The Age of Dreaming

by Nina Revoyr

  “That’s right,” said Elizabeth, who had recovered by now. “You’ve been keeping Nora all to yourself.” She looked at him sharply, and then pulled out a cigarette, holding it up expectantly. John Vail and I both struck matches and he, with a wink at me, prevailed.

  “I’ve wanted to meet you forever!” Nora continued, oblivious to the machinations around her. “I’ve been a fan of yours since Sleight of Hand—oh, even longer than that! Since your wonderful comedies back at Triangle. Can you believe that when A Holiday Caper came out, I was only ten years old?”

  A cold, thin smile fixed on Elizabeth’s lips, and she looked down her nose at the younger actress.

  “I have been in Hollywood,” said Elizabeth, “since before anyone knew what pictures were going to become. Back then, hard work and talent actually meant something to people, and you had to have some skill to be successful. It is amazing,” she added, lifting her chin higher still, “the kinds of roles they give to children these days.”

  “Now Elizabeth,” said Tyler in a slightly scolding tone, “I think we still reward hard work and talent. And if I’m not mistaken, you yourself were quite a youngster when you started in this business.”

  I watched the two of them, who were clearly—despite the presence of other people—having a conversation with each other. And I thought, not for the first time, that it was difficult to resent the director, as he had never let his friendship with Elizabeth affect his dealings with me, nor change the way that he behaved toward Nora. Yet if Nora was the subject of their argument, she herself did not seem to know it. Seeing the admiration on her face as she gazed at the older actress, I realized that Nora was totally unaffected by the jealousies and competitiveness that poisoned most other people in Hollywood. She had never felt passionate about being an actress, and she seemed indifferent to being a star. She did not take stock in or even understand the effect her beauty had on others. It did not cost her to compliment or admire Elizabeth, for if one does not see oneself as part of a competition, one has nothing to win—or to lose. Nora was a star, yes, and a talented actress. But she was not and never would be a diva.

  Elizabeth must have finally understood this herself; when she struck again, she aimed where she knew it would hurt.

  “Well, Ashley,” she said in a saccharine voice, “according to you, I still am a youngster, at least in terms of my learning. Why, if it weren’t for all those nights you spend teaching me about books and art, I wouldn’t know any more than I did in primary school.”

  This latest dart struck home. But even as Nora registered the kind of time that Elizabeth was spending with Tyler, she reacted not with womanly jealousy, but with a childlike turn of logic. “Oh, Mr. Tyler, that sounds so wonderful! Would you mind helping me with my studies too? I know you’re busy, so we could arrange it for whenever you wish. In fact,” she said, brightening, “if my mother would allow it, maybe you could even come to my mansion!”

  I did not hear how either Tyler or Elizabeth responded, for at that very moment, my butler Phillipe came out to tell me that one of the hired waitstaff had taken ill. That left his staff a man short, with at least another hour of food service before it grew dark enough for the fireworks. As we looked out on the guests, however, things seemed to be well in hand. The crowd had topped out at around forty people, and most of them had eaten already. Phillipe and I decided no additional steps were needed, and that he and the remaining staff would be able to man the party without any interruption of service. Then, as I looked out at the people sipping drinks in the beautiful colors of sunset, which just now lit the San Gabriel Mountains a brilliant pink, I felt a deep sense of satisfaction. The guests were in good hands, and I think it is fair to say that people knew that when Jun Nakayama set his mind to something—whether it was a film or a party—the proceedings would always be carried out with the utmost of class and professionalism.

  If there was anyone who was not enjoying herself, it was, of course, Elizabeth. After her initial encounter with Tyler and Nora, she fiitted from group to group, fiirting with the men, laughing too loudly, and taking drink after drink from the waiters’ trays. As she looked up at the men seductively, as she touched them lightly on the arm, my stomach felt distinctly upset. But if she thought this behavior would have an effect on Tyler, she was surely disappointed. Tyler and Vail stayed to themselves in a corner of the garden, speaking only to those who approached them. Nora and her date, meanwhile, were quite popular that night, perhaps because it was so rare for Nora to be out at any social function; or because her openness and clear delight at everything she saw were so disarming and pleasant to observe.

