She gave me a mysterious smile. “You’ll see.”
The door was answered by a slight, rather short man about ten years younger than I. He had a pencil-thin mustache and was almost totally bald, except for a patch of hair over each of his ears, as textureless and flat as fresh paint. “Mr. Nakayama,” he said, “this is quite an honor.” He bowed deeply, hands at his sides, in a manner that was meant to be Japanese.
“This is Bernard Weisman,” Mrs. Bradford said. “We worked together for years. He’s the head of the research department at the L.A. Public Library.”
“I’m very pleased to meet you,” I said, still baffled as to why we had come.
Mrs. Bradford smiled and rubbed her hands together, like a little girl anticipating a long-awaited treat. “I recently discovered that Bernard is a huge fan of silent films. When I mentioned your name, he got very excited and insisted that I bring you over to meet him.”
“I see,” I responded, forcing a smile.
“Come in, come in,” said Weisman. “I’m being so rude. Please let me take your coat.”
After he had relieved us of our outer garments, he led us into another room. I stopped as soon as we crossed the threshold. An old reel-to-reel projector had been set up behind the couch; against the wall was a portable screen. There was a film in the projector, and when I turned back around, Mrs. Bradford and her friend were watching me expectantly.
“I see you have a film there,” I said.
“Yes,” said Mr. Weisman. “A silent film.”
I took a breath. “Oh, really? Is it one of the classics? I know that some of the old Griffith films are available now, as well as several Chaplins and Keatons.”
Weisman folded his hands in front of him and looked extremely pleased with himself. “Well, I do own some of the Griffith films, as well as some of Chaplin’s and Keaton’s. But what I have here is something that’s harder to find. It’s one of yours, Mr. Nakayama. The Patron.”
My heart began to race. I turned away from their eager faces as Mrs. Bradford exclaimed, “You see, I told you he was a fan!”
“That film,” I said, after I’d recovered my voice, “I didn’t know any copies had survived.”
“Well, very few of them have, sir, but I’m a serious collector. I have almost a hundred silent films, some of them even more obscure than this one.”
“Why don’t you sit down, Mr. Nakayama?” said Mrs. Bradford. “I’ve been dying to see one of your films.”
“Perhaps this isn’t such a good idea,” I replied.
“Why not?”
“Well … it all seems rather … indulgent.”
“Oh, come on! This is perfect! Bernard’s set it all up. I’d love to see you in a movie, Mr. Nakayama. And when’s the last time you saw one of your own pictures?”
I wanted to walk directly out of that house and all the way back home. I wanted them to forget this ridiculous notion and let me get back to my life. For she was right—it had been decades since I’d watched one of my own performances, and it was not only because they were difficult to find. I worried—and only now could I admit this to myself—that our films might indeed be as archaic and silly as the public has determined them to be. I worried that our titles and silent mouthing of words would appear anachronistic. I worried that the limitations of early technology would reveal themselves in unsophisticated camera work and laughably simple backdrops. And I worried, most of all, about how I would appear; that I wouldn’t measure up to my image of myself.
But there was no way I could tell them any of this, nor was there any way to refuse this viewing without appearing trite or dramatic. So I sat down unhappily, next to Mrs. Bradford, and breathed deeply to slow down my heart.
Mr. Weisman practically danced around the room, turning off lights, adjusting the screen, and then assuming his spot behind the projector. In a moment, the motor-like sound of the projector started up, its whirring and hiccuping undisguised by the live music that usually accompanied the films in theaters. Then, on the screen, the image of curtains, which were pulled back slowly to reveal the words, Perennial Pictures. This was followed by the appearance of Evelyn Marsh, as herself, out of costume and character. Then the title, The fairest blossom in the garden of youth, which was replaced by Evelyn again, in the uniform of her character, Gillian.
Finally, as the projector continued to roll, I was looking at an image of me. First the introductory frames, in which I wore a kimono and gave a formal bow. Then the title, The mysterious visitor from exotic Japan. This dissolved into a shot of me in character, wearing a sharp Western suit and a vest chain. I stood easily and smiled confidently into the camera; my face looked fresh and unlined. It was hard to believe that this vital young man was me—but it was, in 1919, at age twenty-eight.
The moment my face first appeared on the screen, Mrs. Bradford grabbed my arm. “That’s you!” she said, gripping me tightly. And then more softly, “Oh, my goodness. Look at you.”
Almost against my own will, I did. After my first few minutes of extreme discomfort, I began to follow the story. In this film, I played Kurashima, an art collector from Japan who is making the rounds of the social circuit in New York City. Kurashima is extremely knowledgeable about art; he knows the arcane histories behind some of the world’s most famous paintings, and he has a well-deserved reputation for finding and supporting the freshest new artistic talents. During the course of attending parties and openings, he meets several young women who are drawn to him for his looks, his wealth, and the air of mystery that surrounds him, including Gillian Stevenson, played by Evelyn Marsh, a museum shop girl with whom he falls in love.
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