The Age of Dreaming (34 page)

“I wanted to rib by za rake,” he said. “This pu-race is berry du-rye.
Live
by the
lake
,” he said. “
Very dry
. We’ve
got
to do something about that accent.”

I did not know how to respond to this, but it was clear he wasn’t talking to me. “Yeah, it’s pretty pronounced,” said Mr. Gregory, the producer. “Much worse than I expected.”

“Well, you know, he was in all those silents,” said Tony. “Back then, it didn’t matter what they sounded like.”

Goodman, the director, glanced up from his notes. “Well, it’s not that big a deal to just loop the voice,” he said. “But the other problem is that he’s so uptight. That whole containment thing might have worked back in the ’20s, but for
this
part we need some pizzazz.”

With that, they looked up at Miss Michaels and myself, as if they’d just remembered we had functioning ears. Star gave us each a glass of water, Tony played with his hair, and Dreyfus said, “Let’s try the second scene.”

“I have a question,” I interjected, and I was suddenly more conscious of the sound of my voice. Was it heavily accented? I hadn’t thought so before. Now I would have to be more careful when I spoke. “This scene, with the townspeople. Do you think Takano is primarily angry or frightened?” Dreyfus shrugged. “I don’t know. You’re the Japanese man. What would
you
be?”

“It is not a matter of his being Japanese—and anyway, he’s Japanese-
American
. It is a matter of this individual man and his particular character. I myself would be angry, but in truth probably frightened as well. After all, he’s a man under unjust suspicion of being a war criminal.”

Gregory shot Dreyfus a glance, then looked away.

“What is it?” I asked.

Dreyfus sighed. “Well, see, that’s the thing, Nakayama. We’ve rewritten the story a bit. Ken, Steve, and I all think that it would be more interesting if Takano actually
was
a war criminal. If he was one of the men who led a death march, or something like that. Just think about what it would be like for these poor townspeople to have a monster like that living amongst them.”

It took me a moment to find my voice. “But that would defeat the whole point of the film. The point is that people project their fears on this man unfairly, and that’s dependent on the premise—the
unshakable
premise—that this man is not the villain they imagine.”

Dreyfus gave Gregory the kind of look that two adults exchange over the head of an impudent child. Then he turned back to me. “Listen. All that psychological stuff is interesting on paper. But the fact is, a war criminal with a secret past is a lot more compelling than a man who has nothing to hide.”

“But that is not the film that Bellinger wrote.”

“Bellinger sold his script to the studio. It’s not his anymore.” Dreyfus said this coldly, though when he spoke again his voice was much softer. “Look, Nakayama. I can see it’s no use doing this other scene right now. Let’s go up to my office and talk. I can tell you where we’re thinking about going with this movie, and why. Everyone else, just take a break. We’ll be back in half an hour.”

I was sure he was taking me away to tell me I would not get the part. But I had concerns that went beyond my own possible involvement, for I was disturbed by the film as he envisioned it. What he was proposing was the kind of villainous role I used to play fifty years ago. I would have hoped there’d been some progress since then.

With a genuine bow to Miss Michaels, and a nod to the others, I followed Dreyfus toward the door. Instead of going to his office directly, however, we headed outside to a different building, where Dreyfus carefully opened a door marked
Stage 3
and indicated that I should follow him in. He took us to the edge of a set. Several actors, who all looked vaguely familiar, were seated around a table, in what appeared to be a holiday dinner scene. We stood watching for a few minutes, Dreyfus gesturing for me to move closer. And what was noticeable about the set—the first working set I’d visited in decades—was how quiet everything was. The director would give directions, but after he yelled “action,” nobody spoke but the actors. There was no coaxing director, no cameraman wrestling with his equipment, no noise from the adjoining set, no live music. It was just the voices of the actors, everyone else working quietly so their sounds would not be captured by the microphone. Watching this, I thought of the irony—silent films had never been silent. Quiet sets like this one had never existed until the advent of sound.

After a few minutes, Dreyfus led us out again, speaking as soon as the door was shut behind us. “That’s a little family picture due out next Thanksgiving. I just wanted to show you a modern-day set.” With that, we went back into the first building, up some stairs, and into his grand-father’s office.

