The Age of Dreaming (23 page)

“Hello there, handsome,” he said. “Quite a party, isn’t it?”

We were standing in front of one of my many guest rooms. Sometimes when parties lasted late into the night, guests slept in this room to avoid returning home to angry spouses; sometimes two of them would stay here together. People had developed an understanding about this room over the years, and they knew that they did not have to ask my permission; that I’d know someone was taking advantage of this open invitation if the door to the bedroom was closed. It was closed now. And I could not understand why Vail was waiting outside, but I didn’t have time to inquire. “I’m not sure you want to do that,” he said as I placed my hand on the doorknob. But I pushed past him and opened the door and fiipped on the switch, bathing the room in light.

Tyler and Elizabeth were standing at the foot of the bed, locked in an awkward embrace. Tyler’s hair had been tousled, his cheeks were fiushed, and his shirttails were hanging, untucked. And Elizabeth—she didn’t seem to realize or care that someone had turned on the light. Even as I stepped into the room with Vail right behind me, she continued doing what she was doing, which was trying to undress Tyler, one hand moving feverishly under his shirt and the other trying to open his belt buckle. She pressed against him and lifted her lips to his face, and he attempted to draw away.

“Elizabeth, Elizabeth, you must pull yourself together.” Then, looking over at us, “Elizabeth, somebody’s here.”

She did not seem to register this statement at first, for she continued to push against him. Then she turned, saw us standing there, and started to cry. She lowered her head now and began striking Tyler’s chest, and I could not look upon them anymore. I felt as if my gut had been ripped open. I did not know whether I was more upset with Tyler or Elizabeth; I just knew I had to get out of that room, to try and erase that image from my mind. All Elizabeth’s claims to the contrary were irrelevant now, and I did not wish to speak to her. It didn’t matter what denials or pleading would come. I had seen what I had seen.

But perhaps I had not really seen what I had seen; perhaps the shock of sight obscures understanding. When I think back to that night with the wisdom of hindsight, I remember things that did not occur to me at the time. Like the fact that Elizabeth was fully clothed, and that Tyler’s voice and words were not consistent with the tone of seduction. Even as Tyler’s arms were circled around her, I later realized, he was not embracing her with the passion of a man embracing a woman, but with the care of someone holding something fragile together and trying to keep it from falling apart. Perhaps I did not fully understand what I had seen, but on the other hand, I understood enough. For whatever Tyler’s intentions toward Elizabeth were, her own true desires were clear.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I
t is impossible to say what might have happened for Elizabeth if the next few months had been different. Although her time as a star might have ended regardless, perhaps she could have taken smaller roles. Or perhaps she could have retired from the screen altogether and moved on, as some did, to a different kind of life full of friends and charity functions, even family. Certainly either of these outcomes would have been more desirable than the one that finally awaited her.

But it is morose to dwell on the end of Elizabeth’s career when there is much to consider now about my own. For despite my discomfort with the young Josh Dreyfus, he turned out to be true to his word, and someone from Perennial called me earlier this week to schedule me for a screen test. After our lunch at Castillo’s, I wasn’t confident that Dreyfus would contact me. But perhaps he had further discussions with Bellinger, or he was able to see some of my films, for the woman on the phone was extremely polite and sounded pleased about my imminent return.

I am not ashamed to admit that I feel quite nervous, which is not surprising given the nature of this opportunity. I’ve found myself increasingly preoccupied of late with matters that have nothing to do with acting—things like what kind of clothing one wears for a screen test, and how early one should arrive. Less trivial are questions about how I should prepare, for while I am confident of learning my lines—and while I have experience with dialogue from my time in the theater—I have never, of course, spoken in front of a camera. Maybe it would be useful to attend a film or two in the coming days, so I can study how the actors use their voices. If I knew how one went about such things, I might even consider hiring a voice teacher, as did many of my fellow actors from the silent era during the swift transition to sound. I feel—oddly—more uncertain about this screen test than I did about my very first film, or even about the first play I put on at the Little Tokyo Theater. On the other hand, one could say that my
lack
of fear on those occasions was a mark of youthful ignorance, and I am all too aware now of how fortunate I was; of how quickly even the biggest stars can be forgotten.

