I was due to sail for Tokyo—once again—two weeks later, and I didn’t relish the idea of sending my family a telegram announcing another delay. But it would be disingenuous to say I wasn’t prepared for such a question, and as the people around me all fell into a hush, I pulled myself up straight. “A mystery,” I said, “entitled Double Bind. I saw it in a theater in Tokyo just before I sailed to America, and it was a fine piece of work, taut and resonant.” The businessmen all nodded solemnly, and then looked at Okamoto, who was as happy and red-faced as Buddha. “Well, prepare the theater, Okamoto!” the first businessman said. “The boy’s got a play to put on!”
The second play, Double Bind, was as successful as the first. It was followed by The Swallows, and then Futility and The Shadow of the Mountain, all plays that had been produced very recently by the new theater companies springing up in Tokyo. By the time the third play opened, the theater had become the talk of Boyle Heights and Little Tokyo—as had the young new actor/director behind it. I had been staying with the Yamada family through the summer months, but once I began to collect some of the earnings from the plays—and once it became clear that I would not be returning to Japan in the immediate future—I took two rooms in a house off Second Street. Now, suddenly, I was being recognized on the streets of Little Tokyo. People bought me drinks when I ate in local restaurants; launders competed for my business; middle-aged women offered me their daughters’ hands in marriage. I cannot claim that I didn’t enjoy this attention, but my real devotion—as it was from the moment I first demanded to speak to Okamoto—was to the quality of the plays we presented.
It was in the interest of expanding my artistic range that I decided to produce, as my next play, Twelfth Night. This was not the first work the theater had presented in English—one of the plays that Okamoto had produced before my arrival was an English translation of a German play—but it was the first that had been penned by an English-speaking writer. Few of the theatergoers were familiar with Shakespeare, and those who were had seen the master’s plays in Japanese translation, where much of his poetry and verbal trickery were lost. I did not know how well a Shakespeare play would be received in its original English, but I was ready to make the theatergoers stretch their minds—and I had built up enough credibility and good will by that point that the audience would trust me. Moreover, the backers of the theater, who were concerned with how the growing Japanese population was perceived by the Americans, were pleased by this production of a Western classic. It turned out that we gambled correctly. Although the actors were more nervous than usual—especially those who felt uncertain that they could convey the subtleties of English—the play was a tremendous success.
Because the production of Twelfth Night by a Japanese theater was considered somewhat of a novelty, this play garnered a level of interest that was completely unprecedented for the Little Tokyo Theater. For the first time, there were Caucasian faces in the audience. Then, a week into the run, a favorable review appeared in the Los Angeles Times, which had previously ignored the existence of Japanese in California except to express concern about their growing numbers. It was clear that our play was a hit. While Okamoto and some of the players were unnerved by this increased exposure, I enjoyed the fact that our work was receiving accolades from a broader audience. Then one night after a performance, an usher came into the dressing room and ceremoniously cleared his throat.
“Mr. Nakabayashi,” he said breathlessly, “someone is here to see you.”
I finished changing into my street clothes and stepped out into the hallway where I had first encountered Okamoto eight months earlier. There I saw a beautiful young Japanese woman and a slightly older Caucasian man. They both stepped forward to greet me.
I recognized the lady at once. She was Hanako Minatoya, the accomplished leader of the Kyoto Players, the traveling theater company. She had recently made the jump into the new medium of film, a move that had already met with considerable success. It was of no small significance that she had come to see me that evening. I was honored and terribly nervous.
“Mr. Nakabayashi,” she said in English, “I am Hanako Minatoya.”
I bowed deeply and forced myself to meet her lovely brown eyes. “I know precisely who you are, Miss Minatoya, and I am very humbled that you attended my play.”
“It was a pleasure,” she replied. “I am a true admirer. I have seen each one of your plays, and they continue to improve in quality. What you have done here is simply remarkable.” Here, she smiled enough to show her perfect white teeth, and I thought—although I probably imagined it—that a flush came into her cheeks. She was exquisite— small in frame, graceful in movement, but with an understated assurance. She had porcelain skin and a charming dimple when she smiled, as she did now.
“In that case, I am five times flattered,” I said. “I am an admirer of your work as well. In fact, I saw you perform two years ago in Madison, Wisconsin.”
She smiled again, and then turned to the man beside her, whose presence I had completely forgotten. “Mr. Nakabayashi, this is Mr. Moran of the Moran Film Company. I
