But perhaps, upon further reflection, Nora Niles would have been too young to play the role of Diane, even at the height of her fame. Nora was only twenty-one, after all, when the events occurred that drove her from the screen altogether. She never got a chance to play anything but spirited children and sad young teens. She wasn’t in pictures long enough to play a true adult.
CHAPTER SIX
October 13, 1964
Last Saturday, as usual, I met Mrs. Bradford for breakfast. Outside of monthly meetings with my property management firm, these breakfasts are my only consistent appointments. I don’t mean to give the impression that I am lacking for things to do; in fact, I often attend the symphony or the theater. I also hold memberships to several museums, which I visit when there are notable exhibits. Moreover, I dine out several evenings a week, and I even—before I began to tire so easily on long drives—took frequent trips to Santa Barbara or the mountains.
Almost always, I undertake these excursions alone. There is something to be said for experiencing great art, or nature, by oneself; the absence of other people makes the enjoyment more pure, and one’s perceptions grow acute and discerning. And certainly it is easier to make arrangements for one, as nobody else’s requirements or whims can ever affect my plans. Nonetheless, I cannot deny that it is pleasant to occasionally partake in the company of others. This is why my regular meals and conversations with Mrs. Bradford have come to be so agreeable.
We have tried many different establishments in the Hollywood area, both classic diners like the Silver Spoon on Hollywood Boulevard and newer restaurants on Vermont and Santa Monica, but the place we have settled on as our mutual favorite is a quiet, older restaurant on La Brea. The proprietor, a Mr. Earhardt, makes superb spinach omelets, and I look forward to his cooking all week. That particular morning, Mrs. Bradford wanted to meet later than usual, which gave me time to visit my barber. My hair had started to look somewhat untidy; indeed, the previous Saturday Mrs. Bradford had joked that I would soon fit in with the scruffy youths out on the Boulevard.
I entered the restaurant a few minutes early and found Mrs. Bradford already seated at the window table. She was wearing a yellow and white striped blouse and new white tennis shoes, and she seemed, as always, more youthful than her age. It is not that Mrs. Bradford looks younger than her sixty-some years; her hair is silver and there are wrinkles on her face and hands. But there is an alertness in her posture, a quickness, a perpetual brightness in her eyes, that makes it seem as if she is always poised for an adventure.
She greeted me warmly as I sat down, and as soon as I ordered my food, she launched into an involved story about the raccoon fight she’d broken up in her garden the previous evening. I tried to give the impression that I was following her story, but she must have sensed that my mind was elsewhere, for she stopped in mid-sentence and looked at me.
“What’s the matter, Mr. Nakayama? You don’t seem to be with me this morning.”
I apologized and explained that I had been busy all week, and was still rather preoccupied.
“Is it because of the reporter? You met him this week, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” I said. “As it so happens, I did meet the young man. Twice, in fact. And I read several of his pieces. They’re very good.”
“Did you like him? Did you grant him an interview?”
“I did like him. He knew a great deal about the silent film era, and it appears he will be writing about me.” I considered telling her about Perennial and the possible movie role, but it felt too premature. It would inspire a rash of questions from her, I suspected, and more interest than I could cope with at the moment. My feeling was only confirmed when Mrs. Bradford smiled and said, “So now you have someone paying attention to you. No wonder you got a haircut.”
“What do you mean?” I said. “My hair was getting long.”
“Yes, but people often take better care of themselves when they want to impress somebody.”
“Perhaps,” I said, attempting to quell my irritation. “But that’s not the case where Mr. Bellinger’s concerned. Besides, for all you know, I could be trying to impress you.”
This caught her off guard, and she laughed a bit, but it had the intended effect. When she spoke again, she addressed a different topic. “It must be strange to revisit that part of your life after all of these years.”
“Yes, in fact, it is rather odd.”
“You know, I’m dying to see one of your movies. Do you still have them around somewhere?”
I gave a short laugh. “No, I believe they have all been lost, and if any do remain, I do not possess them.”
“What a shame. There must be some, somewhere.” She brightened. “What about old photographs or movie magazines?”
“What about them?”
“Well, I’d love to read about you, silly. And maybe see some old photos.”
“I do have some of those things, but they have all been put away.”
“What do you mean,