And yet, despite my hopefulness about this new film, I cannot let go of my recollections of the past. It has been years since I’ve reflected on what happened to Elizabeth, but I’ve found that, particularly since my conversation with Owen Hopkins, my thoughts keep turning to that time. And as I ponder the strange directions in which our lives sometimes take us, as I consider the opportunity that lies ahead of me now, my memories of developments in Elizabeth’s life give way to thoughts of certain moments in my own. For there were several key events in the months after my Independence Day party, events whose importance I tried to minimize at the time. They might not, in themselves, have been significant turning points. But at the very least, they presented themselves like markers on the road, signs that indicate where one might expect to arrive if one continues along the same path. Certainly one of those signs was my lunch with Gerard Normandy in October of 1921.

We met at a restaurant in Hollywood, a new place that had opened in the rapidly expanding western part of town. As I waited for Gerard in the lobby—he was perpetually late— the maître d’ and waiters kept staring in my direction. They must have known who I was, and at first I thought they were debating whether it would be rude to approach for an autograph. But then at one point the discussion actually grew rather heated, until the men—no doubt conscious of their rising voices—looked back over at me and then grew still. I kept my eyes trained straight ahead, but I cannot deny that I was starting to feel uneasy. Usually when people were talking about me, it was with excitement or admiration—but these men seemed discomfited by my presence. So I was relieved when Gerard arrived a few minutes late, suit as rumpled as ever. He shook my hand and gave me a cheerful, “Good to see you, Jun!” Then after a short delay, we were guided to a table.

It was rather an unfavorable seating arrangement, I remember—a small two-person table adjacent to the door where the waitstaff entered and exited the kitchen. It was not the kind of table at which men like Normandy and I were accustomed to being seated. The restaurant did not serve alcohol, this being Prohibition, and unlike some other diners who pulled bottles from under their tables, neither of us had secreted in any wine. But by this point I was so hungry that these inconveniences did not deter me. Gerard, for his part, didn’t seem to notice. Nor did he notice the less than adequate service, which was perfunctory almost to the point of being rude.

We had a satisfactory lunch—I ordered fish and Gerard ate a large, rare steak, which I remember thinking would be good for his general vigor—and had moved on to coffee and apple pie when Gerard wiped his mouth with a napkin and cleared his throat. “Look here, Jun,” he said. “I’d like to talk some business.”

I had been anticipating something of this sort, for my three-year contract was due to expire the following March. It was not unusual for Normandy to broach the subject so early; it behooved both myself and the studio to settle terms for the next contract as quickly as possible. “Ah, yes,” I said, “the unromantic side of our business. I’m disappointed in you, Gerard. When we’ve done this before, it’s always been over port and cigars.”

Normandy grimaced, as if smiling through a toothache. “Jun, we’re friends and you know how much I admire you. I first signed you, after all, took you right away from poor William Moran. But, well, I think we both realize that things have changed these last couple of years.”

“Yes they have. Perennial’s been doing very well. I’ve heard people say it’s now the most powerful studio in Hollywood.” It was true. With hugely successful films like
One Hundred Sins
and
Love Among the Ruins
—and with the rise of stars like Gideon West, Lily Dawson, and Nathaniel Moore—Perennial seemed unstoppable, the nexus of creative and financial power in the motion picture industry.

“Well, who’s really to say as far as those things go? But you’re right, it’s been a good time for the studio.” He paused, picked up his fork, and moved a piece of apple around on the plate. “The thing is, Jun, we haven’t had much luck with
your
pictures lately.”

I had been smiling when Normandy started to speak, and now I took care to preserve my expression. “Perhaps you’re stating things a little too strongly, Gerard. Both
Geronimo
and
The Cat’s Last Laugh
did well.”

“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.