The Age of Dreaming Read online

  I mention all of this—Mrs. Bradford, the pharmacist, my forgotten career—to give some sense of why I was so startled by the phone call yesterday morning. It has been fifteen years since I granted an interview, and that one occasion, in 1949, which coincided with the remake of my picture The Stand, never led to an actual article. Before that interview, I had not spoken to anyone regarding my films for over twenty years.

  If I had been more cognizant of how ardently fans behaved in this new era; if I’d been aware of the focused attention that simple contact could trigger, I might have anticipated Mr. Bellinger’s second call. But again this morning, when the telephone rang, I expected someone else:

  the painters I’ve hired to repaint my living room, who seem to run perpetually late. But instead of Mr. Gomez, the head of the crew, I heard the now-familiar breathless voice. “Mr. Nakayama, sir,” said Nick Bellinger, “I’m sorry to bother you again, but I never got a chance to tell you why I’m calling. You see, I’m not just an advisor to the Silent Movie Theater. I’m also a writer for the L.A. Observer, and I’m doing a piece on the theater. And as part of that article, I’m trying to find stars from the silent era to see what they’ve been doing all these years. I was especially interested in your career, since it ended so abruptly. And I know you worked with all the major directors from that time, and that you were one of the original actors at Perennial Pictures. I was hoping that I could meet you and do an interview.”

  This news provoked several responses in me at once.

  It is true that I was one of the original players under contract at Perennial—the studio that the Normandy Players, along with several other small companies, evolved into. And while I cannot deny that there was a certain appeal to the idea of recalling my colleagues and some of our nowarcane methods of filmmaking, of describing the glamorous parties and dinners and myriad love affairs, there was also something about the young man’s proposition that made me profoundly uneasy. There are many memories from that period I have treasured over the years—the films I worked on, the characters I portrayed, the late-night parties at the Cocoanut Grove—but there are also things that I would rather forget. I do not know what happened to most of my peers, the great majority of whom did not achieve lasting fame. And I felt that learning what had become of them, dredging up their once-bright but now forgotten careers, would diminish not only their memories, but all their past accomplishments. It is a tragedy when a man’s great contributions to the world, once heralded by all, simply vanish beneath the rolling waves of time. I did not wish to be reminded of all that we had achieved momentarily, and lost. And so I said to the young man, “I am not interested.”

  I could almost hear him deflate, but he rejoined without a second’s delay. “Mr. Nakayama,” he said, “this is a great opportunity. If I can be frank, there just aren’t that many of you left from the silent era, and this article could help give you the recognition you deserve.”

  I took a deep breath before I answered. “Young man, you are clearly not as avid a student of film as you profess to be. For if you were, you would certainly be aware that I received tremendous recognition throughout the course of my career. I …” and here I took a breath to level my voice.

  “I was twice named the year’s most popular actor by Moving Image Magazine. I was regularly featured in Photoplay and Motion Picture Classic. For three years, I was the highest paid actor at Perennial Pictures, and the premiere of Margin of Error nearly caused a riot when it opened at Ebbets Field in Brooklyn. It is quite inaccurate to insinuate that I was somehow overlooked—I could not have asked for a higher degree of fame.”

  Bellinger paused for just a moment. “Yes, sir,” he said.

  “I know that’s all true. I didn’t mean to imply … what I mean is, this article could be a way for modern audiences to learn of your accomplishments. Certainly your work could be more … appreciated today.”

  I tried not to sound angry when I replied. “I do not need you, young man, to tell me what could happen or what I should do. I thank you for your interest in my career, but I am content with my life, and do not wish to endure any further interruptions.” With that, I hung the phone up, then went over to the window to look out for Mr. Gomez.

  About twenty minutes later, Mr. Gomez and his two young workers arrived. I stayed with them for an hour, supervising as they moved the couch and armchairs away from the walls, taped off the fioorboards, and covered all the furniture with drop cloths. Once they had completed this preliminary work, Mr. Gomez gave me a patient look, which indicated that he wished me to leave. Since I could do nothing in the kitchen or my bedroom while this commotion was occurring, I changed into walking shoes and stepped outside.

