For some reason, few people seem to know about the path. This morning, the conversation with Bellinger still fresh in my mind, I walked briskly up into the hills and saw only two other walkers. At the top I sat on a split log bench and looked out in all directions at the city. To my left, the majestic San Gabriel Mountains, which would be covered in a month or two with snow. To my right, the endless chain of the Santa Monica mountains, of which the Hollywood Hills are the final descending link. Behind me, the San Fernando Valley, fiat and full of bungalows and greenery. And in front of me, spread all the way from the hills to the ocean, lay the city of Los Angeles proper. The few tall buildings of downtown stood in a clump to the left; the ocean created a lovely, sparkling blue border to the right. And in between, a vast tableau of humanity. One can easily identify Wilshire Boulevard, for it is marked by a steady line of high-rise buildings straight across the center of the landscape. Hancock Park is recognizable as well—not because of its lovely mansions, which are too far away to distinguish, but because of the lush green foliage, sustained by imported water and hired care, that marks all wealthy areas of Los Angeles. The arches of Mann’s Chinese Theater are visible from behind; Lake Hollywood lies above it, in the hills.
On many mornings, from this bench, I have watched the sun rise from behind the San Gabriel Mountains; on many evenings, I’ve watched it set over the ocean. I have been here when the neon signs atop the DuBarry and the Argyle light up at the first hint of darkness. I have been here, too, on evenings of movie premieres, when spotlights spring up from Hollywood Boulevard and shoot beams, like crossing swords, into the sky. When I first started taking this walk, in the 1920s, the landscape was full of barley fields, orange groves, and trees; there were only a few office buildings and scattered clumps of houses, and then the self-contained compounds of the studios. The green hills were pristine and almost totally free of structures, and miles of horse-back trails meandered through the brush. That open, new, bucolic place has long since vanished now. I have watched this city grow from farmland into a vibrant metropolis.
This spot—the very top of the Hollywood Hills—is where I always go to clear my head. As a young man, before I came to America, I spent a week at a Zen Buddhist temple in the mountains of Nagano Prefecture, and those seven days of silence and meditation, of oneness with the world around me, I now remember as the most peaceful of my life. Now, the only time I ever achieve the sense of emptiness, awareness, and oneness I so yearn for is up on top of the hills, looking out at the rest of humanity. There, I feel both part of, and removed from, the everyday world of man. There, I am completely at peace with my own insignificance.
After an hour of looking out at the city, I made my way down the hill and onto the Boulevard. It was 11:30 now, and I suspected that Mrs. Bradford would be in one of two restaurants, where she often took her lunch at this pre-noon hour to arrive in advance of the crowd. These restaurants are on the eastern end of the Boulevard, past the countless gift shops and souvenir stands that have sprung up in the last ten years. It is popular now to say that Hollywood is a state of mind more than an actual place, since the Boulevard itself has become as tasteless and as subject to bad elements as that other den of American excess, Times Square. But in the ’20s and ’30s—indeed, all the way through the early ’50s—the physical Hollywood, the actual place, was as real and glamorous as its image. It housed the best restaurants, the finest nightclubs and cafés, and sleek limousines were always pulling up in front of elegant doorways to deposit this or that star or director. The cheap knickknacks, the litter, the desperate people trading in flesh—they did not appear until the 1950s, and did not take the Boulevard over completely until the dawn of this present decade. These days, only a scattering of the old establishments remain, and it goes without saying that the clientele is different. Only a few people with links to the old Hollywood still frequent such places. The rest of the customers are local businessmen who are largely ignorant of the restaurants’ history.
This noontime, I stopped first at the Café Figaro, a fine establishment where Clark Gable used to dine. The interior was dark and intimate, with wood paneling and heavy, leather-covered chairs. Even at midday it was difficult to see; the lights were dim and the waitstaff moved around in a hush. One could imagine what it looked like in the 1940s, when groups of thick-bellied men, smoking cigars and drinking port, would talk and laugh well into the endless nights. After a moment, my eyes adjusted to the lights and I looked around the restaurant. I was in luck—Mrs. Bradford was seated at a small table near the window— and, as she had not yet been served her meal, she waved me over and invited me to join her. After a few pleasantries about the weather and a recent visit from her daughter, she paused and then looked at me curiously. “You seem rather harried today, Mr. Nakayama. Is something bothering you?”
I was surprised by her observation; she didn’t normally remark upon my demeanor. “No, Mrs. Bradford. What gives you that idea?”
She looked at me closely. Although she is nearing seventy herself, she is
