We never went out in public together—we couldn’t have, of course—and when I drove to her house, I took care to park my new Pierce Arrow in the back garage where nobody could see it. In truth, I did not mind these inconveniences. If we were alone, away from our fans, then I had her completely to myself. And in me, as she talked of her past life and her hopes for the future, she had what she wanted anyway: a devoted audience. Each evening we were together I would watch her intently—every move, every gesture, every unconscious smile or frown, every sweeping away of a strand of hair from her face. I would sit taut in my chair, using all the strength I had not to spring up immediately and take her in my arms. For despite our freeness on the train, our relationship—back on dry land—was now undefined. Elizabeth kept a certain distance from me always, even as she drew me in with her stories. On some of those evenings we made love and on others we did not, and it was entirely at her whim. Even when we did make love, however, I still felt like I was striving. Her body she gave to me willingly. But Elizabeth herself was always out of reach.
We saw one another regularly for more than a year. But then in 1919, after Elizabeth made a film with Ashley Tyler, our evenings together became less frequent. Part of this was simply logistical—when one of us was working on location, it was impossible to socialize. Yet a larger part—especially after they made their second film together—was simply that she enjoyed Tyler’s company. In the months after their film Tea for Two was released, she began spending as much time with the director as she was with me. He would tell her stories of his childhood and read her Browning and Shakespeare, in a voice that made her understand, she said, the beauty of their language. Once he discovered her love of chocolates, he sent her a box every week—a practice he duplicated with Nora Niles, I learned later, although in her case the treat of choice was licorice. “He’s wonderful company,” Elizabeth told me once when I pressed her on the matter. “And unlike some men,” she said, giving me a significant look, “he’s interested in my mind.”
I would like to say that none of this bothered me, particularly since Elizabeth assured me repeatedly that there was nothing romantic between them. Whether she truly saw Tyler as a mentor and teacher, as she claimed, I cannot really say. Perhaps his stable, caring presence suggested the father figure she never had, and indeed he was trying to help her—going so far, it was said, as to encourage her to get her drinking under control. Perhaps she was grateful that he continued to cast her, even as her star was clearly falling. Whatever the reason or combination of reasons, his own place in her life grew larger as mine diminished.
Several events from this period illustrate how our roles in her life were changing. There was the time, for example, when Elizabeth and I were playing croquet in her sprawling backyard and a delivery man came to her door. He brought a huge bouquet of spring flowers, a box of chocolates, and a package of books, and if there had been any doubt in my mind who these gifts were from, they vanished when Elizabeth read the card, put her hand to her cheek, and exclaimed, “Oh, Ashley!” She did not share with me the contents of the card, or the titles of the books. But for the rest of our game she smiled to herself, and barely paid attention to me.
Then there was the night in 1920 at the Tiffany Hotel. I was dining with Hanako Minatoya, Steve Hayashi, Kenji Takizawa, and several others who had gathered to discuss the idea of forming a Japanese Actors’ Association. We had met at the elegant Tiffany because our group was less likely to draw a crowd of eager fans there than we would have in Little Tokyo. Despite the beautiful setting, however, our discussion was sober. There was growing concern that the tone of films depicting Japan had taken a turn for the worse, and there appeared to be fewer roles for Japanese actors. Amongst our group, there was no agreement yet on what should be done, or even on the basic premise, and as we sat there beneath the large stained glass windows, we discussed the issue from different angles. Hayashi believed that this change in tone, as well as the most recent pieces of restrictive legislation making their way through the State Assembly, were a temporary response to the emergence of Japan as a significant power after the war. Hanako agreed, but her emphasis differed. “It’s precisely because Japan is becoming a power,” she said, “and because we immigrants are doing well here, that this backlash will only grow, not diminish.”
I wasn’t yet sure where I stood on this matter. I wanted to side with Hanako—I always wanted to side with Hanako—and I certainly