  At some point, apparently having run out of options, Elizabeth made her way back to me. I was alone momentarily—I had just finished talking with a new contract actor from Perennial—when she appeared at my side. She was holding a martini and her eyes had assumed the glaze they often did on long nights of drinking. “What a fabulous party,” she said, voice heavy with sarcasm. “I hope you’re having as great a time as I am.”

  I took the drink away from her to keep her from spilling it. “You should slow down a little, Elizabeth, don’t you think?”

  “Why?” she asked, glaring at me. “I’m not hurting anyone. You think I should be a teetotaler like Nora, don’t you? The prissy little bitch.” She screwed up her face when she said Nora’s name, and I was angry on the young girl’s behalf.

  “Nora’s a very sweet girl,” I said. “And she’s never done anything to you.”

  “Never done …” She looked at me sharply, then let out a bitter laugh. “Give me a break, Jun. Do you know how many roles she’s gotten this last year—roles that should have been mine? Do you realize what they’re doing to me? And now, as if that isn’t bad enough, she’s trying to take Ashley too.”

  At this her eyes welled, and I suddenly felt sorry for her. “Elizabeth,” I said gently, placing my hand on her shoulder. I had touched her this way a thousand times, but now, in the presence of all my guests, she fiinched and moved away. I felt it like a slap in the face.

  I could not remain there with her, so I walked off to find Phillipe and check the status of the fireworks preparations. Tyler and Vail had disappeared, and I wondered if they had already left. There was no time to think about that, however; Phillipe said the men I’d hired to stage the fireworks show were ready to begin. Phillipe and two others went inside the house and turned off all the lights, while I instructed the guests to gather on the west side of the lawn, where chairs had been arranged for everyone to sit. Once the guests were settled, Phillipe turned off the out-side lights and we all sat still in the darkness. Across the wide space of my parklike grounds, we watched a twenty-minute display of explosions, swirls, blooming fiowers of colorful light. The guests oohed and aahed at the firework that looked like a sprouting plant, which then put forth a burst of bright red petals; and again when one explosion produced a sprinkling of stars that blinked and glittered before they faded into the darkness. It was a wonderful display, ambitious for such a small setting, and when it was over, the crowd broke into a spontaneous cheer.

  “Here’s to the fireworks!” someone called out.

  “And here’s to Jun! To Jun Nakayama, for throwing such a wonderful party!”

  Everyone shouted and cheered and raised their glasses, and I bowed to them with a fiourish. The night had been a success. And despite all the complications, I now felt pleased with how everything had turned out.

  The waiters circulated with bottles of champagne, and the guests gathered to receive their drinks. As I looked around the yard, I realized that Elizabeth was missing— and I did not remember seeing her before the fireworks had started. She might have left, which would not have been particularly surprising considering how upset she had been. More likely, given the amount of her consumption, she had simply slipped away somewhere to rest. She knew every room in the house and would have felt perfectly comfortable letting herself into a guest room or the library, or asking Phillipe
to take her to my room. So after taking one last look around at the guests—who had all assumed the calmer rhythms of a long party winding down—I headed into the house to look for Elizabeth. I checked first in my own bedroom, which was undisturbed, and then in the downstairs library. I looked in the kitchen, in case she was getting something to eat, and then in the drawing room where she sometimes sat in front of the fire. Finding her in none of these usual spots, I ascended the back stairs and was surprised to encounter John Vail outside of one of the bedrooms, leaning against a wall and smoking a cigarette. His hair was slightly ruffled and his tie undone, and when he saw me, he appeared distinctly amused.

  “Hello there, handsome,” he said. “Quite a party, isn’t it?”

