The party took place at Yoshimura, the grand old restaurant off Second Street. It was not by any means a standard studio affair; there were only about thirty guests, all seated along two long tables set up in the traditional Japanese style. I had been nervous about the party, for I had not seen Hanako—or almost anyone else in the business—for more than twenty years. But I could not refuse the invitation of my old dear colleague, who had always been so helpful to me.
Upon entering the restaurant, I saw Hanako immediately. She was sitting at the end of the first long table, and I was struck by how little she had changed over the years, the leniency with which time had treated her. Her hair was still black and her face still lovely, and when she turned her head and laughed at something, she looked like the girl I had known in my youth. When she saw me a moment later, she came right over to greet me.
“Mr. Nakayama,” she said in English, “it’s so wonderful to see you.” And to my surprise, she placed her hand on my forearm and squeezed it. I saw the fine network of lines around her eyes and mouth, the only evidence of age. Our eyes met and we were silent for a long moment, as if it would trivialize all that had happened in both of our lives to make small talk in the company of others.
“You were wonderful,” I said. I feared she wouldn’t realize I was speaking of her performance, but she seemed to understand.
“Thank you. It’s my first film in years, you know. I’ve been spending my time in the theater.”
“You have been working all this time?”
“Yes. What else was there to do? I took a hiatus during the war, of course, but even then I managed to work.” Then, in Japanese, “I put a little company together in Manzanar and did plays for the internees.” She paused. “I heard you managed to stay out of the camps.”
“I went to England,” I said. “I rented a flat in the country and took long walks through the hills.”
“Did you work?”
“No. I didn’t try to.”
She sighed and returned to English. “I wish you’d consider working again.”
I gave an indulgent smile. “Miss Minatoya, you know as well as I do that I’m finished with all of that. Besides, who would be interested in hiring an old man like me?”
“I would, in a moment. It’s never too late to step back into it—I mean, look at me.”
We smiled at each other, and there was so much I wished to say. Her grip on my arm grew stronger and she returned to Japanese. “We must catch up with each other, Nakayama-san. Just the two of us. Let’s arrange to have tea sometime soon.” Here she gave me an odd, bemused smile. “I won’t let you get away from me again.”
I sat down at the second table, next to a young Caucasian man and a younger Japanese woman. Hanako continued to greet people happily and usher them in, as if she were the hostess of the event and not its guest of honor. I recognized several of the others. There was Steve Hayashi, from the old days with Hanako’s theater company, who still appeared in occasional films. On the other side of the room was the old widow Takayama, who’d been Hanako’s landlady in Little Tokyo in the early years. Beside her was Seiichi Nakano, the other main player from Hanako’s old company, a talented actor who’d left the theater to enter real estate. Nakano had courted her when we were all in our twenties, but for reasons I never knew, she turned him down. All of the guests filtered into the room and found spots at the long tables, which were already covered with plates of sashimi and vegetables, as well as bottles of sake. Finally, Hanako herself came back to her seat, and then a middle-aged Caucasian man from the studio got up and turned to face the guests.
“My friends,” he began, “we’re here to celebrate a very special actress and a remarkable woman. I think all of you know and appreciate the quality of the performance for which she’s been honored by the New York Film Critics’ Circle. But I’m not sure that everyone is aware of Hanako’s accomplishments over the years, or the long odds against which she’s struggled. Hanako Minatoya’s career didn’t
