“Sure you’re all right to drive there, John?” he asks with every refill, although I’ve told him several times that my name is Jun and that I live close enough to walk.
“I’m fine, thank you,” I say now, forgoing the explanation. “How much do I owe you?”
“Own it?” he says, while he pours a pint of beer a bit further down the bar. “No, I don’t own it, I’m just the bartender. The owner, he’s one of those old Hollywood types. I never see him but he sends my checks on time.”
I wonder who the owner is, and if it’s someone I once knew, but refrain from pressing further. I don’t wish to discuss old Hollywood. Indeed, all I wanted to do when I got home this afternoon was to drink some good Scotch and pass the evening alone. I don’t have much of a taste for alcohol anymore, which explains why my liquor cabinet was empty, thus forcing me to venture outside. But this morning’s events were so trying, and my sense of equilibrium so consequently shaken, that I needed something to calm me down before I slept.
It is not surprising that my meeting with Nora Minton Niles should be so discomfiting. It’s been over four decades, after all, since we last spoke to each other, and the circumstances of our parting—which I’ve put out of my mind for so long—were anything but simple. But perhaps because of my own ability to dull the edges of memory, I had somehow managed to convince myself that our meeting would be nothing unusual, and that the past would remain safely in the past.
I drove to Nora’s house in Brentwood after my midmorning tea, arriving at 11 o’clock. Although I had not actually spoken to Nora directly—David Rosenberg, true to his word, had helped make the arrangements—I felt confident that her agreeing to a meeting with me was indicative of her general good will. I was—I must admit—rather apprehensive, an anxiety I tried to temper by telling myself that she wouldn’t receive me if she harbored bad feelings. Nonetheless, as I got ready, I took extra care to ensure that my hair was well-combed; that the pants and jacket I wore were neatly pressed. Approaching the address that Rosenberg gave me, I stopped at a small flower shop and bought a mixed bouquet. Then I drove the last few blocks to Nora’s home.
The house was small and undistinguished, a white Spanish-style affair with a red tile roof. The hedges in front of the windows were overgrown, and grass sprouted up through cracks in the walkway. As I got closer, I noticed that the windows were covered with a thin gray layer of grime. There was nothing special about this house, nothing to mark it as the home of a former actress who had once been one of the biggest stars in Hollywood. When I knocked at the door, it was opened immediately by a middle-aged woman with red hair and a stern expression. I thought I had come to the wrong address, until the woman said, “Mr. Nakayama, I presume.”
“Yes,” I said, “I am Jun Nakayama. I have come to pay a visit to Miss Niles.”
“So they told me. They said you were a contemporary of Miss Niles. I’m sorry to say I’m not familiar with your work.” Then she seemed to remember herself, and moved aside. “Excuse me, sir. Please do come in.”
I stepped into the house and took off my jacket, which I hung over my arm, declining her offer to take it.
“I’m Amanda,” the woman said, closing the door behind me. “I’ve been with Miss Niles for fifteen years.”
“This is a lovely house,” I ventured, not knowing what else to say. “How long has Miss Niles resided here?”
“Oh, for thirty years at least, since she auctioned off the mansion. She lived here with her mother until Mrs. Cole passed away ten years ago.”
“You knew Mrs. Cole?”
“Yes, I did.” Although she was too polite to say anything unpleasant, the distaste in her voice, the wrinkled nose, made it clear that she did not hold Nora’s mother in high regard.
“I trust that Miss Niles has been well all these years?”
“I suppose so, sir, under the circumstances.”
I wondered which circumstances she was referring to. Did she mean the fact that Nora’s career had been aborted in the prime of her youth, when by all measures her greatest accomplishments should have lain ahead of her? Did she mean the sad truth that Nora lived with a bitter, dominating woman who chased away her daughter’s every chance at happiness?
Amanda lowered her voice and gestured for me to step into the living room. “She hasn’t had many visitors over the years, Mr. Nakayama. I’m afraid that you’ll find her much changed.”
I wasn’t sure what she meant by this, but I did not have time to wonder, for in another moment we had entered the living room. It was small, full of heavy furniture, with thick, drawn curtains that shut out the midday light. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I saw that several movie posters hung on the walls, from some of Nora’s biggest successes. Piled on the old piano, and on the lion-footed coffee table, were stacks of programs and old movie magazines. Framed photographs hung everywhere, mostly stills and publicity shots of Nora. And sitting in the middle of the large brown couch was Nora Minton Niles herself.
It was—there’s no sense in hiding it—rather a shock to see her. She looked unreal—or perhaps I couldn’t accept the reality she presented. Nora’s hair was plentiful and still very dark, but it had
