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interest that was completely unprecedented for the Little Tokyo Theater. For the first time, there were Caucasian faces in the audience. Then, a week into the run, a favorable review appeared in the Los Angeles Times , which had previously ignored the existence of Japanese in California except to express concern about their growing numbers. It was clear that our play was a hit. While Okamoto and some of the players were unnerved by this increased exposure, I enjoyed the fact that our work was receiving accolades from a broader audience. Then one night after a performance, an usher came into the dressing room and ceremoniously cleared his throat.
    “Mr. Nakabayashi,” he said breathlessly, “someone is here to see you.”
    I finished changing into my street clothes and stepped out into the hallway where I had first encountered Okamoto eight months earlier. There I saw a beautiful young Japanese woman and a slightly older Caucasian man. They both stepped forward to greet me.
    I recognized the lady at once. She was Hanako Minatoya, the accomplished leader of the Kyoto Players, the traveling theater company. She had recently made the jump into the new medium of film, a move that had already met with considerable success. It was of no small significance that she had come to see me that evening. I was honored and terribly nervous.
    “Mr. Nakabayashi,” she said in English, “I am Hanako Minatoya.”
    I bowed deeply and forced myself to meet her lovely brown eyes. “I know precisely who you are, Miss Minatoya, and I am very humbled that you attended my play.”
    “It was a pleasure,” she replied. “I am a true admirer. I have seen each one of your plays, and they continue to improve in quality. What you have done here is simply remarkable.” Here, she smiled enough to show her perfect white teeth, and I thought—although I probably imagined it—that a fiush came into her cheeks. She was exquisite— small in frame, graceful in movement, but with an understated assurance. She had porcelain skin and a charming dimple when she smiled, as she did now.
    “In that case, I am five times fiattered,” I said. “I am an admirer of your work as well. In fact, I saw you perform two years ago in Madison, Wisconsin.”
    She smiled again, and then turned to the man beside her, whose presence I had completely forgotten. “Mr. Nakabayashi, this is Mr. Moran of the Moran Film Company. I brought him against his will to see your performance tonight, and now I’ve had to hold him back from rushing the stage to talk to you.”
    “Good to meet you,” said Mr. Moran, holding out his hand. I offered mine in return, and he shook it heartily.
    While I had not recognized William Moran by face, I certainly knew who he was. He’d directed half a dozen successful films in the year since he’d established his company, including three that featured Miss Minatoya. He was admired, and also somewhat controversial, because he actually used Chinese and Japanese actors to play Oriental parts, instead of following the usual practice of making Caucasian actors up to look like Orientals. Moran was medium-sized and stocky, with baggy clothes that befitted a salesman more than an artist. Although he was only in his early thirties when I met him, he had the focus and assurance of an older man. After I thanked him for coming to see my performance, he moved closer and quickly cut to the chase.
    “Look here, Nakabayashi,” he said. “I’d like to sign you to a picture. I’ve got a film in production that takes place in Japan during an epic battle, and I need a male lead. I was scratching my head to figure out who was strong enough to play opposite Hanako—the actors I already have are all crap—and she insisted that I come and see your play. She was right. You’re tremendous—you have the kind of natural talent and intensity I’m looking for. Forgive me for being presumptuous here, but you need to move on from this neighborhood theater. And we need