The Age of Dreaming (31 page)

I held myself as still as I could. “She’s just concerned about you, Nora.”

“She’s
not
concerned about me, Jun, isn’t it obvious? The only thing she really cares about is herself. And money! Money! Money!”

I said nothing, for she wasn’t mistaken.

“And she’s so ridiculous about men,” Nora continued. “She gets so angry when I go to a party with someone, as if I’m going to marry every man I dance with. And poor Ashley. She’s always carrying on about our ‘inappropriate friendship.’ Well, we
have
no such friendship. How could we have? She’s there almost every time I see him.” She looked up into my eyes, and the sight of her face so close to mine made something jump in my stomach. “But now I get to see
you
, Jun,” she said almost sleepily. “It’s so nice to see you here by the river.”

She placed her hand on my cheek, and as much as I told myself to pull my head away, as much as I saw a door opening that I did not wish to enter, I could not remove myself from her touch.

“You’re fond of me, aren’t you, Jun?”

I could feel her warm breath on my lips. I kept telling myself that this was Nora, who was only a girl—but the touch of her hand, her smile, said something different. “Of course,” I said. “I like you very much.”

“No, I mean you’re
really
fond of me.” And with this she leaned closer, so that I could feel her warm, full breasts against my arm. I felt a stirring and tried to keep my breathing steady. But I was not a strong man, I had never been strong, and she knew what she was doing to me.

“Miss Niles,” I said, “you must be freezing. Let’s go join the others and get you back to the warm.”

“I
am
cold. You should feel how cold.” She took both my hands in hers and held them against her cheeks, which were, despite her words, soft and warm. Then she guided one hand slowly down the length of her body, under her dress, and onto her knee. “Why don’t you warm me,” she said, although her fiesh was hot to the touch. For one last moment I tried to pull myself away—but then, unaccountably, I thought of Elizabeth, of her arms around Tyler in my guest room that night, of her shrinking away from my touch. I was filled with an anger that transformed into passion for the young girl in front of me now. My hand moved up her thigh and I grasped her by the shoulder, laying her down on the rock. And as she held me close, as her breathing grew ragged and short, she whispered in my ears, and kept saying my name, and then moved into a place without words.

About six weeks after Ashley Tyler’s death, just before I was to return to the studio, a visitor called upon me at my home. I was sitting in the courtyard taking my afternoon tea when Phillipe came out, looking distressed. “Mrs. Cole is here to see you, sir.”

I looked at him for a moment. “Show her in.”

“Certainly.” He turned away, and then shifted back again. “Would you like me to remain outside with you, sir?”

I smiled—apparently even my servant was aware of her reputation. “No, Phillipe. I’ll be fine.”

A moment later he returned with Harriet Cole, who strode toward me as if she’d been in my courtyard a hundred times before. Watching her approach, I realized that I had been expecting her visit. “Mrs. Cole,” I greeted her, standing.

“Mr. Nakayama.”

I bade her to sit in the chair across from me. She was dressed entirely in green, even her hat and shoes. I wondered how she would speak to me, in what form the anger would come. It occurred to me that I’d never been alone with her.

“What brings you to my house?” I asked.

“I think you know very well, Nakayama. My daughter.”

Phillipe reappeared with a cup of tea, which Mrs. Cole received without acknowledgment. After giving me a significant look, he left the courtyard and reentered the house. He then assumed a spot just inside of the door, out of earshot but within clear sight.

“How is Miss Niles holding up?” I asked, trying to sound as normal as possible. “I know this is a difficult time for her.”

Mrs. Cole brushed her sleeves off as if they were covered with something distasteful. “I find it amusing that you even deign to ask. You certainly haven’t shown concern for her before.”

I looked down at my hands, which suddenly seemed useless and pale. “On the contrary, Mrs. Cole. Not a day goes by when I don’t think of her. Where is she now? Is she still at the mansion?”

Beneath her hat, I could see her eyes grow sharper. “No. She’s had to go out of town for the time being. She’s safe where she is, however. She’s being very well cared for.”

“Because of her nerves?”

“Partly. But not only that. I’m sure you won’t be surprised to learn that she’s with child.”