  As I do at least three mornings of every week, I walked two blocks to the entrance of Runyan Canyon Park. There is a lovely path that hugs the canyon walls and winds up into the hills; with each turn, more of the city disappears. One gains elevation at a surprisingly rapid rate, so that by fifteen minutes into the walk, when the path curves out toward the city again, one is startled by the smallness of the buildings below. It takes roughly half an hour to reach the summit, and it still surprises me that the Hollywood Hills—which seem daunting from the ground—are so painless and easy to climb.

  For some reason, few people seem to know about the path. This morning, the conversation with Bellinger still fresh in my mind, I walked briskly up into the hills and saw only two other walkers. At the top I sat on a split log bench and looked out in all directions at the city. To my left, the majestic San Gabriel Mountains, which would be covered in a month or two with snow. To my right, the endless chain of the Santa Monica mountains, of which the Hollywood Hills are the final descending link. Behind me, the San Fernando Valley, fiat and full of bungalows and greenery. And in front of me, spread all the way from the hills to the ocean, lay the city of Los Angeles proper. The few tall buildings of downtown stood in a clump to the left; the ocean created a lovely, sparkling blue border to the right. And in between, a vast tableau of humanity. One can easily identify Wilshire Boulevard, for it is marked by a steady line of high-rise buildings straight across the center of the landscape. Hancock Park is recognizable as well—not because of its lovely mansions, which are too far away to distinguish, but because of the lush green foliage, sustained by imported water and hired care, that marks all wealthy areas of Los Angeles. The arches of Mann’s Chinese Theater are visible from behind; Lake Hollywood lies above it, in the hills.

  On many mornings, from this bench, I have watched the sun rise from behind the San Gabriel Mountains; on many evenings, I’ve watched it set over the ocean. I have been here when the neon signs atop the DuBarry and the Argyle light up at the first hint of darkness. I have been here, too, on evenings of movie premieres, when spotlights spring up from Hollywood Boulevard and shoot beams, like crossing swords, into the sky. When I first started taking this walk, in the 1920s, the landscape was full of barley fields, orange groves, and trees; there were only a few office buildings and scattered clumps of houses, and then the self-contained compounds of the studios. The green hills were pristine and almost totally free of structures, and miles of horse-back trails meandered through the brush. That open, new, bucolic place has long since vanished now. I have watched this city grow from farmland into a vibrant metropolis.

  This spot—the very top of the Hollywood Hills—is where I always go to clear my head. As a young man, before I came to America, I spent a week at a Zen Buddhist temple in the mountains of Nagano Prefecture, and those seven days of silence and meditation, of oneness with the world around me, I now remember as the most peaceful of my life. Now, the only time I ever achieve the sense of emptiness, awareness, and oneness I so yearn for is up on top of the hills, looking out at the rest of humanity. There, I feel both part of, and removed from, the everyday world of man. There, I am completely at peace with my own insignificance.

  After an hour of looking out at the city, I made my way down the hill and onto the Boulevard. It wa
s 11:30 now, and I suspected that Mrs. Bradford would be in one of two restaurants, where she often took her lunch at this pre-

  noon hour to arrive in advance of the crowd. These res-

  taurants are on the eastern end of the Boulevard, past the countless gift shops and souvenir stands that have sprung up in the last ten years. It is popular now to say that Hollywood is a state of mind more than an actual place, since the Boulevard itself has become as tasteless and as subject to bad elements as that other den of American excess, Times Square. But in the ’20s and ’30s—indeed, all the way through the early ’50s—the physical Hollywood, the actual place, was as real and glamorous as its image. It housed the best restaurants, the finest nightclubs and cafés, and sleek limousines were always pulling up in front of elegant doorways to deposit this or that star or director. The cheap knickknacks, the litter, the desperate people trading in fiesh—they did not appear until the 1950s, and did not take the Boulevard over completely until the dawn of this present decade. These days, only a scattering of the old establishments remain, and it goes without saying that the clientele is different. Only a few people with links to the old Hollywood still frequent such places. The rest of the customers are local businessmen who are largely ignorant of the restaurants’ history.