I had not been in this office for forty-two years, and the sight in front of me—much like the rest of the studio that day—was both different and familiar. Where Benjamin’s office had been cheerfully untidy, papers falling off desks and scripts piled high, his grandson’s was perfectly neat. There was not a loose scrap of paper anywhere, not a thing out of place. Benjamin’s office had been a place of excitement and activity. Josh’s office lacked that comfort, that casual reality; it was as if the space existed merely for show, and no actual work was conducted there.

He waved me to one of the chairs that faced his desk, then lit a cigarette and sat down. I glanced at the pictures on the walls—there was one of him with Frank Sinatra, another with Susan Hayward, and a shot of him, leering, with Sophia Loren.

“You have worked with some true stars,” I ventured, not knowing what else to say.

“Yes, I’ve been lucky.” His voice, however, suggested nothing of the sort, and I realized that he truly believed his enviable position had come about through his own work and skill. He took a long drag on his cigarette, blew out a mouthful of smoke, and leaned forward. “Listen, Nakayama. I’m sorry about all that down there. It wasn’t fair of me to put you through that when I already knew what the result was going to be.”

I cupped my hands over my knees and looked at him. He scratched the back of his neck and continued.

“I think you know that I’ve been asking around about you. I did check out a couple of your old films, and Nick was right, you were great. But success in those old movies doesn’t mean that someone can hold their own in the movies of today, you know what I mean? So I wanted to get a better sense of who you were and what you were like to work with. And I ended up uncovering a lot of other stuff too.”

My heart began to race, but I didn’t speak. Dreyfus took another drag of his cigarette.

“When Nick reminded me of the Tyler murder, I realized I
had
heard your name before—my grandfather mentioned it when I was a kid, and I knew there was some connection. But I
didn’t
know that you’d actually worked with Tyler or that you knew the actresses involved with the murder case. When I found
that
out, I figured it might be worth my while to look into things a little more deeply.” He tapped his ashes into an ashtray on his desk. “Then I started hearing all these theories about the murder— Elizabeth Banks’ drug dealer, Nora Niles’ mother, maybe even Nora herself. I asked the archive guys to dig up everything they could on the case, and they came back with a lot, mostly from my granddad’s old papers.” He took another drag and blew out a mouthful of smoke. “Apparently, Elizabeth Banks was on the outs when Tyler was killed, and Nora Niles wasn’t the surefire box office draw that everyone had expected, not to mention that her mother was a pain in the ass—so no one was going to stand and catch them when they started to fall. But there’s much more to the story than that.”

“Mr. Dreyfus,” I said, “I really don’t—”

“Let me finish.” He sounded more eager now, and I was growing uncomfortable. “Nora Niles’ mother wrote a letter to Leonard Stillman about two months after the murder. Without saying anything too overt, she practically admitted that she killed Tyler. Did you know that?”

I cleared my throat. “About Mrs. Cole? No. Well, I rather suspected.”

Dreyfus seemed to find this amusing; he smiled and shook his head. “I don’t know if you’re aware of the other part. Because the other thing she said was that she’d been furious with Tyler because she thought he’d gotten Nora pregnant. Did you know that?”

I shook my head no.

“Well. Nora was pregnant, and her mother thought that Tyler was the father, and it was only after he was already dead that she discovered it wasn’t him.” He paused, eyes bright with excitement. “She said it was
you
, Nakayama. She said that
you
got Nora pregnant. I couldn’t believe it. I mean, I still can’t quite believe it.”

I looked away, trying to formulate some kind of explanation. But Dreyfus kept on talking.

“I might have just dismissed it as the rant of some crazy woman out to ruin your career, which I guess she did—she threatened to go public with the whole thing if Perennial hired you again. Then the archive boys dug up Gerard Normandy’s journal, and it turns out he knew that Nora was pregnant, because Tyler, or whatever the bastard’s name really was, told him before he was killed. He also told Normandy who the father was.” He stopped here, whistled, and crushed out his cigarette. “Boy, was Normandy hot at you! You’re the one who couldn’t keep your pants on, and it’s Tyler who got killed, and Tyler wouldn’t have touched Nora anyway cause he was a fiaming queer.” He shook his head in wonder. “You almost brought the house down, Jun—the director, two actresses, not to mention yourself—and the whole town had to deal with the aftermath.”

