The Age of Dreaming (16 page)
She told me all of this without a trace of self-pity, as if she were speaking of someone else. She’d put a robe on over her nightgown and she wore no makeup, and her face looked softer somehow, more revealing. Her hair was tied up but several strands had come loose; she kept brushing them away distractedly. And although it was she who was talking, it was I who felt exposed, and had she looked up into my face just then she would have read there all my turbulent feelings.
“Maybe that’s why I haven’t had too much luck with men. It’s not like I’ve had much of an example. But
you
,” she said, smiling again, “you sure have a lot of luck with women.”
I laughed—I’m sure a bit too loudly. “You exaggerate, Elizabeth. It’s our friend Buck Snyder who’s having all the luck with the opposite sex.”
“Only because you’re pickier, Jun. I see all the screaming women throwing fiowers and undergarments. And those women in Cleveland who spread their furs on the ground so you wouldn’t have to walk through a puddle! You could have had your pick in any city.”
I did not reply, and certainly didn’t say what I was thinking—that the woman I wanted, “my pick,” as she’d put it—did not appear to have any interest in me.
“This has sure been a better trip for you than for me in that department,” she continued. “After all, no one’s tried to crawl into
my
bed.”
There was something in her voice when she said this, and when I glanced up at her face, I couldn’t tell if what I saw there was amusement or invitation.
“I didn’t know,” I replied casually, feeling out the moment, “that you were seeking company.”
“Oh, Jun,” she said, and now her voice did something else, “that’s only because you haven’t been paying attention.”
I met her eyes, and the message there was unmistakable. A door that had previously been closed had now, unbelievably, opened. As if of their own accord, my hands reached out and pulled her toward me. She moved easily from her seat over to mine. And then her mouth against my mouth, her fingers on my face, the robe and the nightgown falling open.
I could hardly believe it. I could hardly believe that this woman, this goal for so long out of reach, was fiesh and blood, right there beneath my hands. But my nervousness was quickly subsumed by my knowledge of how to live in this moment. For she was, after all, a woman, with a woman’s desires, and as I lifted her and set her back down on her seat, as I bent over her with the strength and assurance of a man accustomed to taking what was offered, I felt her give herself over, felt her loosen and release, her body quivering and open now, for me.
We didn’t spend another night apart for the rest of the trip. This did not escape the attention of David Rosenberg, who rolled his eyes but refrained from comment; or of Buck Snyder, who said to me one day, winking, “Glad you finally pulled that gun from its holster.” If Figgins noticed, he didn’t mention anything, although his manner toward me grew colder. I didn’t care, though, about any of them. Because finally, in those last few days of our trip, I had everything I wanted. Mornings with Elizabeth over coffee and toast. Afternoons of laughter with our amusing companions. And nights, finally the endless nights, whose joy and completeness I could never describe, and of which there could never be enough.
When we arrived in New York, it felt not like the culmination it was intended to be, but rather like a premature coda. Our final rally was spectacular—red carpet and bands, stars of pictures and Broadway, the governor, the mayor, front page coverage in the
New York Times
. Tens of thousands of people all gathered in Times Square, people leaning out of windows and waving from rooftops, the sale of millions of dollars worth of bonds. Even our elusive studio chief, Leonard Stillman, turned out for the occasion, sitting with the politicians on the side of the dais. But after one last grand party and a night at the Plaza, we all went our separate ways—Elizabeth on a train back to Los Angeles, Figgins to his second home in Westchester, Snyder to an apartment where he was staying temporarily while he was in town for his upcoming opening; and myself out to Perennial’s East Coast studio on Long Island, where I was set to begin my next film.
The success of our tour had far surpassed all expectations, and set the stage for the even grander tour the following spring featuring Mary Pickford, Doug Fairbanks, and Charlie Chaplin. Yet ours had been the original, and when it was over, I felt a tremendous sense of loss. Although I enjoyed the culture and nightlife of New York City—which was, along with all of its other attractions, a more hospitable place for Japanese—I could not escape my feeling of sadness. The month I had spent on the war bond tour had been the best month of my life. Even then, in those first few weeks after the tour, I knew I’d experienced something that could never be recreated. Never again would I feel as useful, as much a part of something bigger, as I did aboard that train. Never again, in all my years, would I feel so close to happiness.
