“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I can increase your salary to four hundred a week, but no more.” He paused. “You understand that this will make you the highest-paid actor in my company.”
“Mr. Normandy offered me a thousand, sir.”
“I don’t believe it. I think he’s bluffing to scare me. Go talk to him again, Jun, and then come back to me. I have no desire to lose you, that’s for sure. But I won’t get into a bidding war on such unreasonable terms.”
I considered him sadly. This was the man who had offered me my first two roles; this was the man who had brought me into pictures. My regret at leaving him was genuine, but the future was wide open now, and Mr. Normandy’s deal was simply too good to refuse. So while Moran raised the unlit cigar to his mouth, I stood and then bowed to him deeply. “Goodbye, Mr. Moran,” I said. “You have my sincerest gratitude.”
With that, I turned my back on the man who started my career. I felt sadness as I descended the steps from his office, and my spirits plummeted further when I saw Hanako, who was taking a break from filming her latest picture. She stood talking with Steve Hayashi, an easygoing young actor from her theater company who had also signed with Moran. She was dressed in a kimono and full white makeup, and she looked lovely, like a member of the royal court. When she saw me, she left Hayashi and walked over to where I stood. “Why are you so glum, Nakayama-san?” she asked.
I peered at her sadly, understanding that my departure from Moran’s film company would result in the end of my regular contact with her. It occurred to me that this would be a significant loss. I thought of Elizabeth Banks, who I had seen now at several more parties. But whatever need Elizabeth ignited in me, it was not her with whom I wished to share my days. “I am leaving Moran Films,” I said with as much assurance as I could muster. “I am joining Mr. Normandy’s new company.”
She looked at me, not with the surprise or anger I expected, but with an expression of sad resignation. Perhaps the losses she had already suffered, as well as her own experience with the vagaries of show business, had inured her to these inevitable transitions. “I am sorry to hear that,” she said. “I have enjoyed working with you.”
“And I with you. My debt to you is immeasurable.”
“You will go far, Nakayama-san. I have no doubt. Your talent is unequalled by that of any other young actor. Indeed, it drives me to work harder.”
I did not reply at first, for I was again moved by her assessment, which was more meaningful than any critic’s praise. “Thank you, Minatoya-san,” I finally said. And then, having no idea of how true this would be: “You will always be the standard against which I measure myself. May I always fall just short of your mark.”
She glanced toward the ocean and my eyes followed, but not before I saw her face in profile, the exquisite jaw, the long and graceful neck. “These last few months,” she said. “I wish …” And here she stopped, just as a particularly large wave broke against the cliff beneath us, sending a spray of water almost to our feet. “You will be missed. I hope that no matter where our lives may take us, you and I will continue to be friends.”
“I would like nothing more,” I said, looking into her face, and our eyes met for a moment before I turned and walked away.
CHAPTER FOUR
October 5, 1964
The Green Lantern, on Santa Monica Boulevard, is one of the few true coffee shops in Hollywood. It is still rare in this part of the country to find a comfortableplace that lends itself to discussion or study. In New York, in San Francisco, such cafés abound—perhaps because of the greater concentration of people; perhaps because of the higher value those cities place on the workings of the mind. But in Los Angeles, where one needs a car to run even the most mundane errands, and people seldom gather to engage in substantive conversation, it is still difficult to find a place where one can spend the afternoon relaxing with a book or companion.
When young Bellinger suggested the Green Lantern as a place for our next meeting, my opinion of him only improved. It had already risen, frankly, since I’d read the articles he gave me. His piece on Faulkner’s screenplays struck the appropriate balance between appreciation for the presence of this great talent in Hollywood, and sadness that such a genius set aside his primary work in order to pursue a stable livelihood. His article on the film adaptation of Truman Capote’s first novel was astute in its observations on the limits of film in conveying the subtle rhythms of written language. His long essay on the activities of certain Hollywood stars in politics included several interesting points about the interplay of real life and image, although I was uneasy with the notion that actors should attempt to get involved in the great issues of the modern world. Nonetheless, I saw in the body of Bellinger’s work a sensitivity and wisdom that belied his years, and this greatly increased my willingness to speak with him about my own career.
I arrived at the Green Lantern ten minutes before our meeting time; Bellinger again was slightly late. He seemed harried—his dark hair was even more unkempt than the first time we met, and his eyes darted back and forth across the room. While we were waiting for our drinks to arrive, I told him how much I’d enjoyed his articles. At this, Bellinger brightened again and thanked me. Once the waitress arrived with our coffee and tea, he took out his notepad and asked me to recount my