  This noontime, I stopped first at the Café Figaro, a fine establishment where Clark Gable used to dine. The interior was dark and intimate, with wood paneling and heavy, leather-covered chairs. Even at midday it was difficult to see; the lights were dim and the waitstaff moved around in a hush. One could imagine what it looked like in the 1940s, when groups of thick-bellied men, smoking cigars and drinking port, would talk and laugh well into the endless nights. After a moment, my eyes adjusted to the lights and I looked around the restaurant. I was in luck—Mrs. Bradford was seated at a small table near the window— and, as she had not yet been served her meal, she waved me over and invited me to join her. After a few pleasantries about the weather and a recent visit from her daughter, she paused and then looked at me curiously. “You seem rather harried today, Mr. Nakayama. Is something bothering you?”

  I was surprised by her observation; she didn’t normally remark upon my demeanor. “No, Mrs. Bradford. What gives you that idea?”

  She looked at me closely. Although she is nearing seventy herself, she is quick-witted and energetic, and her eyes, by the light of the window, were still piercingly blue. “I’m not sure,” she said. “But you look agitated. Like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

  I gave a small laugh and took the heavy, folded napkin off the table. “Well, to be quite honest, Mrs. Bradford, I received a surprising phone call this morning. As a matter of fact, it was the second such phone call in as many days.

  A young man who is working with the new silent movie theater has discovered that I am the actor he has seen in several films.”

  Mrs. Bradford leaned back, her smooth, unspotted hands spread fiat on the table. “Why, that’s marvelous, Mr. Nakayama! You have a fan!”

  “But it is not marvelous, Mrs. Bradford. You see, he is also a reporter. Frankly, I have no interest in dredging up memories of my career, and this young man—it appears he will not easily be discouraged.”

  “Oh, don’t be silly,” said Mrs. Bradford, and there was no mistaking the scolding tone of her voice. “You know you love the attention. You can’t stand that you’ve been forgotten—that’s why you finally told me. I don’t believe your modest act for a minute.”

  I was, of course, taken aback by her assertion, and while I knew that she meant it in a good-hearted fashion, I still found myself rather annoyed. This bluntness is a characteristic of American women to which I have never grown accustomed. I am certain that it is part of the reason why, despite a significant courtship with an American woman and several other minor liaisons, I never chose to marry one. But Mrs. Bradford was not yet finished.

  “And you were a sex symbol too,” she said teasingly. “That makes it even worse. I don’t care if you’re Japanese, German, or from Dayton, Ohio. If a man was ever desirable to women, he thinks that everyone had better well remember it.”

  “Mrs. Bradford, you’re gravely mistaken,” I said, and I was about to embark on a more impassioned defense. Just at that moment, however, the waiter appeared, a diminutive and ageless man named Franco who has been employed at the restaurant for as long as I’ve been a customer.

  “Would you like to order something, Mr. Nakayama?”

  he asked. “Mrs. Bradford didn’t tell me she was expecting a lunch companion.”

  “I wasn’t,” said Mrs. Bradford. “But Mr. Nakayama here is full of surprises.”

  “Oh?” said Franco disinterestedly.

  “Yes, full of many surprises. For example, do you know what he revealed to me a few months ago, Franco? He revealed that he was once an actor. A veritable star, in fact, who appeared in many films during the silent era.”

  “I see,” said Franco. He fiipped to a blank sheet of his notepad, pen poised to take my order. It was clear from his look of indifference that he didn’t believe her.

  “He was written about in all the magazines,” Mrs. Bradford continued. She leaned toward Franco conspiratorially. “And apparently, he was quite a ladies’ man.”

  At this, the waiter let out a sharp, short laugh. “I’ll bet,” he said. “A real Casanova.”

  Franco’s casual disbelief provoked something in me, and I pulled myself up straight. “She is not joking, Mr. Franco. Although I do not often discuss it, I was once indeed a well-known actor.”

