The Age of Dreaming (27 page)

Despite my misgivings, I started to see that the day’s events had changed Mrs. Bradford’s view of me. She was different with me now, shyer, on our drive back to my town house. When we arrived, she peered at me and said with unusual gravity, “Thank you, Mr. Nakayama. That was not only a real pleasure, but also a privilege.”

“It was nothing,” I replied, and then I got out of the car.

As I left Mrs. Bradford and retreated to my home, I began to feel—to my own surprise—a sense of reassurance. For my deepest concern—that my acting would not live up to my memory of it—had been comfortably put to rest. Certainly I will have adjustments to make for this new era, speaking for the camera being one of them. But I feel more confident now about the prospect of being the anchor for Bellinger’s film, and I believe I can acquit myself quite well. Indeed, as I think about the contemporary reception to
The Patron
—which was a significant hit for Perennial in 1919—I can admit to myself how much I enjoyed being in the limelight. I have missed taking part in a vibrant social scene, and I have also missed the work of making motion pictures. I am looking forward to returning to the studio, to being surrounded by bright and creative people, more, perhaps, than I have cared to acknowledge.

As I enjoyed my tea that evening, remembering the film, I also found my thoughts returning to the business of acting, all the other things with which I will have to acquaint myself. Perhaps I should seek an agent, which is something that none of us had in the silent era. Perhaps I should think about securing a publicist, to handle the inevitable rush of media attention. Perhaps I should arrange to get an unlisted telephone number, to make me less accessible to the enthusiastic fans who will surely attempt to call. Some of these complications existed in my time, but the world has grown busier and more demanding since then, and I must ensure that I am well-equipped to handle it.

I was able to enjoy my thoughts of the future for half a day. For that very same evening, David Rosenberg called from the nursing home. “Listen,” he said, “Ben Dreyfus’ grandson came up here today. He wanted to talk about you.”

My stomach dropped. “I see.”

“He’s not exactly the most endearing character. Launched straight into it, and hardly said hello. He wanted to know what you were like, what kind of actor you were, and if you were all right to work with.”

“What did you tell him?”

“What do you think I told him?” David said. I could hear voices rising in the background, but couldn’t tell if they were arguing, laughing, or crying out in pain. “I told him you were the greatest actor of your generation. I told him you were an absolute professional, a real pleasure to work with. I told him that what happened to you, your leaving pictures and then practically dropping out of historical record, is one of the most regrettable things in the history of Hollywood.”

“That was unnecessary.” I was glad he couldn’t see me, for I believe I might have blushed. “I’m humbled by your words, David, and I thank you.”

“Oh, shut up, Nakayama. Humility never became you. Anyway, I know you expected this boy to come around, so this wasn’t a real surprise. But I wanted to tell you that things did take a bothersome turn.”

I waited. Through the phone I heard a wail, but David did not seem to notice.

“He asked why you didn’t make any pictures after 1922, and I told him the same thing you probably told him, that you were offered crappy roles. He didn’t buy it, and kept saying that it had to be something else. That it was too strange that you stopped working so abruptly.”

I tried to control my breathing. “And so what did you say?”

“Nothing, old man. I said nothing. Even if I
were
inclined to speak about that time, I would never do it with a kid like him. He’s too self-involved and immature to understand the complexities—he doesn’t exactly have the sensitivity of his granddad.” He paused. “And that’s my point. Jun, he’s real interested, and he’s convinced he’s going to dig something up. I don’t know whether he wants to discredit you or find something he can use to help market you. But he’s not going to drop this, and I think you need to be prepared. He even mentioned that it was notable that your career came to an end around the time of the Tyler murder.”

I said nothing, but gripped the phone so hard my knuckles turned white.

“He’s on to something, Jun, and this is not the kind of kid who takes no for an answer. He has access to everyone and everything, including all the records at Perennial … Did you manage to find Owen Hopkins and Nora Niles?”

“I did have the opportunity to speak with Hopkins,” I said. “I have not yet spoken to Nora.”