Although I kept my expression impassive, my hands began to shake. “I see.”

“I thought it was Tyler, she doted on him so. What a bad piece of luck for that man. If I had known the truth, he’d still be alive.”

I stared at her. “What are you saying, Mrs. Cole?”

She drank from her tea as calmly as if we were discussing my plants, the particulars of their need for light and water. “I’m saying you’re very fortunate, Nakayama, that I didn’t know the truth. If I had known at the time that I learned of her condition, you and I would not be sitting here today.”

I tried to focus on keeping still. Although I did feel a fiicker of fear, what Nora’s mother was implying did not surprise me. Harriet was, in fact, one of the primary suspects in Tyler’s death. Now I knew her motivation. “I’m not sure what you mean, Mrs. Cole.”

“You should be ashamed, Nakayama. She told me all about it. How you found her in the woods by the river. How you lay with her on the rock. I know it was you, and had I known six weeks ago, it would be you and not Ashley Tyler who was dead.”

I breathed deeply, waiting to answer until I could keep my voice even. “Why are you telling me all this, Mrs. Cole? What’s to keep me from ringing up the police?”

She scoffed. “I’ve admitted nothing. And don’t think of going to anyone. The police won’t help you, anyway. They answer to me.”

This did nothing to calm my nerves, but then she let out a genuine laugh. “You don’t have to look so frightened, Nakayama. I don’t plan to kill you—one death is enough, don’t you think? But if you ever go near my daughter again, I
will
come after you, and damn the consequences.” She sipped her tea and gave me a cruel little smile. “Don’t think you’ll get any protection from the legal system, either. The D.A. is a close friend of mine, and he’ll keep that little rube Detective Hopkins under control. They won’t do anything, Nakayama. They’ll never do anything. The best thing you can do to keep yourself out of trouble is to leave well enough alone.”

I exhaled. “I appreciate you coming to visit, Mrs. Cole. I will do anything I can—discreetly, of course—in terms of helping the baby.”

She put the cup down and folded her hands together. “You will do nothing of the sort. You will not even
see
the baby. And don’t think I’m letting you get away with this.” She lifted one hand and curled her fingers, examining the nails. “My daughter’s career is ruined; she may never make another film. If you make one false move, I’ll tell everyone in Hollywood about how you took advantage of her.”

I sat up straight. “I did not take advantage of her, Mrs. Cole.”

She scoffed. “I realize that Nora can be stupid and headstrong, but she would never have a Jap for a lover.”

“But Mrs. Cole, when I went searching for her, my intentions were honorable. I never meant—”

“Are you saying my daughter is a whore?”

“No! I’m simply saying … it was not a situation of force.”

She arched her eyebrows and looked down her nose at me. “You disgust me with your sneaky Jap ways. Insinuating yourself with everybody. You think you’re something, but let me tell you, no amount of money or fame or fancy clothes can change what you are underneath. Those fools who run the studios let everything get out of order, but I’m going to set things straight. And if I
ever
see your face on the big screen again, I’ll make sure that everyone knows what you did to my daughter.”

I looked off toward the doorway, careful not to make eye contact with Phillipe. “Mrs. Cole, is this really necessary?”

“She’s paying, and even your little slut Elizabeth’s paying, and you’re the one who caused this mess to begin with. So yes, it
is
necessary. You’re through, Nakayama. If you try to work in pictures again, I’ll ruin you.”

Mrs. Cole’s threats did have an effect on me; they were the immediate reason I canceled my appointment with David Rosenberg that week. Yet it would be untruthful to say she was the only thing that kept me from returning to Perennial. While I certainly couldn’t put it past Mrs. Cole to “come after” me—the fate of Ashley Tyler was enough to prove that her threats were credible—I did not believe that she would ever expose my connection to her daughter. For the news of our tryst, and word of the pregnancy, would hurt Nora even more than it would damage me. Her mother
couldn’t
go to the public—to do so would kill whatever remaining chance Nora had of resuming her career. I knew—and I think I knew this even the day she came to call—that Mrs. Cole would kill me before she’d ever reveal me.

