Tokyo Literary Masters: Starting from the Late 1980s

Chapter 195 Kitahara Iwao, Sakai Izumi, and Oe Kenzaburo's Invitation

Kitahara Iwao knew very well that what he was going to write next would not be "The Collapsing Tower".

This book has done what it was supposed to do.

It tore away the veneer of the bubble economy, laying bare the debt chain between banks, housing companies, real estate agencies, and ordinary households to everyone.

Now, reality has written an even crueler sequel.

Stock prices plummeted, housing prices froze, banks pressed for repayments, and families broke apart.

Some people knelt in front of bank counters begging for loan extensions, some flipped through loan contracts page by page until dawn, and some even began to use the lives of their loved ones to fill the debt hole.

Japan has no shortage of writers who will continue to tell them that "the tower is collapsing."

Because they had already heard the sound of collapse.

What Kitahara Iwa wants to write about now is how people can continue to move forward after the collapse.

That's why he chose "The Long Road".

In another timeline, this post-apocalyptic novel was published in 2006 by American author Cormac McCarthy.

After its publication, it quickly swept the English literary world, later winning the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction and the James Tate Black Memorial Prize.

Many critics consider it one of the most important apocalyptic novels of the 21st century.

But what Kitahara Iwa truly values ​​is not these awards.

Awards are merely nameplates pinned on it by those who come after.

The true sharpness of "The Long Road" lies in its ability to strip the world down to its last layer.

The state disappears, the city dies out, and the law becomes ineffective.

Food, money, order, dignity—everything that once sustained civilization was covered in ashes.

People live in the wasteland no longer for the sake of living, but simply to survive the next day.

McCarthy didn't just write about the end of the world.

He wrote about whether, when the world forces people down to hunger, cold, fear, and death, they can still retain something human in their hearts.

A father, a son, and a highway covered in ashes.

The father was very ill, but he still pushed the old shopping cart and led the children all the way south.

They had no clear destination, nor did they know if there was any warmth and food ahead.

The world behind us is rotten to the core; hungry people may emerge from the roadside ruins at any moment, and kindness has become rarer than clean water.

But the father still wanted to continue with his child.

It wasn't because he believed there was salvation ahead.

It's because stopping is tantamount to admitting that the last spark in the world should be extinguished.

This is also why Kitahara Iwa wrote "The Long Road" in Tokyo in 1991.

Japan after the bursting of the bubble economy was certainly not a wasteland.

The neon lights of Ginza will still shine, the trams will still arrive at the station on time, and the television stations will still broadcast New Year's programs. The marble floors in the bank lobby will still be kept spotless.

But Kitahara Iwa knew that many people in this country had already spiritually entered the wasteland.

They believed in a land myth that had lasted for a generation, only to be dragged into an abyss by debt.

They thought banks represented order, only to find that order was just another, more respectable form of plunder.

They used to believe in hard work, saving, buying a house, family, and the future, but overnight, all of these words have been given a new price tag.

Some people are starting to break down, some are starting to harm each other, and some are no longer sure whether they should continue moving forward when they wake up tomorrow.

And "The Long Road" is a gift written for these people.

So, for the next few months, Kitahara Iwa locked himself in his study.

McCarthy's original work, written in minimalist and detached English, is a post-apocalyptic wasteland. To perfectly transplant it into the context of 1991 and accurately capture the lament of the times after the bursting of the bubble economy is far more than a simple text translation.

Kitahara Iwao had to gradually break down and reshape the rough, desolate texture of English into the coldness and repression unique to Japanese literature.

Furthermore, the subtle apocalyptic catastrophe in the original work should be seamlessly and naturally stitched into the realistic metaphors of debt, bankruptcy, and mutual harm among the lower classes in contemporary Japanese society.

This is by no means a mechanical copying of words, but a painstaking deconstruction.

Tokyo continues to sink, and the stock market numbers are turning green day by day.

The once-proud price list in the real estate company's shop window has been quietly removed.

At the bank counter, the customers' voices grew softer and softer.

In the social section of newspapers, words like debt, suicide, disappearance, and insurance money murder are appearing more and more frequently.

In Kitahara Iwa's study, only the scratching sound of a pen gliding across manuscript paper could be heard.

He wrote down a nameless world on the manuscript paper.

The sky is gray year-round, and the sun seems to be covered by something.

The ground was covered in ashes, the forests were burned black, the houses were just empty shells, and the supermarket shelves were looted.

There were no birdsong, no crops, and no lights.

There are no nights when one can sleep peacefully.

The survivors wandered through the ruins.

Some people still try to retain their human form, while others have completely transformed into hunger-driven monsters.

They plunder, hunt, and loot, treating their own kind as something to be consumed.

In such a world, a father and son push a dilapidated supermarket shopping cart containing a few old blankets, a few rusty cans, a little dirty water, and a meager number of survival tools.

My father has lost a lot of weight, coughs and has a fever at night, and sleeps very lightly.

