“Good to meet you,” said Mr. Moran, holding out his hand. I offered mine in return, and he shook it heartily.
While I had not recognized William Moran by face, I certainly knew who he was. He’d directed half a dozen successful films in the year since he’d established his company, including three that featured Miss Minatoya. He was admired, and also somewhat controversial, because he actually used Chinese and Japanese actors to play Oriental parts, instead of following the usual practice of making Caucasian actors up to look like Orientals. Moran was medium-sized and stocky, with baggy clothes that befitted a salesman more than an artist. Although he was only in his early thirties when I met him, he had the focus and assurance of an older man. After I thanked him for coming to see my performance, he moved closer and quickly cut to the chase.
“Look here, Nakabayashi,” he said. “I’d like to sign you to a picture. I’ve got a film in production that takes place in Japan during an epic battle, and I need a male lead. I was scratching my head to figure out who was strong enough to play opposite Hanako—the actors I already have are all crap—and she insisted that I come and see your play. She was right. You’re tremendous—you have the kind of natural talent and intensity I’m looking for. Forgive me for being presumptuous here, but you need to move on from this neighborhood theater. And we need to do something about your name right away. It’s really just too damned long.”
I didn’t know what to say to this. Eight months before, when I’d stormed into that very hall, I had no inkling that I would ever be involved in a play, let alone offered a part in a picture. Even after I was established, and my plays consistently successful, I’d had no idea that Hanako Minatoya was aware of my work, or that she’d recommend me to her very own company. In those eight months, I had received a lifetime’s worth of good fortune. I was under the admiring gaze of a beautiful and accomplished woman, and being offered a role by one of the rising young powers in the brand-new industry of moving pictures. I already knew what to do about my name. I would simply use the shortened version of my given name, and assume the surname of my beloved high school literature teacher, Nakayama-sensei.
“I am left speechless by your offer, Mr. Moran,” I said, “and I would be honored to appear in your picture.” And with those words, I became Jun Nakayama, an actor in American films.
CHAPTER THREE
I see that I’ve become somewhat carried away by these thoughts of my early career. But these digressions are surely related to the nature of this morning’s appointment. What I had intended to discuss before I grew so distracted was my meeting with the writer, Nick Bellinger.
About twenty minutes after I saw the family with the little girls—and thus ten minutes past our scheduled meeting time—a young man came walking briskly from Santa Monica Boulevard and headed directly for the bench where I was sitting. He was thin, of medium height, with unruly brown hair, wearing blue jeans and a brown leather jacket. He had on horn-rimmed glasses that intensified the green of his eyes, and he carried a worn leather briefcase. He broke into a large grin when he saw me, and as he neared the bench, he asked the same thing he had on the phone: “Excuse me, sir, but are you Jun Nakayama?”
“Indeed I am,” I said. “And you must be Nick Bellinger.”
I stood up to shake his hand. He was perhaps four inches taller than I, and he grinned like a schoolboy, although I guessed his age to be around thirty. We talked of insignificant things as we walked back to Santa Monica Boulevard: the weather, the restoration of the park. Bellinger was gracious and eager, holding my elbow when I misjudged a curb, and he seemed to lack the anger and restlessness that was starting to infect so many other young people of his generation. At the restaurant he chose—a newer place with too-bright furnishings—we took a booth by the window and ordered refreshments: coffee for Bellinger and tea for myself. After the waitress left, he looked at me, still grinning.
“You’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Nakayama,” he said. “I still can’t quite believe that I’m talking to you. I’ve seen four of your films—Sleight of Hand and The Noble Servant are my favorites—and even though I also love John Gilbert and Lionel Barrymore and some of your other contemporaries, to me, you were the best of the lot.”
Something about the young man’s manner put me instantly at ease. “Why, thank you, Mr. Bellinger. But really, my work was not terribly significant. Just a few films before the advent of sound.”
“Oh, I beg to differ, Mr. Nakayama! It was extremely significant. You brought an understatement and intensity to the screen that were totally new at a time when histrionics and overacting were the norm. Your work influenced everyone from Humphrey Bogart to Montgomery Clift.”
Indeed, I had heard this claim on many occasions, and I’d also heard that Mr. Clift, in private conversation, had credited me for shaping his view of acting.
“I am afraid,” I said, “that not everyone shares your view.”
“Well then that is their loss, sir. And their ignorance does not diminish for a moment the importance of your accomplishments.”
I decided that Bellinger, while sloppily dressed and badly coifed, was actually a young man of substance and character. As the waitress reappeared with our drinks, I asked, “How did you happen to see so many of my films? It is not a simple matter to locate them.”
“My father is a silent film nut. He has
