The Age of Dreaming

her mouth that denoted a certain world-weariness, a hard-earned wisdom. This woman, for all her radiance, had known disappointments, had lived, and it was the incongruity of these elements—her loveliness and the scars that even beauty could not hide—that so captured me that evening of our youth. I watched her for several minutes. She appeared to be in the middle of a long, involved story, and the men listened eagerly as she gestured with her graceful hands, and laughed in unison whenever she paused. She pulled out another cigarette and held it, suspended, while the men all fumbled in their pockets to produce a match. I was so involved in watching her that I completely lost track of the directors’ conversation.

“… isn’t that right, Jun?” said Moran, with an affectionate elbow to my arm.

“Excuse me, Mr. Moran?” I said, bringing myself back to my immediate company.

“I was telling Gerard that I’ve got to write you up another contract, before one of these sharks here tries to steal you away.”

This was a topic we had discussed frequently in recent weeks. My two-picture contract had been fulfilled, and I was under no obligation to work with Moran again. With the success of my films—and with the American public’s growing interest in Japanese subject matter—I was suddenly a desirable property. But at that moment, I had no interest in discussing contract matters. “Pardon me, Mr. Moran,” I said. “I was momentarily distracted.”

Normandy, another rising young filmmaker who had shown interest in my work, looked over to where I had been staring. “Ah, you’ve been distracted by Miss Banks,” he said, laughing. “As you can see, many gentlemen are distracted by Miss Banks.”

At that very moment, the four men standing around her burst into laughter again, and she happened to look over in my direction. Our eyes met and she smiled, tilting her head slightly as if asking me a question. Then she turned back to her admirers.

“Who is Miss Banks, sir, if I may ask?”

“She’s an actress,” Normandy answered. “A comic actress, not your speed. Very charming, but a real handful— temperamental as hell, and a bit too friendly with the bottle. I’ve worked with her once, and it was an experience I won’t soon forget. They don’t call her the Mistress of Mayhem for nothing.”

“We better keep Jun away from her,” Moran said, smiling. “If she has the same effect on him that she does on those poor fools, she’ll use him up and leave us with the shell of an actor. And besides, she’s too old for you, Jun. I believe she’s twenty-five.”

“Ah, it may be too late,” said Normandy. Miss Banks had broken away from her circle of men and was proceeding to walk straight toward us. She appeared to feel no trace of self-consciousness or modesty, despite the eyes that reached toward her like hands. It was clear from the way she carried herself—confidently, smiling—that she was accustomed to being watched.

“Mr. Normandy,” she said, offering her long, graceful hand, and the director, smiling wryly and suddenly flushed, obligingly bent over and kissed it. “Mr. Moran,” she said, curtseying. “How good to see you.” She did not even acknowledge Mrs. Moran, who glared at her disapprovingly. Then she turned her attention to me. “I’m Elizabeth Banks. And who might you be?”

When her dark green eyes fixed on my face, all language momentarily escaped me. “Jun Nakayama,” I finally managed, bowing deeply. “I have made two films for Mr. Moran.”

“Ah, we should all be so lucky,” she said, giving my employer a bemused look. “Mr. Moran has never expressed an interest in my services. I must say I’m rather insulted.”

Moran smiled. “I don’t think I’m the proper director to bring out your genius, Miss Banks. You know my strong suit is serious drama.”

“Well, where did you find this one?” she asked, nodding at me. “His presence has made your pictures a hundred times better. They’re almost watchable now.”

Both men laughed, and I realized that she knew precisely who I was. I, to my dismay, was unaware of her work, although the two directors’ responses to her, and the whispered pointing from the other partygoers, confirmed that she was indeed a figure of importance. Just then, the director James Greene approached and engaged the attention of both Normandy and Moran. That left me alone to contend with Miss Banks.

“Well, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Nakayama,” she said. “The screen does not do you justice.”

I had no idea how to respond. Despite her compliment, or because of it, I felt tongue-tied and hopelessly awkward. And I was stirred by her voice, which was textured and deep, making even the most innocent phrases sound like veiled promises.

“You know,” she said, leaning in so close I could feel her breath on my cheek, “Moran’s a good director, but he’s not a top rate director. You should talk to some other people before you sign another contract.”

“He has been very kind to me,” I protested.

“I know, I know,” she said. “But with the right men behind you, you could become a bigger star than Moran could ever imagine.” As she said the word “star,” she lay her hand on my arm—and even through the material of my jacket and shirt, I could feel the heat of her touch. I sucked in my breath and felt a current course through me, as powerful and direct as an electric shock. And it was at that moment that Miss Banks smiled up at me and said, “You certainly are a handsome devil, aren’t you?”

All the qualities I witnessed in Elizabeth Banks that night—her bemusement and beauty, her directness, her effect on men—were qualities that remained consistent throughout the years of our acquaintance. In the shamefully small amount that has been written about Elizabeth, there is—perhaps inevitably—far too much emphasis on her personal entanglements and her role in some of the period’s more unfortunate episodes. She was, indeed, a compelling figure, and the story of her rise