  We were standing in front of one of my many guest rooms. Sometimes when parties lasted late into the night, guests slept in this room to avoid returning home to angry spouses; sometimes two of them would stay here together. People had developed an understanding about this room over the years, and they knew that they did not have to ask my permission; that I’d know someone was taking advantage of this open invitation if the door to the bedroom was closed. It was closed now. And I could not understand why Vail was waiting outside, but I didn’t have time to inquire. “I’m not sure you want to do that,” he said as I placed my hand on the doorknob. But I pushed past him and opened the door and fiipped on the switch, bathing the room in light.

  Tyler and Elizabeth were standing at the foot of the bed, locked in an awkward embrace. Tyler’s hair had been tousled, his cheeks were fiushed, and his shirttails were hanging, untucked. And Elizabeth—she didn’t seem to realize or care that someone had turned on the light. Even as I stepped into the room with Vail right behind me, she continued doing what she was doing, which was trying to undress Tyler, one hand moving feverishly under his shirt and the other trying to open his belt buckle. She pressed against him and lifted her lips to his face, and he attempted to draw away.

  “Elizabeth, Elizabeth, you must pull yourself together.” Then, looking over at us, “Elizabeth, somebody’s here.”

  She did not seem to register this statement at first, for she continued to push against him. Then she turned, saw us standing there, and started to cry. She lowered her head now and began striking Tyler’s chest, and I could not look upon them anymore. I felt as if my gut had been ripped open. I did not know whether I was more upset with Tyler or Elizabeth; I just knew I had to get out of that room, to try and erase that image from my mind. All Elizabeth’s claims to the contrary were irrelevant now, and I did not wish to speak to her. It didn’t matter what denials or pleading would come. I had seen what I had seen.

  But perhaps I had not really seen what I had seen; perhaps the shock of sight obscures understanding. When I think back to that night with the wisdom of hindsight, I remember things that did not occur to me at the time. Like the fact that Elizabeth was fully clothed, and that Tyler’s voice and words were not consistent with the tone of seduction. Even as Tyler’s arms were circled around her, I later realized, he was not embracing her with the passion of a man embracing a woman, but with the care of someone holding something fragile together and trying to keep it from falling apart. Perhaps I did not fully understand what I had seen, but on the other hand, I understood enough. For whatever Tyler’s intentions toward Elizabeth were, her own true desires were clear.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  It is impossible to say what might have happened for Elizabeth if the next few months had been different. Although her time as a star might have ended regardless, perhaps she could have taken smaller roles. Or perhaps she could have retired from the screen altogether and moved on, as some did, to a different kind of life full of friends and charity functions, even family. Certainly either of these outcomes would have been more desirable than the one that finally awaited her.

  But it is morose to dwell on the end of Elizabeth’s career when there is much to consider now about my own. For despite my discomfort with the young Josh Dreyfus, he turned out to be true to his word, and someone from Perennial called me earlier this week to schedule me for a screen test. After our lunch at Castillo’s, I wasn’t confident that Dreyfus would contact me. But perhaps he had further discussions with Bellinger, or he was able to see some of my films, for the woman on the phone was extremely polite and sounded pleased about my imminent return.

  I am not ashamed to admit that I feel quite nervous, which is not surprising given the nature of this opportunity. I’ve found myself increasingly preoccupied of late with matters that have nothing to do with acting—things like what kind of clothing one wears for a screen test, and how early one should arrive. Less trivial are questions about how I should prepare, for while I am confident of learning my lines—and while I have experience with dialogue from my time in the theater—I have never, of course, spoken in front of a camera. Maybe it would be useful to attend a film or two in the coming days, so I can study how the actors use their voices. If I knew how one went about such things, I might even consider hiring a voice teacher, as did many of my fellow actors from the silent era during the swift transition to sound. I feel—oddly—more uncertain about this screen test than I did about my very first film, or even about the first play I put on at the Little Tokyo Theater. On the other hand, one could say that my lack of fear on those occasions was a mark of youthful ignorance, and I am all too aware now of how fortunate I was; of how quickly even the biggest stars can be forgotten.