  “Oh, I believe you, sir,” said Franco, bowing slightly in his bright red coat. “I’m sure you were the toast of the town.”

  “Haven’t you heard of Sleight of Hand?” My anger was rising. “It was the top-grossing film of 1915. Or The Stand or The Noble Servant? In each of these classic silent films, I played the male lead.”

  Franco grinned now, wearing a look of mirth that didn’t fit his hangdog face. “Sleight of Hand,” he said. “Yes, I think I’ve heard of that picture. But wasn’t that Douglas Fairbanks?”

  “It was I,” I insisted, with a force that surprised me. “It was I, Jun Nakayama. If you do not believe me, consult the history books. Or ask Mrs. Bradford. She herself has read accounts of my career.”

  I appealed to her for help, but all she did was shake her head and laugh.

  “Oh, Mr. Nakayama,” said Franco. “Please, stop teasing me already. I’ve got a long shift ahead. Now, what can I bring you for lunch?”

  He faced me with an expression of patient indulgence, which sent Mrs. Bradford into another fit of laughter. I was so frustrated that I got up and stormed out of the restaurant without speaking another word. I could hear Mrs. Bradford calling after me, but I refused to turn back. The whole episode had been extremely disconcerting. I did not see why these revelations regarding my past were so difficult for Franco to believe. He must have gathered over the years that I was a man of intelligence and refinement, and if he had happened to overhear even a few of my conversations, he would have been aware of my encyclopedic knowledge of early film. Perhaps his disbelief was heightened because of the fact that I’m Japanese, which I admit is quite unusual for a Hollywood actor. But none of this assuaged my displeasure.

  When I returned to the town house, I found a message on the pad beside my phone, taken by Mr. Gomez

  28 v Nina Revoyr while I was gone. It was Nick Bellinger’s number—he had called again—and without thinking about what I was doing, I picked up the receiver and dialed. After three rings, a young man answered. “Mr. Bellinger,” I said. “This is Jun Nakayama. I’ve reconsidered your request for an interview.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  September 29, 1964

  This morning, as I waited for Mr. Bellinger on a bench in Plummer Park, I had the pleasure of observing a most delightful family. A Negro couple in their fifties, dressed as if for church, passed by with a gaggle of little girls. The children—there were three of them—ranged in age from pe
rhaps three years old to seven or eight, and they too wore Sunday outfits, with the tiniest carrying a backpack that was nearly as large as she. The girls were all holding hands but they kept losing their grip, the chain unlinking and then reattaching itself again. The two adults— who I assumed were the children’s grandparents—were trying to keep them together, but the girls were fast losing patience with each other, and bickering sweetly, each attempting to disengage from her sisters. They made their way slowly across the park, but when they were twenty feet away from me the entire chain broke, and all three girls sprung loose in different directions. At this point, instead of scolding them or running off to get them, the adults threw their hands up and laughed. They shook their heads in exasperation and shared a look of amusement, and then moved off to collect their charges. Just when everyone was gathered again, the oldest girl looked around and wailed, “Where’s my dolly?” The man slapped a hand to his forehead, and the woman rolled her eyes. “Oh Lord,” he said, smiling, “we must have left it in the restaurant.” And so slowly, carefully, they all turned around and made their way back down the path.

  This tableau made me think of my own advancing years, and the fact that, at the age of seventy-three, I do not have any grandchildren. The absence of grandchildren relates directly to my lack of immediate family. While there was, as I’ve said, an American woman with whom I was close, as well as a Japanese woman who played a significant role in my early career, the vagaries of Hollywood, and of American social norms, made all such unions impossible. My failure to marry is not something that pleases me—indeed, the absence of a family is my greatest regret. But, as with so many things that turned out differently than I’d hoped, there is nothing to be done at this late hour, and it does me no good to second-guess my choices. I cannot deny, however, that my life would now be richer if there were grown children as well as little ones, like those I saw this morning, to give my days purpose and joy.