The Rafu Shimpo, on the other hand, approved of this film. “Nakayama finally plays a man of character,” its critic reflected. “A definite step forward in portrayals of Japanese men.”
While the film was a disappointment to Normandy and Benjamin Dreyfus—who’d done everything he could to promote it—it also drew enough good notices for Nora Niles that she was picked to star in several new projects. Her growing popularity was good for the studio, but it was only a matter of time before it started to affect the careers of other Perennial actresses. For the fortunes of one could not rise, of course, without the waning in the fortunes of others.
During this time, I saw very little of Hanako Minatoya. We ran into each other occasionally at premieres or other events; and there was also the O-bon Festival in Little Tokyo one year, where we met at the Buddhist temple and then set lanterns on the Los Angeles River to guide the visiting spirits of our ancestors back home. Every few months, in addition, we would meet for tea in the garden of her house in Pico Heights, and talk for hours amongst the cacti and succulents she cared for as tenderly as children. Hanako was as busy as I with work, although she still spent much of her time doing theater. She was offered many more roles in pictures than she actually took, and while this certainly affected her financial state, she seemed wholly unconcerned with fiscal matters. In fact, other than requisite appearances at the premieres of her films, Hanako did not have much to do with Hollywood; nor, outside of me, did she socialize with picture people. But she appeared quite content on those afternoons when I visited, always excited about her current theater project. And if she ever felt alone in that cavernous house, she certainly didn’t show it.
One Saturday afternoon in May, we drove up to Santa Barbara to shoot a short promotional film at the behest of our respective employers. We arrived in time to have dinner with the director—a young newcomer from Perennial—and then retired early to our rooms. By 5:00 a.m. we were up again, in order to start shooting at 7:00. The whole process was very short, not even three hours, and by 10:00 the filming was done. At that point, I had not yet spent much time in Santa Barbara—which was still, in 1917, a provincial little town—and it seemed a pity to leave that beautiful area without doing a bit of exploring. So as we checked out of the hotel the studio had arranged, I asked Hanako if she was anxious to return to Los Angeles.
“No,” she said. “Are you? I’d much rather stay here. Our lives will still be there when we get back.”
And so we spent the rest of the day there in Santa Barbara, as giddy as children skipping school. Hanako, who loved the ocean, wanted to stroll along the beach, and we walked for two hours up and down that lovely coast, which was wilder than the coastline of Los Angeles. Dark bluffs jutted out over the surface of the sand, and the Santa Ynez mountains stood directly behind us, as green and gentle as the mountains of Japan. It was a gorgeous day, the sun tempered by a cool ocean breeze, and I was glad I had brought a change of casual clothes—linen slacks and a button-down shirt. Hanako wore a flowered blue short-sleeve dress and a wide-rimmed summer hat, which made her look charmingly young. When we ventured down to the edge of the water and the surf splashed her toes, she laughed with surprise and delight.
Although the air did not feel especially warm, the sun must have been quite strong, for Hanako noticed that my cheeks were getting red. And so we wandered down State Street until we found a gentlemen’s clothing store, where I tried on several pieces of headwear before choosing a cream-colored hat with a brown cloth strip along the base.
“He looks quite handsome, doesn’t he?” remarked the middle-aged salesman, who did not appear to know who I was.
Hanako considered me out of the corner of her eye and replied, “I suppose he looks acceptable.”
For lunch, we found a café by the edge of the water, where we watched the seagulls and pelicans fighting for space along the railings of the pier. Although our waiter was polite and attentive, it was clear he didn’t realize that he was serving two Hollywood actors. Instead of being offended, we both felt freed, enjoying the novelty of not being watched, of not having to worry that our actions might later haunt us in a gossip column or a studio scolding.
“And our special of the day is a salmon,” our young waiter recited, “served with a dill sauce as well as locally grown rice and greens.”
“I’ll have the salmon,” I decided.
“Wonderful. And what would you like to drink with your meal, Mr.—”
“Tanaka,” I said, which drew a smile from Hanako, before I told him I preferred white wine.
“Perfect. The salmon and a glass of Chardonnay.” Then, turning to Hanako: “And what about Mrs. Tanaka?”
We lingered over our meals, each of us drinking two glasses of wine, watching the boats move slowly across the bay. Neither of us was ready yet to make the trip back home, and when the waiter told us about a cultural event taking place that afternoon, we decided on the spur of the moment to go. The Santa Barbara Community Arts Association, comprised of writers, artists, musicians, and patrons, was having its inaugural celebration at a place called Book Haven, which he assured us was a worthy destination in itself.
And so we followed his directions away from the beach, driving until we’d passed beyond the outskirts of town, so far I thought he’d somehow been mistaken. But then finally we came upon a large wooden sign with the words Book Haven
