She now comes with me to Pasadena on a regular basis, in the new car I purchased—a Jaguar Mark II—after the police gave up looking for the Packard. Because we suddenly had something more to talk about, and an activity in common, we found that our Saturday breakfasts were not sufficient. We started having breakfast, and then dinner, two or three times a week, and then, almost without even noticing the transition, we were dining together every day. Since it was expensive to eat out so often, Mrs. Bradford began to have me to her house. Our conversations about Charlie led us to a more personal vein of discussion—she told me more, in those months, of the challenge of being a professional woman in the years she worked for the library; of her marriage to Mr. Bradford; of her complicated feelings of both pride and disappointment in their three adult children. I told her of my family and how I came to the U.S., and finally shared with her some of the details of my career. I never spoke about Nora or the Tyler murder, nor about the circumstances surrounding Charlie’s birth. It may be that she had figured it out, or at least discerned that he was not conceived in marriage. She never pushed me for details, never asked about his mother. But our talk inevitably returned to him, his disposition and interests and needs. One evening I expressed my lingering regret that he had not gotten to live a normal life.
“He’s happy, Jun,” Mrs. Bradford said. “No, he’s not going to accomplish great things in the world—but he’s cared for, he has friends, and he has no real troubles. And now he’s got you, whether he knows what you are to him or not. He goes to sleep every night completely at peace. How many people can say that? I mean, honestly, Jun. Is it really such a terrible life?”
I have found that, as in this particular instance, Mrs. Bradford possesses genuine wisdom. This past year has been a happy one, and—why not admit it?—part of my gladness has to do with her steadying company. When we take dinner together, when we drive through the Arroyo Seco toward Pasadena and see the San Gabriel Mountains covered with snow, I am sometimes filled with a sense of contentment that I would previously have found unimaginable. And when we sit in the garden with Charlie, working on a puzzle or watching the cats with the fresh smell of eucalyptus around us, I can’t imagine how my life could be improved.
One afternoon about two months ago, as Mrs. Bradford and I were driving through Hollywood, we saw a large billboard on the side of the Boulevard. It was an ad for a film called Stranger in Paradise, and it wasn’t until I saw the glowering image of my old acquaintance Steve Hayashi that I realized it was Bellinger’s movie. I was so undone I almost drove off the road, and when we came to a stop at the next traffic light, Mrs. Bradford touched my arm. “What is it?” she asked, and I told her what I’d seen. The movie had been made after all.
In the following weeks, I heard more about Stranger in Paradise. The reviews were mixed, but thanks to an aggressive marketing campaign, the film did fairly well at the box office. Dreyfus had the hit he wanted, and while I did see one article that commented on the stereotypically evil figure of Takano, no one else seemed bothered by the characterization. I did not see the film, although I couldn’t help but read the articles, and then one day while I was going through the channels on television, I happened upon an interview with Nick Bellinger.
He looked totally different now than he had when I met him. His unruly hair was short and slicked back; his shabby clothes had been replaced by tailored slacks and a fresh, new button-down shirt. There remained a hint of awkwardness about him, but for the most part his manner was remarkably polished. The interviewer asked how he had conceived of the character of Takano, and Bellinger took a studied pause before answering. “Well, I’ve always been interested in the legacies of war,” he said. “It’s often such an intangible thing, and I wanted to see what would happen if an actual, tangible part of the war—a war criminal—was placed in the midst of this small American town.”
I shook my head. Bellinger had called me after my meeting with Dreyfus, trying to convince me to take the part. “I know it’s different from what we talked about,” he pleaded. “But this is our big chance. This is your big chance. Once this film is done, then you’ll have other opportunities, and the real power to affect what kinds of roles you play.”
“That is what they told me fifty years ago,” I said. I didn’t tell him the rest of what I knew—that once you gave up even a little of yourself, it wasn’t long before you gave up everything. But he’d learn that for himself soon enough.
It would be dishonest to claim that I did not have mixed feelings; that I didn’t experience certain pangs of envy. When I saw Steve Hayashi’s face on the billboard, and later, in the paper, I couldn’t help but imagine being in his place. I would have conducted interviews and appeared on television. I would have been recognized again on the street. An appearance in that film could have led to more parts, and I might—at long last—have resumed my career. Certainly I was always a stronger actor than Steve, and no matter how limited the role of Takano was, I could have brought to it a level of depth and complexity that was simply beyond his capabilities. On the other
