“So you’ve read Nick’s screenplay,” Dreyfus said after our wine had been poured. “As I’m sure he told you, the studio’s going to make it.”
I looked at his face—the angular chin and nose, the brown eyes—and searched for some sign of his grandfather. There might have been some likeness, especially in the large forehead and slightly cleft chin. But where Ben Dreyfus had an optimistic air about him—as did so many of the young executives in the silent era who were giddy with the growth of their new industry—this boy’s eyes were devoid of genuine enthusiasm and hardened beyond his years. I thought of what David Rosenberg had said, his tone of disapproval. “Yes,” I answered finally, “I was impressed with the script.”
Dreyfus sipped from his wine without taking his eyes off my face. “You know, Nick has his heart set on you being in the film. And usually writers have no say over casting decisions—but Nick’s a friend, and this is a terrific piece of work, so I figured I should at least sit and meet you.”
Again, I felt slightly uneasy. “Well, thank you for taking the time.”
Dreyfus nodded. “Now, when were you at Perennial, some time in the ’40s?”
“No, in the teens and ’20s, right after the studio formed. I was there when your grandfather first started—he was younger than you are now.”
“In the teens and ’20s,” he repeated. “So you appeared in the silents?”
Bellinger leaned forward. “Remember I told you, Josh? He worked with Gerard Normandy and William Moran. He starred in The Noble Servant and Sleight of Hand.”
“That’s right,” he said. “You did tell me that. I’m sorry—I hear about so many people.”
Listening to this exchange, I realized that Bellinger— perhaps because of his own enthusiasm—had overstated Dreyfus’ knowledge of my career. “I made over sixty films,” I said. “You can read about them in Croshere’s history.”
Dreyfus looked at me blankly. “Who?”
“He’s a silent film historian,” Bellinger explained. “Also a big fan of Mr. Nakayama’s.”
Dreyfus studied me as if I were an interesting relic— educational, but not particularly of use. “The ’20s, huh? Well, that explains the vest chain and the two-toned shoes. You look like you just came from a party at Pickfair.”
I glanced at him, not knowing how to respond, but he continued talking.
“So how long has it been since you’ve worked?”
“A long time,” I admitted. “But I’ve stayed abreast of all the developments in moviemaking. In some ways it’s not terribly different. I played a broad range of characters over the course of my career, and although I’ve been retired for some time now, I certainly believe that I could still hold my own.” I stopped, disturbed by my realization that I was trying to convince him. But his ignorance of my work displeased me, as did the obvious difference between him and his grandfather, with whom he appeared to share a name and little else.
“Well,” he said, after a short pause, “it’s still early. The project is moving forward, but in terms of actors and roles, we’ve put no real thought into it yet. All I can promise is that you’ll definitely get a screen test. And obviously I’ll want to look at some of your previous work. Is there any picture in particular you think I should see?”
I thought for a moment and then pulled myself up straight. “Perhaps the two films that Mr. Bellinger mentioned. Sleight of Hand was my biggest success, but I believe The Noble Servant has also survived.”
“Those were done by the directors that Nick just mentioned? Normandy and Moran?”
“Gerard Normandy did Sleight of Hand,” I said. “And William Moran did my first two pictures. But The Noble Servant was directed by someone else.”
“Oh, that’s right,” said Bellinger. “I’d totally forgotten. That one was by Ashley Tyler, wasn’t it?”
I nodded, hoping we could leave the topic of directors and instead talk about the films themselves. But Dreyfus looked at his friend with new interest.
“Ashley Tyler,” he said thoughtfully. “Now why do I know that name?”
“He was famous in his own right,” Bellinger replied. “But you probably know his name because he was murdered in the ’20s, and they never figured out who killed him.”
“Really,” said Dreyfus, and he looked from Bellinger to me and back again, his thin left eyebrow raised.
The rest of the lunch passed rather uncomfortably, as I had to cope now with the prospect of auditioning for a role, as well as with Dreyfus’ interest in my previous work. Dreyfus, however, had a pleasant time all by himself, telling us detailed stories of projects he’d worked on, and behind-the-scenes facts about the stars of his films. I got the sense that he’d told these stories hundreds of times; that he switched into this amiable autopilot mode as soon as the business at hand was completed. The only time he broke out of it was when someone approached our table, which occurred three times through the course of the meal. Once it was a producer with a current project at Perennial who wanted to discuss the budget of his film. Once it was an agent who was trolling for work for his client, a popular B-movie actress. And once it was someone who was not in the business, a middle-aged woman who asked for his autograph and hinted about her unmarried daughter. Dreyfus handled all of these intrusions with grace; he was clearly used to this kind of attention.
Through all of this, I sat there uneasily, feigning interest, and glanced occasionally at Bellinger. He could not take his eyes off Dreyfus’ face, and it troubled me to see this talented young man in the thrall of such an unpleasant character. Back in the teens and ’20s, the making of pictures had been a labor of love, a burgeoning art form that the creators took
