Takizawa was asserting that an Actors’ Association was critical, and that I, as the best-known face, should be the head of it. I was about to argue that lending my name to the cause was sufficient involvement when all eyes at my table turned to the dining room entrance. Standing there in coat and tails was Ashley Bennett Tyler. And holding his arm, in an evening gown and fur, was none other than Elizabeth Banks. Tyler scanned the room as he waited for the maître d’, and his eyes quickly settled on me. He smiled widely—there was no evidence of awkwardness or guilt—and began to steer Elizabeth across the thick carpet toward our table. When she saw me, she gave a wide artificial smile and then appeared to pull back on Tyler’s arm. The light from the crystal chandeliers reflected brightly off of something in her dress, and I felt it sear through me like a heated spear. I could tell by the way my dinner companions hushed and exchanged glances that they were all well aware of my association with her.
“Hello, old chap!” said Tyler cheerfully as they reached our table. “Fancy meeting you at a dive like this.”
“Mr. Tyler,” I said, rising and shaking his hand. Then, looking at his companion, who avoided my gaze, “Miss Banks.”
Tyler looked around the table and spotted Hanako. “Ah, the lovely Miss Minatoya! It is such a pleasure to finally meet you. I have seen at least a dozen of your films, and you can count me among your many admirers.” He bowed, the light glistening off his hair.
“It is a pleasure to meet you as well, Mr. Tyler,” Hanako replied. “I have heard nothing but the most favorable things about you.” And as she lifted her face, I saw, to my amazement, that Hanako Minatoya was blushing.
Tyler worked his way around the table, introducing himself to each person. I watched him as he talked. Even as he bowed and shook everyone’s hand, it was they who appeared to be humbled. Unlike so many Americans in Hollywood and elsewhere, he seemed totally comfortable with a group of Japanese. His performance drew the attention of the tables around us, but he did not appear to notice. It concluded when he had finished circling the table and arrived back to his starting point, where he said, “And may I present Miss Elizabeth Banks.”
Elizabeth nodded and said hello politely, but she did not—unlike her escort—circle the table. She appeared to be quite ill at ease, but that may simply have been a reaction to me. For after my initial greeting, I did not speak another word to her. I felt anger curdle in my stomach— anger at her for spending less time with me; anger at her willingness to appear in public with Tyler. I glanced at her a few times and saw the troubled, caught look on her face, but otherwise I did not make eye contact. Indeed, I turned my back to her completely as she and Tyler left to be seated.
After they were gone, there was a general buzz at my table, which only increased when our waiter brought over two bottles of wine, courtesy of the British director. “That Tyler!” my companions said, over and over. “How impressive he is! What a gentleman!”
The last of the events involving Tyler and Elizabeth was my Independence Day party of the following summer. This was one of the final parties I ever threw at my mansion. For the first few years after I purchased it, I would have large gatherings perhaps twice a year, which coincided with some particularly large film release or a prestigious awards event. Then, in 1920, when Prohibition drove drinking into private homes, I began to host parties more frequently. I’d had the foresight to buy a truckload of whiskey before the Amendment, and that—along with the fact that I had more time on my hands—contributed to my willingness to host elaborate events.
Sometimes I would put on “international” parties, where each room would be decorated with the décor of a different country and a sampling of that country’s cuisine would be served by appropriately attired waitstaff. Sometimes the parties would be masquerade balls, and I recall several memorable costumes from those nights—Buck Snyder as Teddy Roosevelt, Tuggy Figgins as Napoleon, the contract actor John Vail as the rumpled, balding Gerard Normandy, and the Russian actress Svetlana Rambova as Queen of the Jungle, with elaborate furs draped over her shoulders and twin pet lions in tow. There were nights, too, when we would shut all the lights off and play the game Murder, fumbling with our drinks through the unlit mansion, screaming out loud in fear and delight when a hand fell upon us in the dark. My home, with its great rooms and balconies and gardens, made a perfect place to host large parties. On more than one occasion, when my servants awoke in the morning, they would find guests sprawled out asleep on chaise lounges by the pool, ties loosened, hair unpinned, shoes—and sometimes more intimate articles—strewn across the grass and bushes.
The Independence Day party of 1921 was a markedly smaller affair, both because of logistics—I’d had to reserve half of the yard for the staging of fireworks—and because by this time, for reasons beyond my understanding, my events were no longer as popular as they’d been just a year or two
