I could hardly speak. I was in the presence of the greatest cultural figure of the twentieth century, the only one who genuinely deserved the title Kinomeyster. I mumbled like a peasant drawn from the fields to greet some mighty landsman. He was kind and courteous, cupping his ear to catch what I said. Mrs Cornelius saved the day. ’‘E finks yore ther cat’s whiskers,’ she told my hero. ‘Ter ‘ear ‘im goin’ on, y’d fink the sun shone arta yore -’
In horror I was able to bellow a complete word: ‘Trousers!’
And that was all I ever said to the one human being on Earth whose work truly influenced the course of my life. I believe he was at Lasky’s looking for a job. You would never have guessed from his bearing and stylish tailoring he was down on his luck. A natural prince, whose grasp of human nature was as profound as his political insights, now cap in hand to the immigrants he himself had helped establish in this idyllic World of Dreams. I should not have been so foolish. I blame myself. Mrs Cornelius was very popular with the movie people. They saw her as an eccentric English aristocrat. And everyone knew true English aristocrats could seem like paskudnick, they had such foul mouths. So ‘trousers’ it was for Birth of a Nation. In spite of Mrs Cornelius’s shining in her test, of watching her later in huge black and white close-up, I was not easily able to escape my depression. I constantly went over the meeting in my mind, rescripting it so that I impressed Griffith enough to bring, for a second, a look of startled emotion to his eyes as he realised here was someone who understood completely everything he had meant.
Valentino in his grandiose nest proved a disappointment. I think he saw me as a rival. He had the manners of a Neapolitan whore and the taste of a Milanese pimp, with his huge self portraits and ramshackle collections of rusting swords and suits of armour. I had tried to be polite to him, suggesting how he might expand his range, given his limitations. I was only too glad to get away from his house. It was depressing. It had a smell of suicide about it. The majority of Lords and Ladies in the World’s Movie Capital were nothing like the sinful, crazed, night-haunted creatures frequently depicted by the press. Most had great poise, humour and kindness. Doubtless the image of Hollywood’s élite giving orgies in their swimming pools or practising perversions on the palm-fringed lawns of their mansions had more to do with the wish-fulfilment of hoi polloi than the ordinary lives of people they envied.
Esmé was on her way! A telegram confirmed it. She was coming to me. The remorse I had felt since my meeting with Griffith quickly dissipated. I imagined holding my little mistress in my arms again. I drove along the white, twisting canyon roads of that beloved, adopted home, pushing the sprightly Peugeot almost to her limit in a joyous Escape of Motoring. I explored orchards, the fruit groves of the wide valley, peaceful, self-contained settlements like Pasadena, sleepy farming towns like San Fernando. Out beyond Hollywood there were vineyards which would one day produce wine quite as good as Europe’s. The first cuttings had been brought from Bordeaux and Burgundy and had flourished in that idyllic climate, just as her settlers, from Europe, from the East and Mid-West, also grew healthy and virile. The best of her people were young and strong, like the wine. Their dream was nothing less than to build Utopia. It was a dream we shared. And I had practical plans to make it come true.
Only once did I consider leaving my new home behind and fleeing back to Europe with Esmé. It was a miserable episode. At her suggestion, I one morning agreed to motor out to Anaheim with Astrid Nilsen, the blonde actress. At that time she was said to rival Swanson in her willingness to accept modern, daring roles. She had heard of a good restaurant on our side of the little town and insisted it would be worth the drive. Happy to pass a day or two with a pretty girl (never again would I have to make do with the likes of Mabel and Ethel) I agreed. We left fairly early, driving on dusty dirt roads, through relentless rows of artificially irrigated fields, occasionally relieved by a farmhouse or general store, clean modern villages, each seemingly pressed from the same mould, with a wooden church, a stand of trees, a café. It was twilight by the time Astrid pointed off to the right. She had wonderfully soft, fleshy arms and shoulders. Her strong-boned face was almost Slavic. I saw yellow and red lights, the sign for the road house, but as I turned into the drive was struck by its strange name. ‘How’s that pronounced?’ I asked. ‘And what does it mean?’
‘Lady Korohoto’s Sunshine Sushi Bar. It’s Jap food. There are a lot of Japs around here. This place is designed to please foreign devils, I think. Ever eaten the stuff?’
‘Don’t you know Russians are the sworn enemies of Japan?’ I was amused, yet felt she had deliberately manipulated me into an uncomfortable position. I could do nothing now however but park the car and escort her up the steps to the verandah of what until recently had been a large, sprawling farmhouse. Now it was painted dull red and black, it had woven silk screens where the windows had been and a few pieces of decoration hanging here and there which I assumed were intended to make you think you were back home in old Nagasaki. We were greeted by a grinning, bobbing yellow girl, dumpy in her constricting gowns, and were escorted into what seemed a fairly conventional restaurant, with ordinary tables and chairs and a long counter taking up the entire left-hand wall. Again the colours were muted, the decorated screens illuminated from behind, but there was nothing too exceptional. ‘See,’ said Astrid, taking my arm and moving closer to me, ‘it’s all pretty unscary, eh?’
I was not nervous, I said. I was in fact somewhat disapproving. If the Japanese were moving into service industries it was against the spirit of the newly amended California Alien Land Act which made it illegal for Japanese to farm anywhere they competed with Whites, and the Immigration Act denying Japs the status of a quota nation, intended to encourage them to leave. Doubtless they now owned land secretly! As we sat down in the otherwise empty restaurant, I said as much to Astrid.
‘Jesus Christ, Max, they’ve got to live somehow,’ she said. ‘They’re being squeezed from every side. Associated Fruitgrowers and every other vested interest in the State.’
I suppose she, like some women, found the Orient erotic and mysterious. I merely found it threatening. I knew the truth. The Slavs had been conquered by Mongols more than once; had pushed them back again and again, and had been freshly attacked as soon as the numbers grew. These people were breeding even now in California. They were arrogant and ambitious. Voraciously greedy, they worked far longer hours than Anglo-Saxons, to establish this beach-head for their Emperor. But I had hopes of staying overnight with Astrid, so was not prepared to argue with her. Our geisha bobbed, bowed and vanished, but a waitress failed to appear. After twenty minutes even Astrid became impatient. When I walked to the kitchen doors and peered inside nobody was preparing food, though meat and vegetables were there in abundance. The place seemed, like a Mary Celeste, unaccountably abandoned. Could it be a custom? Perhaps an insult, I thought. Astrid was growing uncertain. ‘Maybe it’s their religion?’ she suggested. She jumped at a noise from outside. I pulled back one of the blinds to see what had caused it and became instantly terrified.