“Minatoya-san,” I said, bowing deeply and hiding my suddenly crimson face. Our ease of a few weeks earlier was gone; I felt awkward and entirely humbled. “You have out-done yourself. Words cannot express.”
“Thank you, Nakayama-san,” she responded, bowing in return. “It really is not very significant.”
“On the contrary. Your characterization, the story, are both admirable.”
“Really, it is the other players who are worthy of notice.”
We continued along with this somewhat stilted conversation, and I found myself unable to say what I was thinking, or to even fully grasp what that was. But I was struck now by the difference between this Hanako in front of me and the one I’d just observed on stage. For she possessed herself again. The curtain was drawn. All signs of passion and vulnerability had been taken in, like a bright, rippling flag that’s been lowered, folded, and neatly stored away for the night. And this controlled, contained person bore little resemblance to the pained and open character on stage. I knew that what I’d watched was simply a depiction; that her seemingly open persona invited viewers to think they were truly seeing her. I also knew that Hanako intended that confusion, that complete identification with the character. Yet there was something in the extreme guardedness she exhibited now that immediately shut off that invitation. She so discouraged any suggestion that her play was related to life that I wondered which Hanako—the one on stage or the one in front of me now—was real; which one wore the true face and which the mask.
I wanted to say something, to tell her something, to express what I thought and felt. I wanted to ask her a million questions, but did not know where to begin. I wanted to say how much I admired her, still; how her work both shamed and inspired me. But I could not even bring myself to look at her directly, let alone speak in such rash and indulgent terms. So I said nothing. I simply congratulated her again, and after one final bow, excused myself and exited the theater.
But as I walked down the steps of the Playhouse and back into the beautiful night, I found, to my surprise, that I was whistling. And instead of returning directly to my car, I walked and walked under the star-filled sky through the streets of Pasadena, while dozens of mockingbirds filled the night with their exuberant songs.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I suppose I should take a moment to discuss more fully the state of Hanako’s career. It had been, by 1917, five years since we’d met; five years since we had appeared together in those early films for William Moran. Since then, however, our trajectories had been markedly different. While the relative size of her roles and the significance of her films remained essentially the same, my own films grew bigger and bigger. Part of the difference may have been attributable to her being a woman. The most common parts available to lead actresses at the time were charming comic figures, or plucky heroines, or romantic leading ladies—roles for which Hanako, being Japanese, could of course not be considered. In addition, Hanako seemed reluctant to make strategic decisions that would have advanced her career. Rather than move to one of the large new studios, for example, she re-signed with Moran, whose pictures had been decreasing in both frequency and profit as they competed with Perennial and Goldwyn. Thus, while Hanako continued to receive positive notices, she appeared too infrequently—and in films too insignificant—to remain in the top tier of actresses.
This, however, didn’t seem to trouble her. Although she never expressed regret that her film career had not lived up to its early potential, the irony of our situations was inescapable. For it was she who had first brought me into the pictures. But it was I who was now the star.
Despite her lower profile in Hollywood, Hanako was— and always remained—a much-admired figure amongst our fellow Japanese. She was deeply involved in the world of Little Tokyo; she still appeared in plays at the theater, and she often organized productions starring Japanese high school students. She frequently dined in Little Tokyo establishments, and at least once a month she’d make a visit to the orphanage, where young discarded children of full or partial Japanese lineage would gather around her to accept the toys and books she brought them. Reviews of Hanako’s plays often traveled to Japan, and all of her films were shown there. She was loved by the people of Japan, recent immigrants to America, and the second generation alike.
I, on the other hand, had become more removed from this world. There were practical matters that made it difficult for me to visit Little Tokyo. For one thing, it would have been impossible to move through the streets unharassed. As much as people had pointed and stared when I’d first begun appearing in the theater, my fame had increased a hundred-fold since then—it was, to be frank, of a different scale than Hanako’s—and any unscripted appearance now would have caused a near riot. For another, Little Tokyo—which was essentially a stopping point full of boarding houses, bars, gambling establishments, and small family-owned restaurants—had few venues appropriate for the kinds of dinners and events that now occupied so many of my evenings. On social occasions and even for business dinners, I preferred the Los Angeles Athletic Club or the Tiffany Hotel. Only in very rare circumstances did I dine at Little Tokyo establishments.
This is not to suggest—as some unfairly implied at the time—that I avoided the company of other Japanese. And while it is true that I have not been to Little Tokyo for many years now, this has mostly to do with matters of convenience. Being so far removed from the Westside, it is rather out of my way;
