sat there beneath the large stained glass windows, we discussed the issue from different angles. Hayashi believed that this change in tone, as well as the most recent pieces of restrictive legislation making their way through the State Assembly, were a temporary response to the emergence of Japan as a significant power after the war. Hanako agreed, but her emphasis differed. “It’s precisely
because
Japan is becoming a power,” she said, “and
because
we immigrants are doing well here, that this backlash will only grow, not diminish.”
I wasn’t yet sure where I stood on this matter. I wanted to side with Hanako—I always wanted to side with Hanako—and I certainly hoped to provide support to my colleagues. But I believed that they were making too much of things, for we were, after all, mere actors. And no matter what the Hearst papers or other agitators said, the world of film was distinct from the world of politics. While it was true that some actors had found the conditions so unfavorable that they were starting to return to Japan, it was also true that Hanako and I still appeared in significant roles, and
that
was a better measure of our acceptance, I thought, than any vague notions of disfavor.
Takizawa was asserting that an Actors’ Association was critical, and that I, as the best-known face, should be the head of it. I was about to argue that lending my name to the cause was sufficient involvement when all eyes at my table turned to the dining room entrance. Standing there in coat and tails was Ashley Bennett Tyler. And holding his arm, in an evening gown and fur, was none other than Elizabeth Banks. Tyler scanned the room as he waited for the maître d’, and his eyes quickly settled on me. He smiled widely—there was no evidence of awkwardness or guilt—and began to steer Elizabeth across the thick carpet toward our table. When she saw me, she gave a wide artificial smile and then appeared to pull back on Tyler’s arm. The light from the crystal chandeliers reflected brightly off of something in her dress, and I felt it sear through me like a heated spear. I could tell by the way my dinner companions hushed and exchanged glances that they were all well aware of my association with her.
“Hello, old chap!” said Tyler cheerfully as they reached our table. “Fancy meeting you at a dive like this.”
“Mr. Tyler,” I said, rising and shaking his hand. Then, looking at his companion, who avoided my gaze, “Miss Banks.”
Tyler looked around the table and spotted Hanako. “Ah, the lovely Miss Minatoya! It is such a pleasure to finally meet you. I have seen at least a dozen of your films, and you can count me among your many admirers.” He bowed, the light glistening off his hair.
“It is a pleasure to meet you as well, Mr. Tyler,” Hanako replied. “I have heard nothing but the most favorable things about you.” And as she lifted her face, I saw, to my amazement, that Hanako Minatoya was blushing.
Tyler worked his way around the table, introducing himself to each person. I watched him as he talked. Even as he bowed and shook everyone’s hand, it was they who appeared to be humbled. Unlike so many Americans in Hollywood and elsewhere, he seemed totally comfortable with a group of Japanese. His performance drew the attention of the tables around us, but he did not appear to notice. It concluded when he had finished circling the table and arrived back to his starting point, where he said, “And may I present Miss Elizabeth Banks.”
Elizabeth nodded and said hello politely, but she did not—unlike her escort—circle the table. She appeared to be quite ill at ease, but that may simply have been a reaction to me. For after my initial greeting, I did not speak another word to her. I felt anger curdle in my stomach— anger at her for spending less time with me; anger at her willingness to appear in public with Tyler. I glanced at her a few times and saw the troubled, caught look on her face, but otherwise I did not make eye contact. Indeed, I turned my back to her completely as she and Tyler left to be seated.
After they were gone, there was a general buzz at my table, which only increased when our waiter brought over two bottles of wine, courtesy of the British director. “That Tyler!” my companions said, over and over. “How impressive he is! What a gentleman!”
The last of the events involving Tyler and Elizabeth was my Independence Day party of the following summer. This was one of the final parties I ever threw at my mansion. For the first few years after I purchased it, I would have large gatherings perhaps twice a year, which coincided with some particularly large film release or a prestigious awards event. Then, in 1920, when Prohibition drove drinking into private homes, I began to host parties more frequently. I’d had the foresight to buy a truckload of whiskey before the Amendment, and that—along with the fact that I had more time on my hands—contributed to my willingness to host elaborate events.
Sometimes I would put on “international” parties, where each room would be decorated with the décor of a different country and a sampling of that country’s cuisine would be served by appropriately attired waitstaff. Sometimes the parties would be masquerade balls, and I recall several memorable costumes from those nights—Buck Snyder as Teddy Roosevelt, Tuggy Figgins as Napoleon, the contract actor John Vail as the rumpled, balding Gerard Normandy, and the Russian actress Svetlana Rambova as Queen of the Jungle, with elaborate furs draped over her shoulders and twin pet lions in tow. There were nights, too, when we would shut all the lights off and play the game
Murder
, fumbling with our drinks through the unlit mansion, screaming out loud in fear and delight when a hand fell upon us in the dark. My home, with its great rooms and balconies and gardens, made a perfect place to host large parties. On more than one occasion, when my servants awoke in the morning, they would find guests sprawled out asleep on chaise lounges by the pool, ties loosened, hair unpinned, shoes—and sometimes more intimate articles—strewn across the grass and bushes.
The Independence Day party of 1921 was a markedly smaller affair, both because of logistics—I’d had to reserve half of the yard for the staging of fireworks—and because by this time, for reasons beyond my understanding, my events were no longer as popular as they’d been just a year or two before. I’d invited only about fifty of my closest friends and colleagues, and we began at 7:00, with the idea that the guests would eat and converse until it was dark enough for the fireworks. The whole party took place outside, where white-coated cooks labored over open grills, and a bar was set up on either side of the yard. Because it was still light out, many of the guests—even those who had been there before—took a tour of my garden. It was sectioned off into different areas for roses, cacti and succulents, and colorful annuals; the Japanese garden, which I had installed upon moving in, had long since been taken over by perennials.
It was a little after 7, and I was talking with the actress Evelyn Marsh—my costar in
The Patron
—when Nora Minton Niles arrived. I had invited her, as I always did, but was pleasantly surprised that she’d actually come. Her date for the evening was the young British actor Russell Riner Jones, the black-haired and handsome but somewhat dim male lead of her most recent film,
Liberty at Pine Hill
. He was a sweet young man, and harmless, and he watched Nora with sad, soulful eyes—but perhaps precisely because of his devotion, Harriet Cole despised him. Nora must have come up with a tremendous story to escape from her house for the evening. She looked quite happy on Russell’s arm, and I was pleased—with a burst of almost fatherly affection—to see her at my party.