Bellinger listened and nodded. “Was there any discussion of you losing your contract when the Normandy Players were rolled into Perennial?”
“No. In fact, when Perennial was formed, I received a new contract as well as a significant raise.”
“And the parts changed, I noticed. You went from light comedies and Japanese period pieces to roles that were more substantial.”
I straightened my back and lifted my chin before I answered. “Mr. Bellinger, the roles I played were never in substantial.”
He fumbled with his cup and leaned anxiously over the table. “Oh yes, sir, I know. What I mean is, at Perennial you became a genuine star.”
I nodded. “Well, yes, I would say that’s accurate.”
“They knew they had something in you, obviously.”
“Yes, they certainly did. I had made perhaps twenty films by that time, and most of them did well. But my time at Perennial was certainly the height of my career. Gerard Normandy ensured that Perennial acquired suitable material—and Benjamin Dreyfus, a top executive there, was a genius at distribution and marketing.”
“Benjamin Dreyfus!” exclaimed Bellinger, so loudly that he startled me. “I know exactly who Benjamin Dreyfus is!” Then, more to himself than to me: “No, no, I shouldn’t even bring this up yet.”
“What is it?” I knew that whatever he might have in mind, it was not a living Benjamin Dreyfus. Dreyfus had been a key figure in the studio’s growth, but he died twenty years ago, and I attended his funeral, where I sat in the back of the crowded Westside synagogue to avoid the familiar faces.
There was a new excitement in Bellinger’s eyes—he seemed more animated, even, than in our first meeting. “Well, his grandson, Josh, is a vice president now at Perennial. And he’s a very good friend of mine.”
I looked at him patiently, wondering what he would think I could possibly find interesting in this fact about Dreyfus’ progeny.
Bellinger shook his head like a wet dog trying to rid himself of water. “No, I’m going about this all wrong.” He leaned over the table and considered me intently; for a moment, I thought he might grab my collar. “Mr. Nakayama,” he said, “I’m not just a reporter. I’m also a screenwriter. I’ve had three short films produced in the last two years, and I’ve just finished my first full-length screenplay. The reason I’m telling you about my friend Josh Dreyfus is that he and Perennial are interested in buying it. And the reason I suddenly got all worked up is that if Perennial does decide to make this picture, I’d really like for you to be in it.”
I just looked at him; I did not know what to say. Bellinger must have seen my surprise, because he leaned back and spoke more calmly.
“I know this is coming out of left field, Mr. Nakayama, and I’m sorry. But you see, there’s a part in the film for an older Japanese man, and I wrote it with you in mind, even before I knew I’d ever get to meet you. Then when I did track you down for the article, I didn’t want to mention it right away because I wasn’t sure if you’d still have … if you’d still be … oh, I don’t know. I didn’t know if I’d still feel the same way about you. But you’ve still got it—the looks, the presence, everything.”
By this point I had gathered myself sufficiently to fashion a reply. “I am flattered, Mr. Bellinger, but really, I cannot imagine doing another movie. It’s been more than forty years since my last one, and the making of films has changed so much since then. The movies of today bear little resemblance to the pictures we made in my time. Besides, I have grown comfortable with my privacy.”
“I understand all that, sir, and I realize this whole thing must seem very strange. But I can assure you that Josh Dreyfus is as excited as I am about bringing you back to the screen. And before you break my heart by saying no, would you at least take a look at the script?”
I sighed. I was, in fact, flattered by the young man’s proposal, but the idea of appearing in front of a camera again was ludicrous. I am an old man now, four decades past my prime. It would be like an aging athlete trying to recapture his youth, despite his aching joints and bad vision. Certainly I didn’t want to dash the young man’s hopes, but I was comfortably retired. “All right,” I said, “I will at least read the script. But I am telling you the answer is no.”
Bellinger beamed brightly at this modest concession. “Thank you, Mr. Nakayama. My mother will be thrilled— she’s so excited I’ve met you. And my father … well, maybe if I get this film made, it will help him calm down about my future.”
“Does your father not approve of what you do?”
“Oh,” said Bellinger, glancing down at the table, “I don’t know. I don’t want to burden you with my troubles. They’re kind of silly.”
“Young man, one’s troubles are never silly. What is silly is when one chooses not to acknowledge them.”
He looked up at me uncertainly, and his whole bearing seemed to change. “Well, all right. Maybe you can understand this a bit. My father’s getting impatient with this whole writing thing. He thinks it’s unstable and he wants me to go to law school or business school, something that will make me some money.”
“But you appear to be doing very well.”
“Kind of, I guess,