He would always reach out to touch the child the moment he woke up, to make sure the child was still beside him.

The child is still young.

He shouldn't know what the end of the world means.

But he had already learned to distinguish footsteps in the distance, to not speak loudly in unfamiliar places, and to read his father's expression to judge whether they could continue walking.

They had no grand mission, no world-saving saga, they were simply heading south along the gloomy highway.

We walked through burned-down cities, along dusty roads, past ransacked farmhouses, and through places where fathers had to cover their children's eyes.

The father repeatedly told his children that they had to keep going.

It's not about waiting for the world to get better, nor is it about waiting for some miracle.

Rather, it was to extinguish the fire in their hearts.

In this world where cannibalism has become rampant, he had to repeatedly reassure his child: We do not eat people, no matter how hungry we are.

Because we are good people.

Because we are carrying fire.

This flame was simply the last line of defense that a father desperately held onto during the darkest of times.

He refused to let his children become wild beasts in the wasteland, refused to lose the kindness in his heart, and refused to let their love become a burden on this ruin.

Kitahara Iwao has been writing very slowly these days.

It was slower than when I was writing "The Collapsed Tower".

Because "The Collapsed Tower" relies on judgment and structure, while "The Long Road" relies on restraint.

Every additional sentence written might shatter the silence within the ashes.

Every additional explanation makes the fragile spark between father and son seem cheap.

Therefore, Kitahara Iwao cut out many beautiful sentences, excessive backgrounds, and all narrative devices that could have been used to show off his skills.

In the end, all that remains on paper is a road, two people, and a glimmer of light that has not yet been extinguished in a destroyed world.

Kitahara Iwa knew that readers would understand it.

Because they had just witnessed firsthand how a magnificent tower of prosperity collapsed.

Now, what they need to know is no longer why the tower collapsed.

It's about how a person, amidst rubble, can hold onto those around them and keep moving forward.

On that day, when there was a gentle knock on the study door, Kitahara Iwao had just finished writing half of "The Long Road".

On the manuscript paper, the father tells his child to sleep for a while, while he sits by the ashes and keeps watch.

Kitahara Iwa stared at the words for a long time, his eyes stinging and aching from staying up late and working at his desk.

The air in the study was stuffy.

The heavy curtains were drawn tightly, blocking out all the sunlight.

Several cigarette butts were piled up in the ashtray, half-finished manuscript paper was scattered on the table, and a cup of coffee that had long since gone cold sat next to it, with a ring of dark stains at the bottom.

Kitahara Iwa has hardly left the house during this period, and day and night have become indistinguishable in his study.

The wasteland, ashes, hunger, father and son, and road on the manuscript paper, like a gray film, gradually enveloped his spirit.

The door wasn't locked.

At that moment, Izumi Sakai pushed open a crack and peeked in.

However, she didn't speak immediately, but just stood at the door and looked at him for a few seconds.

Kitahara Iwa raised his head, his face pale and his eyes bloodshot.

His usually calm eyes now seemed as if he hadn't fully returned from another world.

Looking at Kitahara Iwa's current appearance, Sakai Izumi frowned slightly.

Then she walked to the desk and placed her hand on the back of his hand that was holding the pen.

Kitahara Iwa's hands were cold, and his knuckles were stiff from holding the pen for a long time.

Izumi Sakai glanced down, her voice gentle but leaving no room for negotiation, and said, "Iwa-kun."

Kitahara Iwa looked up at her.

You must go out today.

Kitahara Iwatsu heard this, but did not reply.

As if she had anticipated Kitahara Iwa's silence, Sakai Izumi continued, "I know the manuscript is important, and I know you don't want to be disturbed right now."

"But you haven't left this apartment for two whole months."

Izumi Sakai gently pressed her fingers against the back of Iwata Kitahara's hand, her tone tinged with a hint of heartache, yet also with an unusual firmness, as she said, "If this continues, what you're writing won't be a wasteland."

"You yourself are about to become a wasteland dweller."

Kitahara Iwa was taken aback.

After saying that, Izumi Sakai seemed to realize that her tone was a bit harsh, and her eyes softened as she said, "Come with me."

"Today."

"The manuscript paper won't disappear."

Kitahara Iwa lowered his eyes, looking at the thick stack of manuscript papers on the table.

I'm halfway through writing "The Long Road".

The father and son were still walking south on the gloomy highway.

I should have continued writing.

But the warmth of Izumi Sakai's palm against the back of my hand felt like a spark of fire being passed to me from reality.

After a moment, Kitahara Iwa put down his pen and asked, "Where to?"

Izumi Sakai's eyes lit up slightly, but she didn't answer. Instead, she smiled and said, "You'll find out when you come with me."

Half an hour later, the two changed into casual clothes for going out.

Kitahara Iwa was wearing a dark shirt with a light jacket casually draped over his shoulders.

Izumi Sakai was wearing a light-colored hat, with her long hair loosely tucked under the brim, and she straightened his collar for him.