  And yet, despite my hopefulness about this new film, I cannot let go of my recollections of the past. It has been years since I’ve reflected on what happened to Elizabeth, but I’ve found that, particularly since my conversation with Owen Hopkins, my thoughts keep turning to that time. And as I ponder the strange directions in which our lives sometimes take us, as I consider the opportunity that lies ahead of me now, my memories of developments in Elizabeth’s life give way to thoughts of certain moments in my own. For there were several key events in the months after my Independence Day party, events whose importance I tried to minimize at the time. They might not, in themselves, have been significant turning points. But at the very least, they presented themselves like markers on the road, signs that indicate where one might expect to arrive if one continues along the same path. Certainly one of those signs was my lunch with Gerard Normandy in October of 1921.

  We met at a restaurant in Hollywood, a new place that had opened in the rapidly expanding western part of town. As I waited for Gerard in the lobby—he was perpetually late— the maître d’ and waiters kept staring in my direction. They must have known who I was, and at first I thought they were debating whether it would be rude to approach for an autograph. But then at one point the discussion actually grew rather heated, until the men—no doubt conscious of their rising voices—looked back over at me and then grew still. I kept my eyes trained straight ahead, but I cannot deny that I was starting to feel uneasy. Usually when people were talking about me, it was with excitement or admiration—but these men seemed discomfited by my presence. So I was relieved when Gerard arrived a few minutes late, suit as rumpled as ever. He shook my hand and gave me a cheerful, “Good to see you, Jun!” Then after a short delay, we were guided to a table.

  It was rather an unfavorable seating arrangement, I remember—a small two-person table adjacent to the door where the waitstaff entered and exited the kitchen. It was not the kind of table at which men like Normandy and I were accustomed to being seated. The restaurant did not serve alcohol, this being Prohibition, and unlike some other diners who pulled bottles from under their tables, neither of us had secreted in any wine. But by this point I was so hungry that these inconveniences did not deter me. Gerard, for his part, didn’t seem to notice. Nor did he notice the less than adequate service, which was perfunctory almost to the point of being rude.

  We had a satisfactory lunch—I ordered fish and Gerard ate a large, rare steak, which I remember thinking would be good for his general vigor—and had moved on to coffee and apple
pie when Gerard wiped his mouth with a napkin and cleared his throat. “Look here, Jun,” he said. “I’d like to talk some business.”

  I had been anticipating something of this sort, for my three-year contract was due to expire the following March. It was not unusual for Normandy to broach the subject so early; it behooved both myself and the studio to settle terms for the next contract as quickly as possible. “Ah, yes,” I said, “the unromantic side of our business. I’m disappointed in you, Gerard. When we’ve done this before, it’s always been over port and cigars.”

  Normandy grimaced, as if smiling through a toothache. “Jun, we’re friends and you know how much I admire you. I first signed you, after all, took you right away from poor William Moran. But, well, I think we both realize that things have changed these last couple of years.”

  “Yes they have. Perennial’s been doing very well. I’ve heard people say it’s now the most powerful studio in Hollywood.” It was true. With hugely successful films like One Hundred Sins and Love Among the Ruins—and with the rise of stars like Gideon West, Lily Dawson, and Nathaniel Moore—Perennial seemed unstoppable, the nexus of creative and financial power in the motion picture industry.

  “Well, who’s really to say as far as those things go? But you’re right, it’s been a good time for the studio.” He paused, picked up his fork, and moved a piece of apple around on the plate. “The thing is, Jun, we haven’t had much luck with your pictures lately.”

  I had been smiling when Normandy started to speak, and now I took care to preserve my expression. “Perhaps you’re stating things a little too strongly, Gerard. Both Geronimo and The Cat’s Last Laugh did well.”