I suppose I should take a moment to discuss more fully the state of Hanako’s career. It had been, by 1917, five years since we’d met; five years since we had appeared together in those early films for William Moran. Since then, however, our trajectories had been markedly different. While the relative size of her roles and the significance of her films remained essentially the same, my own films grew bigger and bigger. Part of the difference may have been attributable to her being a woman. The most common parts available to lead actresses at the time were charming comic figures, or plucky heroines, or romantic leading ladies—roles for which Hanako, being Japanese, could of course not be considered. In addition, Hanako seemed reluctant to make strategic decisions that would have advanced her career. Rather than move to one of the large new studios, for example, she re-signed with Moran, whose pictures had been decreasing in both frequency and profit as they competed with Perennial and Goldwyn. Thus, while Hanako continued to receive positive notices, she appeared too infrequently—and in films too insignificant—to remain in the top tier of actresses.
This, however, didn’t seem to trouble her. Although she never expressed regret that her film career had not lived up to its early potential, the irony of our situations was inescapable. For it was she who had first brought me into the pictures. But it was I who was now the star.
Despite her lower profile in Hollywood, Hanako was— and always remained—a much-admired figure amongst our fellow Japanese. She was deeply involved in the world of Little Tokyo; she still appeared in plays at the theater, and she often organized productions starring Japanese high school students. She frequently dined in Little Tokyo establishments, and at least once a month she’d make a visit to the orphanage, where young discarded children of full or partial Japanese lineage would gather around her to accept the toys and books she brought them. Reviews of Hanako’s plays often traveled to Japan, and all of her films were shown there. She was loved by the people of Japan, recent immigrants to America, and the second generation alike.
I, on the other hand, had become more removed from this world. There were practical matters that made it difficult for me to visit Little Tokyo. For one thing, it would have been impossible to move through the streets unharassed. As much as people had pointed and stared when I’d first begun appearing in the theater, my fame had increased a hundred-fold since then—it was, to be frank, of a different scale than Hanako’s—and any unscripted appearance now would have caused a near riot. For another, Little Tokyo—which was essentially a stopping point full of boarding houses, bars, gambling establishments, and small family-owned restaurants—had few venues appropriate for the kinds of dinners and events that now occupied so many of my evenings. On social occasions and even for business dinners, I preferred the Los Angeles Athletic Club or the Tiffany Hotel. Only in very rare circumstances did I dine at Little Tokyo establishments.
This is not to suggest—as some unfairly implied at the time—that I avoided the company of other Japanese. And while it is true that I have not been to Little Tokyo for many years now, this has mostly to do with matters of convenience. Being so far removed from the Westside, it is rather out of my way; moreover, I hear that the area has changed substantially. Many of the old houses and shops have apparently been torn down in favor of apartments, and I doubt that any of my former acquaintances remain. My absence from Little Tokyo for all of these years is solely for these practical reasons, and any suggestion that it is due to a lack of gratitude—or even, as some have whispered, to shame—is utterly ridiculous.
Contrary to common belief, I appeared in Little Tokyo frequently during the height of my career. Most years, I visited the Buddhist temple in conjunction with the summer O-bon Festival. And when important visitors were in town from Japan, I was often invited to functions in their honor. Many of them—I am thinking now of the young Crown Prince, as well as the opera star Yukari Irabu— specifically requested my presence. Most of these events were unexciting but pleasant—delicious food interspersed with conversation about life in Japan and America, preceded by much picture-taking and autograph-signing. But occasionally they grew rather tiresome, and sometimes people would regrettably embark upon topics inappropriate for social occasions.
I remember one such event in September of 1917, a dinner in the honor of Dr. Ishii, the Japanese foreign minister. Dr. Ishii had sailed from Tokyo to San Francisco and then taken a train to Los Angeles, where he would spend two days before boarding a cross-country train to Washington, D.C. The dinner took place in the beautiful home of Ichiro Matsui, the president of the Japanese Association. Mr. Matsui and his wife were, as everyone knows, among the most prominent members of the community. He had been one of the original backers of the Little Tokyo Theater, which is how we came to know one another; now he ran a successful fioral distributing company, which helped finance his civic activities. The Matsuis’ home was a large Craftsman bungalow not far from my own first house in Pico Heights, tastefully decorated with a blend of Japanese and American furnishings. The guests were ushered at first into a large drawing room, where we were served cocktails by a young kimono-clad woman who giggled when she handed me my drink.
