The Age of Dreaming

various categories as selected by their readers. I had attended this function the two previous years with Hanako Minatoya. But this year, because of the success of Sleight of Hand, it seemed appropriate that Elizabeth and I attend together. We’d originally planned to go with several friends from the Normandy Players—the arrangements for such functions were not as tightly controlled as they would be just a year or two later—but when the logistics became too complicated, I proposed to Elizabeth that I just pick her up myself. I dressed in my best tuxedo and had my driver take me over to her house. And when I saw her in the doorway, I was immediately glad—and also proud—that I would be her escort. She looked beautiful. She wore a long black gown that emphasized the lovely contours of her body. The diamonds around her neck drew attention to the fragile collarbone, and her hair was tied up in intricate curls. When I stood beside the car and clasped my hands over my heart, she laughed. “You don’t look so bad yourself,” she said, glancing at me slyly. On the drive downtown, I held her hand, so thrilled by her proximity and the reception of our work that I thought my heart would burst.

When we arrived at the grand new Tiffany Hotel, I expected to be received as we had been at our premiere— the red carpet, the flashing cameras, the clamoring fans. But when I helped Elizabeth out of the car, the people all looked at us oddly. No one rushed over to greet us as we approached the front entrance, and despite the large crowd, it was eerily quiet. Then finally, near the doorway, a young man approached. “Why, welcome, Miss Banks, Mr. Nakayama,” he said. “I’m Stephen Ward, from Moving Image. Please come inside.”

Entering the dining room, we were met with the same curious silence—someone’s face would light up when they saw Elizabeth or me, and then cloud over when they saw who we were with. The director Brett Roy walked up as we headed toward the front and clapped me rather hard on the shoulder. “Good to see you, Jun. Yes, it’s quite good to see you. Not afraid to rock the boat a bit, I see.” But before I could respond, he’d moved away.

Stephen Ward from Moving Image appeared again and guided us over the Oriental rugs to a table in the corner. Elizabeth frowned when he pulled out her chair. “You’re putting us in an out-of-the-way spot, don’t you think? We can hardly see the stage.”

“Uh, yes, I apologize, Miss Banks. The center tables are already reserved.”

The center tables were, in fact, all half-empty, but I was not in the mood to press the issue. Elizabeth gave him a displeased look, but then settled down into her chair. We had arrived twenty minutes before the start of the formal program. In the intervening time, people whispered and glanced over at us, but no one approached. I looked out at the room—the elegant tables with thick white table-cloths, the crystal chandeliers, the sea of furs and hats and diamonds and tuxedos—and suddenly felt completely unnerved.

“This is bullshit,” said Elizabeth, crossing her arms. The waiter had left two large glasses of champagne, and she was drinking, I thought, a bit too rapidly.

“Elizabeth,” I said in a warning tone.

“Oh, come on, Jun. Don’t you see what’s happening here?”

“Elizabeth, please try to calm down.”

She stared at me as if she would have liked to empty her drink in my face. Just at that moment, mercifully, Gerard Normandy sat down beside me. He was jumpy, fingers drumming the table, shifting in his seat, but I didn’t think much of it because he never sat totally still. His thinning brown hair, as usual, was wild as a bird’s nest; it was rumored he went days without sleep.

“Good to see you, Jun, Elizabeth,” he said a little too cheerfully. “I heard that you were here.” He and I sat talking about the scheduled events for that night, while Elizabeth pointedly ignored us. After a few minutes, Normandy leaned close and said in a low voice, “Listen, Jun. I know you and Elizabeth see a lot of each other, but you should have talked to me about your plans for tonight.”

I looked at him. “I don’t know what you mean.”

A flush shot through his cheeks and settled in his ears, which turned an alarming shade of red. “I just mean … well, you must know what I mean. This isn’t exactly a private occasion.”

I hardly had time to consider the implications of what he’d told me before Elizabeth turned toward him, eyes blazing. “This is bunk,” she said, too loudly. “You’re all such hypocrites. You think that no one knows about your Chinese whore? Or Leonard Stillman’s Mexican mistress? Or your own director who’s taken up with one of the girls from Hanako Minatoya’s company? At least Jun and I have the dignity to appear together in public. Oh, and there’s another difference between us and the rest of you lying bastards—we’re not even fucking!”

She said this last bit in an elevated voice that must have traveled across the room, for all conversation stopped. Normandy turned an even brighter shade of red. “I’m just telling you,” he said, “we all need to be careful. Considering how sensitive everyone is about the film, it’s better not to instigate them further.”

With that he left us, and the room exploded in conversation. “Waiter,” called out Elizabeth, “bring another glass of champagne. Actually, just bring the whole bottle.”

We sat there hardly speaking until finally it was time for the program to begin. And while the center tables did eventually fill up, no one else joined us in the corner. With the lights down and the program under way, it was easier to forget our discomfort. The event was not particularly long—a few speeches, some joking, and then the awards. Despite the success of Sleight of Hand, it did