If Mrs. Cole alone did not keep me from working, then the question remains of why I did not work. Even after I canceled my meeting at Perennial, David tried to reschedule, going so far as to call upon me at home to try and convince me to come back to the studio. But I declined every overture, until he finally relented, and at that point I knew my career was really over. Although this may seem shortsighted in retrospect, the reason for my refusal was simple: In my heart of hearts, I did not believe that I deserved to work again. Consider all the damage I had wrought. One brief lapse, one fieeting moment of weakness, had resulted in a pregnancy, a murder, the destruction of four careers, and one of the biggest scandals ever to hit Hollywood. It seemed only appropriate that I should suffer as well, beyond the self-inflicted suffering of guilt. I thought I should be punished, and if there were no cause for the law to punish me, then I would have to dole out the penalty myself. This may seem like a severe line of thinking, but I was actually being lenient. Had we been in Japan—or had I been a more honorable man—I would have hastened my death with my own hand. But we were not, and I was not, and this was the best that I could do. I was finished the moment I lay with Nora on that rock.

And then there is the other matter, the question of the child. While it is possible that the child was fathered by someone other than myself, simple logic and timing suggest that it was mine. And if this is true, if I was truly responsible for Nora’s pregnancy, then I was either the reason for a dangerous and illegal medical procedure, or there is, somewhere, a middle-aged person who is actually my child. I would like to say that I have thought about this over the years, but in truth I have tried to block it from my mind. It is only in these last few weeks, when so much else has come fiooding back, that I have wondered if Nora completed her pregnancy, and if there was in fact a child, and what it might think or feel about its father.

After Harriet Cole’s visit, I did not speak to anyone about Nora and Tyler for a very long time. I did not speak of Elizabeth either, even after her untimely death five years later, when she was only forty-one. The papers said it was consumption, but I suspected otherwise, for after Tyler was gone there was nothing left to keep her from the bottle. My sorrow for her was private and deep, and filled with regret; if I’d been a better man I would have helped her. But her death was one more tragedy to add to all the others, and I did not discuss it with anyone for several years. When I finally did, it was entirely by chance, and while I learned several things I rather wished I didn’t know, they also helped me understand what had happened.

This was in the winter of 1931, long enough after the events that ended my career that I could appear in public without being recognized. I had by then moved to my present town house, and purchased my current car, the Packard—a suitable choice for a mature gentleman no longer in the fiush of youth. Although several of my neighbors did know who I was, I could generally conduct my daily business without anyone bothering me.

I was taking lunch one afternoon at a small nondescript restaurant off the Boulevard—I avoided any place that was frequented by picture people—when a man slid into the booth across from me. I was about to ask him why he was interrupting my meal when I recognized him as John Vail. He was still handsome, still slightly fragile-looking, although his hairline had crept back an inch or two and there were deep lines now in his forehead. He grinned the old mischievous grin that had made him such an effective scoundrel. “Hello, gorgeous. Fancy meeting you here.”

I smiled. To my surprise, I was genuinely happy to see him. “John Vail,” I said. “How have you been?”

He told me he was well—he was still in pictures, but on the other side of the camera now, writing scenarios—and he was kind enough not to ask about my career. After telling me about the latest project he was developing, he hesitated and said, “We sure do miss you down at the studio. You wouldn’t recognize the place. It’s
so
uptight—not the jovial place that you and I cut our teeth on. And the sound equipment, the technicians—hell, the whole idea of sound period. Sometimes I think we’ve gotten so caught up in voices that we’ve forgotten about character and story.”

“Well, times have changed, and change is inevitable.”

“Maybe, but it’s been real tough on people. Gloria Swanson and Greta Garbo have done all right, but John Gilbert and Clara Bow are finished. Their voices weren’t even
bad
, you know? They just weren’t what people imagined. Shit, Clara was the biggest star in Hollywood four years ago. Now she’s done and she isn’t even thirty.”

We sat staring at the table, which was streaked from the dirty towel that had been used to wipe it. Vail must have realized who he was talking to, for now he looked up at me sheepishly and shook his head. “And you too. What a horrible shame. I wish they hadn’t run you out, the prejudiced bastards.”