“Well, it’s time to try harder, Jun. You want to get to her before he does.” He paused again. “Is there anyone else we’re forgetting?”

I shook my head miserably. “I don’t know.”

“What about Hanako Minatoya?”

I started at the name. “I have no idea what became of Miss Minatoya.”

“Did she know about what happened?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You’re not sure?”

“It’s difficult to explain. We didn’t speak of such things explicitly. But she always seemed to know more than I told her.”

For a moment neither one of us spoke. Then Rosenberg said, “When was the last time you talked to her?”

“It’s been years. Probably more than a decade.”

“The last I heard she was living in Pacific Palisades, running acting classes.”

“Yes, that’s right. She always did love the ocean.” I remembered our days out at Moran’s studio in the Palisades, the walks we took together through the hills.

“You should go find her, Jun. Just to cover all the bases.”

“I will.”

“She was something, that woman. A real class act. So quiet and beautiful, but tough as nails.” He paused. “You know, I never understood why you didn’t marry
her
.”

I gave a light laugh. “Oh, we were far too much alike. We would have driven each other mad.”

“I’m pretty sure she would have been willing. It’s really kind of a shame. I think you were scared, Jun. She was the only one of those women who was honestly your equal.”

I laughed. “What makes you so sure she would have had me?”

“Oh, she would have. I knew. I think that you knew, too. Hell, Jun, everybody knew.”

I did not wish to continue on the subject of Hanako, so I asked, “Do you know where I might locate Nora Niles?”

“Yes, I do.” Then David told me that Nora Niles lived in Brentwood, and that his associate at Perennial could furnish the exact address. “Be strong, Jun,” he said. “Remember, it was a long time ago. Even if the truth outs, it’ll be all right.”

But I didn’t believe him—either in 1922 when he first gave me this assurance, or in 1964 when he repeated it. I don’t presume that, if I had been more forthright, I would have had a longer career—but I might at least have had the opportunity. The course of my time in film—and of others’ time as well—might well have been very different. I wish I could say, as people do, that I didn’t recognize the pivotal moments of my life as they were happening. Because I did. I knew precisely. I knew precisely and was powerless to stop them. It was as if I were watching something terrible unfold from behind a glass window and could not get through to intervene. My whole life changed in a few brief moments, and I knew it. I just didn’t know how dramatically, how finally.

Despite my attempts to steer David away from the topic of Hanako, our conversation brought back a fiood of recollections. For he was right—she’d been my equal, and in fact my superior, and working with her had been one of my greatest pleasures. I was an ardent fan before I ever met her, and remained so for the rest of her career. I admired not only the finished product of her art, but also her bearing, the way she conducted herself. Hanako, unlike so many other Hollywood actresses, was never impetuous or prone to high drama. She was the consummate professional, not given to piques of rash behavior, and she had a stabilizing effect on every cast and crew she worked with.

That said, however, I do recall one or two instances when she acted out of character. They were odd little incidents, and perhaps I don’t usually include them in my memories of Hanako because they seemed like such minor aberrations. Nonetheless, upon further reflection, I must admit that there were in fact one or two times when Hanako acted in a manner that could be thought of as impulsive.

There was, for example, the incident during the filming of my second picture,
Jamestown Junction
. We had reached the point in the film where Hanako’s character, Mrs. Lee, a cook for a Chinese work crew, encounters a fallen prospector who’d upended her pot of beef stew earlier in the picture. Moran directed her to kick dirt on the injured man, but Hanako protested strongly. Moran looked at her in surprise—no one ever questioned his decisions—but Hanako stood firm.

“A woman of substance would never do that,” she argued. “She would never stoop to the level of that common thug. She would do the proper thing—she would stop and assist him, even the very man who insulted her.”

Moran stared at her. Finally, though, he shrugged his shoulders and agreed to do it her way. I was shocked by her behavior, but quickly forgot it. Moran had acquiesced, resolving the disagreement, but now I wonder what would have happened if he hadn’t. Hanako had revealed a strength of will I hadn’t known she possessed, and I am not sure she would have relented.