I looked down; I didn’t bother to deny it. For while the truth sounded more lurid coming out of Dreyfus’ mouth, it was still, undeniably, the truth. All of my efforts to keep it at bay had come, in the end, to nothing. It was there, it had always been there, and now it had finally come to light. I had not been able to keep the errors of my past concealed, as I had hoped. I had not been able to keep them from myself.

“You were at the heart of a murder mystery,” Dreyfus said, not noticing my discomfort. “You had a half-breed baby with a leading actress, and no one ever figured it out! And now here you are, forty-odd years later, trying to make a comeback. Well, Nakayama, I have to tell you, I can hardly believe it. And there’s no question about your chances of getting this part.”

I forced myself to meet his eyes and accept the bad news head-on. It was only appropriate, I thought. It was what I deserved.

But then he grinned and said, “It’s perfect, Jun. It’s almost too good to be true. This story’s going to make our movie the hit of the year!”

I must have looked bewildered, for now he hit both palms on his desk excitedly and spread his arms out wide.

“We’re going to make it public, Jun! We’ll leak it! The whole damned thing! Don’t you see how brilliant it is? There’s an unsolved murder from the early days of Hollywood, plus a mystery child, and it all involves some of the biggest stars of the silent era! And now, forty years later, we’ve finally solved the murder. Because this is what else I found out, old man. I found out that the police and the District Attorney knew damned well who did it, and that they took payoffs from Harriet Cole for years! Travis Crittendon didn’t give a shit about clearing you or Elizabeth Banks; he hated Japs and he thought Elizabeth was a slut. I’m sure you heard that he killed himself twenty years ago, after he lost his last race for D.A. But did you know he did it with a pearl-handled .38 just like the one that Harriet Cole used to own? He probably got it from her and kept it as insurance, to keep the payments coming. She probably worried every day that he’d expose her.” He pounded on the desk again, closed-fisted this time. “Yes, this is a hell of a story, Jun. And the man who was at the center of it all—the man who got the actress pregnant and who should have been the target of the murder—is starring in a new film from Perennial!”

I was speechless. I stared at Dreyfus in complete disbelief.

“The press is going to eat it up,” he said. “And the public! Oh, we’ll make it sound like you and Nora were secretly engaged so we don’t piss off the church ladies in Iowa. But it’s going to be huge, and there’ll be such a tremendous buzz that they won’t be able to sell the tickets fast enough. We’re going to be a hit, Nakayama!
You’re
going to be a hit! If you think you were big before, that was
nothing
compared to how big you’re going to be now. Money, women, all kinds of attention. You’ve waited
years
to regain your glory, and now you’ve finally got your chance. You’re going to blow them away. You’re—”

“Mr. Dreyfus,” I interjected as my stomach sank, “I do not wish to revisit that particular time. If the film does not succeed on the basis of its artistic merit, then I’d rather that it not succeed at all.”

“Oh, it will, it will, don’t worry, old man. This other story will just make people pay attention.”

“I don’t
want
people to pay attention to that aspect of my life. I don’t want them to reduce our careers to a lurid scandal.”

He waved his arms, stood up, and then sat down again. “Oh, I know you’re shy about it, but really, Nakayama, don’t be such a prude. It’s a great story, actually, and it makes you kind of a rogue. It gives you a dangerous edge, a sex appeal.”

I swallowed hard. I wasn’t sure what kind of man this story made me, but it wasn’t a man I liked or wished for others to know. “Mr. Dreyfus, that was a very painful time. I don’t care to dredge it up, for any reason.”

“I’m sure it was difficult—but what better way to come to terms with it than by turning it into something productive?”

I felt like the walls were closing in around me; like the air was being sucked from the room. I felt an overwhelming urge to be out and away—not just from that room and that distasteful young man, but from his knowledge of my past and from the past itself. I couldn’t believe what he was proposing and I couldn’t stand to be in his presence, not for a moment longer. “Excuse me, I have to leave,” I said abruptly, and then I stood and turned to go.