The Age of Dreaming by Nina Revoyr

beauty could not hide—that so captured me that evening of our youth. I watched her for several minutes. She appeared to be in the middle of a long, involved story, and the men listened eagerly as she gestured with her graceful hands, and laughed in unison whenever she paused. She pulled out another cigarette and held it, suspended, while the men all fumbled in their pockets to produce a match. I was so involved in watching her that I completely lost track of the directors’ conversation.
    “… isn’t that right, Jun?” said Moran, with an affectionate elbow to my arm.
    “Excuse me, Mr. Moran?” I said, bringing myself back to my immediate company.
    “I was telling Gerard that I’ve got to write you up another contract, before one of these sharks here tries to steal you away.”
    This was a topic we had discussed frequently in recent weeks. My two-picture contract had been fulfilled, and I was under no obligation to work with Moran again. With the success of my films—and with the American public’s growing interest in Japanese subject matter—I was suddenly a desirable property. But at that moment, I had no interest in discussing contract matters. “Pardon me, Mr. Moran,” I said. “I was momentarily distracted.”
    Normandy, another rising young filmmaker who had shown interest in my work, looked over to where I had been staring. “Ah, you’ve been distracted by Miss Banks,” he said, laughing. “As you can see, many gentlemen are distracted by Miss Banks.”
    At that very moment, the four men standing around her burst into laughter again, and she happened to look over in my direction. Our eyes met and she smiled, tilting her head slightly as if asking me a question. Then she turned back to her admirers.
    “Who is Miss Banks, sir, if I may ask?”
    “She’s an actress,” Normandy answered. “A comic actress, not your speed. Very charming, but a real handful— temperamental as hell, and a bit too friendly with the bottle. I’ve worked with her once, and it was an experience I won’t soon forget. They don’t call her the Mistress of Mayhem for nothing.”
    “We better keep Jun away from her,” Moran said, smiling. “If she has the same effect on him that she does on those poor fools, she’ll use him up and leave us with the shell of an actor. And besides, she’s too old for you, Jun. I believe she’s twenty-five.”
    “Ah, it may be too late,” said Normandy. Miss Banks had broken away from her circle of men and was proceeding to walk straight toward us. She appeared to feel no trace of self-consciousness or modesty, despite the eyes that reached toward her like hands. It was clear from the way she carried herself—confidently, smiling—that she was accustomed to being watched.
    “Mr. Normandy,” she said, offering her long, graceful hand, and the director, smiling wryly and suddenly fiushed, obligingly bent over and kissed it. “Mr. Moran,” she said, curtseying. “How good to see you.” She did not even acknowledge Mrs. Moran, who glared at her disapprovingly. Then she turned her attention to me. “I’m Elizabeth Banks. And who might you be?”
    When her dark green eyes fixed on my face, all language momentarily escaped me. “Jun Nakayama,” I finally managed, bowing deeply. “I have made two films for Mr. Moran.”
    “Ah, we should all be so lucky,” she said, giving my employer a bemused look. “Mr. Moran has never expressed an interest in my services. I must say I’m rather insulted.”
    Moran smiled. “I don’t think I’m the proper director to bring out your genius, Miss Banks. You know my strong suit is serious drama.”
    “Well, where did you find this one?” she asked, nodding at me. “His presence has made your pictures a hundred times better. They’re almost watchable now.”
    Both men laughed, and I realized that she knew precisely who I was. I, to my dismay, was unaware of her work, although the two directors’ responses to her, and the whispered