She told me all of this without a trace of self-pity, as if she were speaking of someone else. She’d put a robe on over her nightgown and she wore no makeup, and her face looked softer somehow, more revealing. Her hair was tied up but several strands had come loose; she kept brushing them away distractedly. And although it was she who was talking, it was I who felt exposed, and had she looked up into my face just then she would have read there all my turbulent feelings.
“Maybe that’s why I haven’t had too much luck with men. It’s not like I’ve had much of an example. But you,” she said, smiling again, “you sure have a lot of luck with women.”
I laughed—I’m sure a bit too loudly. “You exaggerate, Elizabeth. It’s our friend Buck Snyder who’s having all the luck with the opposite sex.”
“Only because you’re pickier, Jun. I see all the screaming women throwing flowers and undergarments. And those women in Cleveland who spread their furs on the ground so you wouldn’t have to walk through a puddle! You could have had your pick in any city.”
I did not reply, and certainly didn’t say what I was thinking—that the woman I wanted, “my pick,” as she’d put it—did not appear to have any interest in me.
“This has sure been a better trip for you than for me in that department,” she continued. “After all, no one’s tried to crawl into my bed.”
There was something in her voice when she said this, and when I glanced up at her face, I couldn’t tell if what I saw there was amusement or invitation.
“I didn’t know,” I replied casually, feeling out the moment, “that you were seeking company.”
“Oh, Jun,” she said, and now her voice did something else, “that’s only because you haven’t been paying attention.”
I met her eyes, and the message there was unmistakable. A door that had previously been closed had now, unbelievably, opened. As if of their own accord, my hands reached out and pulled her toward me. She moved easily from her seat over to mine. And then her mouth against my mouth, her fingers on my face, the robe and the nightgown falling open.
I could hardly believe it. I could hardly believe that this woman, this goal for so long out of reach, was flesh and blood, right there beneath my hands. But my nervousness was quickly subsumed by my knowledge of how to live in this moment. For she was, after all, a woman, with a woman’s desires, and as I lifted her and set her back down on her seat, as I bent over her with the strength and assurance of a man accustomed to taking what was offered, I felt her give herself over, felt her loosen and release, her body quivering and open now, for me.
We didn’t spend another night apart for the rest of the trip. This did not escape the attention of David Rosenberg, who rolled his eyes but refrained from comment; or of Buck Snyder, who said to me one day, winking, “Glad you finally pulled that gun from its holster.” If Figgins noticed, he didn’t mention anything, although his manner toward me grew colder. I didn’t care, though, about any of them. Because finally, in those last few days of our trip, I had everything I wanted. Mornings with Elizabeth over coffee and toast. Afternoons of laughter with our amusing companions. And nights, finally the endless nights, whose joy and completeness I could never describe, and of which there could never be enough.
When we arrived in New York, it felt not like the culmination it was intended to be, but rather like a premature coda. Our final rally was spectacular—red carpet and bands, stars of pictures and Broadway, the governor, the mayor, front page coverage in the New York Times. Tens of thousands of people all gathered in Times Square, people leaning out of windows and waving from rooftops, the sale of millions of dollars worth of bonds. Even our elusive studio chief, Leonard Stillman, turned out for the occasion, sitting with the politicians on the side of the dais. But after one last grand party and a night at the Plaza, we all went our separate ways—Elizabeth on a train back to Los Angeles, Figgins to his second home in Westchester, Snyder to an apartment where he was staying temporarily while he was in town for his upcoming opening; and myself out to Perennial’s East Coast studio on Long Island, where I was set to begin my next film.
The success of our tour had far surpassed all expectations, and set the stage for the even grander tour the following spring featuring Mary Pickford, Doug Fairbanks, and Charlie Chaplin. Yet ours had been the original, and when it was over, I felt a tremendous sense of loss. Although I enjoyed the culture and nightlife of New York City—which was, along with all of its other attractions, a more hospitable place for Japanese—I could not escape my feeling of sadness. The month I had spent on the war bond tour had been the best month of my life. Even then, in those first few weeks after the tour, I knew I’d experienced something that could never be recreated. Never again would I feel as useful, as much a part of something bigger, as I did aboard that train. Never again, in all my years, would I feel so close to happiness.
CHAPTER NINE
October 23, 1964
It is late in the evening, and I am thoroughly exhausted, having spent the last few