It was a midsized gathering of perhaps twenty-five people, intimate and rather unremarkable. Dr. Ishii, a tall and fit-looking man whose hair was just starting to gray, spoke to the small group of people gathered around him with the air of someone who is accustomed to being heard. He had the self-assurance of a man whose privileged background and careful schooling have instilled in him an utter belief in his own importance. Something about him—perhaps his similarity to some of the prominent guests who’d stayed at the Ishimotos’ inn in Karuizawa when I was a boy— made me feel immediately on guard. His wife, a handsome woman in her middle fifties who was almost as tall as her husband, looked equally aristocratic, but the laugh lines around her eyes and a softness at her mouth suggested a warmth that seemed lacking in her husband.
In contrast to the Ishiis, the Matsuis were more inviting, moving from person to person to ensure that everyone was comfortable. Mr. Matsui—a short, rotund man whose fiushed cheeks and ready smile always reminded me of a wooden Buddha—had successfully expanded the influence of the Japanese Association, which worked to increase the standing of the Japanese population in the eyes of city leaders. The Association had led the effort to boycott gambling houses in Little Tokyo, and was now engaged in attempts to Americanize recent immigrants by offering English classes and encouraging people to get driver’s licenses. Mrs. Matsui, who was equally as round and cheerful as her husband, did her part as well; she’d organized a cooking class to teach recently arrived Japanese wives how to prepare Western meals for their husbands.
There were others in attendance that evening—the head of the Japanese Business Alliance, two more members of the Japanese Association, the pastors of two churches, the head of a Buddhist temple, and a local painter named Kato who was beginning to make a name for himself, along with his lovely fiancée, Miss Kuramoto. The Matsuis’ son Daisuke was there as well, a handsome lad of perhaps eighteen, who had his parents’ happy demeanor but not their rotundness, and who stared at me unabashedly all evening. Hanako Minatoya had not been able to attend, as she was appearing in a play in San Francisco.
After a pleasant prelude of perhaps thirty minutes, during which I spoke briefly with most of the guests and took photographs for the Association’s newsletter, the entire party moved into a Japanese-style dining room with tatami mats, two long, low tables, and brightly colored seating cushions. Dr. Ishii was seated at the head of one table, with Mrs. Ishii directly to his left. Mr. Matsui sat across from her, and I to his right; his wife sat next to Mrs. Ishii. One of the pastors—a Mr. Hara—was seated on my other side. Across from him was Kato, the artist, along with his attractive companion. Young Daisuke Matsui sat at the end of the table.
The food was excellent and had been prepared by the finest chef in Little Tokyo, who’d been hired by the Association for the event. I believe we had just begun our third course—raw tuna and halibut arranged delicately on handmade ceramic dishes—when Dr. Ishii turned toward me and said, “I hear that Nakayama-san’s most recent film represents a departure for him.”
I lowered my chopsticks and nodded. “Indeed. I am playing a hotel proprietor who is hiding American soldiers from the German spies who are trying to kill them.”
“I see. Perhaps the war has influenced the kinds of films being made here in America. It appears that prior to now, Nakayama-san has been
most
adept at portraying villains and fools.”
I turned toward him but looked beyond his head, trying to quell my irritation. “I would humbly offer, Dr. Ishii, that
all
of my characters—even those who appear, as you say, to be villains and fools—try to conduct themselves with honor. Some of them are perhaps more troubled than others, but there is always a good reason for their behavior.”
Dr. Ishii did not immediately reply. Although I might have been imagining it, I thought that other conversation in the room had hushed and that everyone was listening to our exchange.
“Nakayama-san may not be aware of this,” he said finally, “but not all of his films are available in Japan.”
I took a sip of my sake and nodded. “So I have heard. I’ve also been told that the films that
are
available have not been translated, and that theaters hire people to stand behind the screen and interpret all the titles.”
