I gave a small laugh and took the heavy, folded napkin off the table. “Well, to be quite honest, Mrs. Bradford, I received a surprising phone call this morning. As a matter of fact, it was the second such phone call in as many days.
A young man who is working with the new silent movie theater has discovered that I am the actor he has seen in several films.”
Mrs. Bradford leaned back, her smooth, unspotted hands spread fiat on the table. “Why, that’s marvelous, Mr. Nakayama! You have a fan!”
“But it is not marvelous, Mrs. Bradford. You see, he is also a reporter. Frankly, I have no interest in dredging up memories of my career, and this young man—it appears he will not easily be discouraged.”
“Oh, don’t be silly,” said Mrs. Bradford, and there was no mistaking the scolding tone of her voice. “You know you love the attention. You can’t stand that you’ve been forgotten—that’s why you finally told me. I don’t believe your modest act for a minute.”
I was, of course, taken aback by her assertion, and while I knew that she meant it in a good-hearted fashion, I still found myself rather annoyed. This bluntness is a characteristic of American women to which I have never grown accustomed. I am certain that it is part of the reason why, despite a significant courtship with an American woman and several other minor liaisons, I never chose to marry one. But Mrs. Bradford was not yet finished.
“And you were a sex symbol too,” she said teasingly. “That makes it even worse. I don’t care if you’re Japanese, German, or from Dayton, Ohio. If a man was ever desirable to women, he thinks that everyone had better well remember it.”
“Mrs. Bradford, you’re gravely mistaken,” I said, and I was about to embark on a more impassioned defense. Just at that moment, however, the waiter appeared, a diminutive and ageless man named Franco who has been employed at the restaurant for as long as I’ve been a customer.
“Would you like to order something, Mr. Nakayama?”
he asked. “Mrs. Bradford didn’t tell me she was expecting a lunch companion.”
“I wasn’t,” said Mrs. Bradford. “But Mr. Nakayama here is full of surprises.”
“Oh?” said Franco disinterestedly.
“Yes, full of many surprises. For example, do you know what he revealed to me a few months ago, Franco? He revealed that he was once an actor. A veritable star, in fact, who appeared in many films during the silent era.”
“I see,” said Franco. He flipped to a blank sheet of his notepad, pen poised to take my order. It was clear from his look of indifference that he didn’t believe her.
“He was written about in all the magazines,” Mrs. Bradford continued. She leaned toward Franco conspiratorially. “And apparently, he was quite a ladies’ man.”
At this, the waiter let out a sharp, short laugh. “I’ll bet,” he said. “A real Casanova.”
Franco’s casual disbelief provoked something in me, and I pulled myself up straight. “She is not joking, Mr. Franco. Although I do not often discuss it, I was once indeed a well-known actor.”
“Oh, I believe you, sir,” said Franco, bowing slightly in his bright red coat. “I’m sure you were the toast of the town.”
“Haven’t you heard of Sleight of Hand?” My anger was rising. “It was the top-grossing film of 1915. Or The Stand or The Noble Servant? In each of these classic silent films, I played the male lead.”
Franco grinned now, wearing a look of mirth that didn’t fit his hangdog face. “Sleight of Hand,” he said. “Yes, I think I’ve heard of that picture. But wasn’t that Douglas Fairbanks?”
“It was I,” I insisted, with a force that surprised me. “It was I, Jun Nakayama. If you do not believe me, consult the history books. Or ask Mrs. Bradford. She herself has read accounts of my career.”
I appealed to her for help, but all she did was shake her head and laugh.
“Oh, Mr. Nakayama,” said Franco. “Please, stop teasing me already. I’ve got a long shift ahead. Now, what can I bring you for lunch?”
He faced me with an expression of patient indulgence, which sent Mrs. Bradford into another fit of laughter. I was so frustrated that I got up and stormed out of the restaurant without speaking another word. I could hear Mrs. Bradford calling after me, but I refused to turn back. The whole episode had been extremely disconcerting. I did not see why these revelations regarding my past were so difficult for Franco to believe. He must have gathered over the years that I was a man of intelligence and refinement, and if he had happened to overhear even a few of my conversations, he would have been aware of my encyclopedic knowledge of early film. Perhaps his disbelief was heightened because of the fact that I’m Japanese, which I admit is quite unusual for a Hollywood actor. But none of this assuaged my displeasure.
When I returned to the town house, I found a message on the pad beside my phone, taken by Mr. Gomez while I was gone. It was Nick Bellinger’s number—he had called again—and without thinking about what I was doing, I picked up the receiver and dialed. After three rings, a young man answered. “Mr. Bellinger,” I said. “This is Jun Nakayama. I’ve reconsidered your request for an interview.”
CHAPTER TWO
September 29, 1964
This morning, as I waited for Mr. Bellinger on a bench in Plummer Park, I had the pleasure of observing a most delightful family. A Negro couple in their fifties, dressed as if for church, passed by with a gaggle of little girls. The children—there were three of them—ranged in age from perhaps three years old to seven or eight, and they too wore Sunday outfits, with the tiniest carrying a backpack that was nearly
