Back in the late 1910s and early ’20s, when my income seemed limitless, I invested in a number of apartment buildings, as well as three houses, two commercial properties, and several empty parcels of land. My family’s farm had impressed upon me the importance of property ownership, and I’m sure this knowledge was significant in my decision, all those years ago, to buy as much real estate as I possibly could. I’d had to make my acquisitions through a friendly real estate management firm introduced to me by David Rosenberg, since Japanese were barred from owning property. But it wasn’t very difficult getting around this limitation, and I’d enjoyed the process of buying; I liked acquiring tangible things like land and clothes and automobiles, things that were purchased as a matter of course by white gentlemen of means. Of course, I only had the slightest inkling, when I bought those properties, of how dramatically their value would increase. But time has proven that my investments were wise. The combined income from my commercial and residential rentals has been more than enough to live on, and when I recently sold two large parcels of land in Malibu to an aggressive investor, I made a profit of nearly a million dollars. I was lucky—my investments meant that when my career came to its rather abrupt end, I had a source of income to fall back on. So many of my contemporaries, who frittered away the cash that flowed like water in those pre-tax days, watched their incomes decrease and then dry up completely as their film careers drew to a close. In the ’30s, some of them, desperate for money, held large auctions of old movie memorabilia. Two or three of them even auctioned off their houses.
I have a property management company take care of most of the day-to-day items of business—showing apartments, collecting rents, arranging for repairs—and they only contact me when some particularly large expenditure is required. This was an especially convenient arrangement during the Second World War, which I waited out in England while so many others were herded away to the camps. My management people have been very dependable over the years. That said, to keep myself occupied, I still manage one of the buildings myself. It is the Chestnut Arms—you may have heard of it. It stands two blocks north of Franklin, at the foot of the Hollywood Hills. My former costar Evelyn Marsh once lived there, as well as Edmund Cleaves, and the building, with its hardwood floors, fire-places, turrets, and courtyard, looks much the same as it did in 1919, when I bought it for what now seems like mere pennies. It gives me a certain comfort to know that the old place still feels the same in the midst of constant change, and since it is within walking distance of my town house, and since I have little else to do, I directly oversee the management of its four units. Most of the time this is a pleasant enterprise, as the tenants who can afford such a prestigious building are all stable, respected professionals. And this activity—the management, the tracking of accounts—has proven very useful; it gives me something to focus on when I am attempting not to think of other things.
As much as I have tried to absorb myself in bookkeeping, however, I cannot help but reflect on the last several days. For these days have been marked by events that have upset my peace of mind, and sent my thoughts along paths I have not wished for them to go. The first was all the more unsettling because I had not been prepared for anything disagreeable. I had awaited Tuesday’s lunch with Nick Bellinger and his friend Josh Dreyfus with both anxiety and excitement, and I’m still not certain what to make of what occurred.
It had taken me several days to call Nick Bellinger, days I spent looking back over his screenplay and rereading certain sections again and again. I had wondered if I would find it less impressive when I returned to it; perhaps I had even hoped that would be so. Instead, the very opposite was true. With each successive reading, the themes seemed to deepen, the scenes became more subtle and engaging. And my interest in playing Takano continued to grow with each new day. The young man’s story was brilliant, an incisive and original work, and I knew now that I wanted to be part of it. I told myself to believe that things would go as smoothly as Bellinger had assured me they would.
The day after I’d visited David Rosenberg at the nursing home, I placed a call to Bellinger. “It’s wonderful,” I told him. “The characters ring true, the dialogue is sharp, and you are telling a story that has not been told before.”
“So you liked it?”
“Very much so.”
“Well, that’s terrific, Mr. Nakayama, because I have news.”
With that, he informed me that Perennial had indeed bought the rights to his screenplay, and was set to choose a director.
“My friend Josh is going to oversee production,” he said. “And since the role of Takano is basically the anchor of the film, he’d love to meet with you as soon as possible.” Bellinger promised to set up a meeting between the three of us, and asked if there was anything else I’d like to know.
“Yes,” I said. “How’s your article coming along?”
“Oh,” he