“I mean that some of his films are not available,” the foreign minister continued, “because the theaters are not allowed to show them.”
At this, Mrs. Ishii turned to her husband. “Oh, really. Why such dour conversation?” Then, turning to me and smiling, “You will have to excuse my husband, Nakayamasan. He is not a fan of motion pictures, so he does not understand how famous you are, or how much you have accomplished in America. Perhaps he’s just jealous because our daughter thinks so much of you. You see, Nakayamasan is her favorite foreign actor.”
The other guests began to nod in acknowledgment; around the table there were a few nervous smiles.
“He is important indeed,” remarked Mr. Matsui, with slightly forced cheer. “He’s raised the profile of Japanese here more than anyone else.”
“I see,” said Dr. Ishii, looking at his host directly. “The question is what kind of profile he’s actually raised.”
Everyone was staring at me now, and although I did not wish to engage the visitor on such complex issues, I felt that some response to him was called for. “I am well aware,” I said carefully, “that there are some who do not look with favor upon my past works. But you must understand that a mere actor such as myself has little control over the kinds of pictures that are made. I’m under contract with the studio, Dr. Ishii, and the only thing I can do—the honorable thing to do—is to make the best of the roles that are offered me.”
These comments settled among the company for a moment, and then Mr. Matsui spoke again. There was an edge to his voice now that revealed his anxiety about his pleasant social evening slipping away. “Nakayama-san understands that some of his past films were less than ideal. In fact,” he laughed nervously, “the Association once had occasion to write to him regarding one of his roles. But his parts have changed significantly in recent films, and I think it’s time we recognized how much he’s accomplished.”
“Certainly,” said Mrs. Matsui, smiling warmly again. “He is an unparalleled star in America, and his face is known all over the world.”
“Exactly!” said Mr. Matsui. “Everybody knows him. He has stood bravely to represent the Japanese people in this state where there is so much hostility. And what better symbol could there be of modern Japan than a handsome, accomplished, sophisticated gentleman?”
“Well,
I
like him,” said Miss Kuramoto, the artist’s companion. “
All
the girls do.” And the forwardness of this comment—particularly uttered by someone who’d barely said a word all night—made everyone turn in surprise.
“That includes, as you’ve no doubt guessed, my own wife and daughter,” said Dr. Ishii. Then, glaring directly at me with a clear and cold gaze: “But I hear that Nakayamasan prefers
American
women.”
At that moment, there was a commotion near the entrance of the room. A servant rushing in with a tray of food had collided with another going out, and now fish and tsukemono and dollops of seaweed were scattered all over the fioor. Both servers were embarrassed and moved between picking up the fallen plates and bowing and apologizing to the diners. Mr. Matsui had stood up by this point, and his face was bright red, but his wife had already scurried over to the scene and begun assembling more servants to assist with cleaning up.
“I apologize,” Matsui managed. “I only obtained these servants for the evening, and one never knows the quality of hired help.”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” said Mrs. Ishii. Then, in a warm voice that seemed directed at the servants as much as it was to us, “I always have little accidents at my house. Why one time, I spilled a whole bowl of noodles on the fioor, and then my husband slipped and sat down right on top of them. I said, ‘Hideo, you should have told me you wanted
flat
noodles.’ My goodness, was he mad! I think that was the only time he ever considered divorce.”
Her husband looked at her sternly, and we all waited nervously to see how he would respond. But Mrs. Ishii gave him a disarming smile, and the tension around his eyes lessened visibly as he relented to her good humor. We all relaxed, and within a few minutes, the dinner conversation resumed.
The evening became more pleasant after the accident. Mr. Matsui discussed a recent visit to San Francisco; Mr. Shimura, one of the pastors—whose only mode of transportation was bicycle—told a story about taking a driving lesson; and Mrs. Matsui described the visit of three young women from Japan and all the attention they received from single men in Little Tokyo. Mrs. Ishii participated actively in the conversation, laughing easily and asking many questions. Dr. Ishii listened politely, chiming in occasionally with, “Is that so?” or, “How interesting,” but offering no more than the simplest responses.