That, however, was a minor event. There was another incident, several years later, where Hanako behaved in a manner I actually found rather alarming. This was in the fall of 1921, soon after my lunch with Gerard Normandy. We were shooting
Velvet Sky
, the first film I had done with her in almost eight years, and it was only possible because Moran had loaned her out for a two-picture arrangement with Perennial. It was, of course, a great pleasure to work with Hanako again. I had forgotten how much of a creative challenge she presented, and in the first two weeks of shooting, her presence pushed me to the limits of my abilities.

Then one morning, Hanako did not arrive for our 7:00 a.m. start time. The director, James Greene, paced about on the set, worried about the tight shooting schedule. It was so unlike Hanako not to be on time that I began to grow concerned for her well-being. But then, at 8:00, she arrived on the set and immediately approached the director.

“Good morning!” said Greene, relieved.

Hanako stopped before him. I saw on her face not anger precisely, but a firm control that indicated more than tears or fiushed cheeks how upset she truly was. “I have been hearing some interesting things in the news these last few weeks, Mr. Greene,” she said. “Very interesting things indeed. For example, are you aware that the Native Sons of the Golden West are promoting a constitutional amendment?”

He stared at her as if she were speaking in Japanese. “What are you talking about, Miss Minatoya?”

“They want a constitutional amendment that would bar immigration from Japan and deny American citizenship to all people of the Japanese race, even those born here in America. The idea has been embraced by the Native Sons, the Oriental Exclusion League, and the Los Angeles Anti-Asiatic Association.”

“Miss Minatoya,” he said calmly, “I don’t know what you’re referring to.”

She glanced down, the muscles clenching in her jaw. Then she looked up at him again. “California is being ‘Japanized,’ they say, like the South is being ‘Negroized.’ They’re working to get all the state’s congressmen behind a policy of exclusion. It is quite an interesting proposal, don’t you agree?
And this studio is fully supporting it
!”

No one moved. It was so quiet you could hear people breathing. “Where did you hear about this, Hanako?”

She paused for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice was cold and even. “I read a quote from Leonard Stillman in the
Herald Examiner
, saying how Perennial was standing behind the proposed amendment. More jobs for Californians, that’s what he said. Keep California pure and white.”

“I don’t know anything about this,” Greene insisted. “But I’m sure that whatever Mr. Stillman said, he wasn’t referring to you.”

She smiled, but there was no mirth in her eyes. “It doesn’t surprise me that you would believe that.”

Still nobody moved. Hanako’s eyes scanned the set and then settled on me. “What about you, Mr. Nakayama?” she demanded. “Do you have an opinion on this matter?”

I did not know what she was asking, or what she wanted from me. She should have known that I did not follow politics at all, and thus never grew impassioned, as she clearly had, about the developments of the day. In addition, I agreed with James Greene—this matter had nothing to do with people like us. I stood there silently, and Hanako turned away. I could not understand why she was acting in this manner, nor why she said what she did next: “I regret that I will not be able to continue my work here.”

Now Greene looked very worried. “What?”

“My work here has now concluded, Mr. Greene. You will have to find someone else.”

“Look here,” said the director, stepping closer to her, “you’re overreacting, don’t you think? You’ve got to get back on track here. I mean, we’ve got a picture to finish.”

“I regret that is none of my concern.”

“May I remind you, Hanako,” he said, trying another tack, “that you are under contract?”

Now Hanako looked him straight in the face, and he actually took a step back. “It is unfortunate that the
rest
of your countrymen do not share your same sense of propriety.”

And with that, she simply walked off the set. We all assumed that she would come to her senses and return later in the day, or perhaps the next morning, but she did not. She departed, she quit in the middle of a project, with a rashness that was most unexpected. Gerard Normandy was furious, and although he and Greene found a replacement—a young Chinese actress—she was nowhere near as talented as Hanako, and so the quality of the film suffered greatly. Normandy cancelled Hanako’s contract and swore that she’d never work for Perennial again. And she didn’t, or, over the next twenty years, for any other studio either, for it was shortly after this incident that she returned full-time to working with her theater company.