As the two walked out of the apartment side by side, the Tokyo sun was shining on the sidewalk.

The heat of midsummer rises from the shadows of the trees along the street, and the sounds of trams, cars, and music from the convenience store in the distance gradually enter the ears.

Kitahara Iwa stood at the door, momentarily unaccustomed to the situation.

The city is still functioning.

Although the chill of the bursting bubble has seeped down from banks, securities companies and real estate agencies, the city's daily operations have not come to a standstill.

On the streets, one can still see pedestrians hurrying along and students playing together, while office workers carrying briefcases are still crossing the zebra crossing as quickly as ever.

Seeing this, Izumi Sakai did not urge Kitahara Iwao on. Instead, she naturally took his arm and led him forward, saying, "You look like you just came from the mountains."

Kitahara Iwa tilted his head to look at her and asked, "Is it that bad?"

Izumi Sakai nodded seriously and said, "It's even worse than coming from the mountains."

She paused for a moment, then added, "It's like writing my will for two months in the mountains."

Upon hearing this, Kitahara Iwa smiled.

The smile was faint, but it finally loosened the heavy gray layer covering him a little.

Afterwards, Izumi Sakai took Iwata Kitahara on a tram, passed several stops, crossed several streets, and finally stopped in front of an inconspicuous karaoke bar.

Kitahara Iwa looked up at the signboard, his expression pausing slightly.

This store isn't new.

Half of the neon lights at the entrance were old, and several outdated promotional posters were pasted on the glass door.

The staircase was so narrow that only two people could walk side by side, and there was still a faint smell of smoke and cleaning agents on the walls.

But Kitahara Iwa remembers this place.

They visited Sakai Izumi a few times before her official debut.

She hadn't become a singer yet.

I haven't even reached this position myself yet.

The two sat in a small private room, ordered a drink, and sang one song after another until their throats were dry, holding a slightly worn microphone.

That wasn't for entertainment; Kitahara Iwao was helping her break free from her original idol-style singing that catered to the market and find a musical style that truly belonged to her.

Inside the private room, Kitahara Iwao barely touched the microphone, simply leaning back quietly on the sofa and watching Sakai Izumi.

Like polishing words, tell her not to try to please the audience, but to use her inherent stubbornness to create a powerful melody.

It was under Kitahara Iwa's guidance that Izumi Sakai shed her saccharine image and gradually found the resilient and vibrant voice that empowers countless people.

Standing in front of the same store now, Kitahara Iwa remained silent for a few seconds.

Izumi Sakai looked at him, her tone becoming a little lighter.

"Do you remember?"

Kitahara Iwa nodded.

"You said back then that I sang better than the original singers on the jukebox."

Izumi Sakai's eyes crinkled into a smile.

"So you have to praise me again today."

The private room was still one of those cramped rooms.

A small table.

Two microphones.

The sofa is a bit old; you sink into it gently when you sit down.

The karaoke machine in the corner has been replaced once, but it's still incredibly slow to operate.

Izumi Sakai took off her hat and casually placed it on the side of the sofa, then skillfully selected a few songs.

Kitahara Iwa leaned back on the sofa, watching the song title pop up on the screen, and his shoulders finally relaxed.

The first song was an old song they used to sing.

As the intro began, Izumi Sakai picked up the microphone, glanced back at him, and said with a smile, "You're not allowed to dodge this song."

Kitahara Iwa looked at the microphone handed to him, paused for a moment, and said, "I haven't said anything a normal person should say for two months."

"That's perfect."

Izumi Sakai shoved the microphone directly into Iwao Kitahara's hand.

"Let's start by recovering through singing."

Kitahara Iwao finally accepted.

His very first sentence was off-key.

Izumi Sakai couldn't help but laugh, her shoulders shaking slightly.

Kitahara Iwa stopped, looked at her, and asked, "Is that funny?"

Izumi Sakai covered her mouth, her eyes full of laughter, and said, "I'm sorry."

"But it's really funny."

Kitahara Iwa looked at Sakai Izumi's smile and smiled back.

At this moment, the ashes in the study, the waste on the manuscript paper, the death and debt on the newspaper, were kept outside by the warm light of this small private room.

Izumi Sakai picked up the microphone again.

Her voice was very clear.

Unlike the sound on stage, which is enveloped by lights and applause, this sound is closer and softer, flowing gently past Kitahara Iwa like a spring.

Kitahara Iwa listened quietly.

When she sang the chorus, her eyes inadvertently swept over.

There was no deliberate attempt to evoke emotion, nor was there any advice like "You need to cheer up."

They were just singing a song they had sung together many years ago.

But Kitahara Iwa suddenly realized that she hadn't brought him here today for fun.

She just wanted to remember.

Before I became famous, I used to sit in such a cramped box and listen to a girl who hadn't debuted yet sing.

The world wasn't so complicated back then.

On an ordinary night in Tokyo, they clumsily but earnestly sang a song using a karaoke machine.

Halfway through the second song, Kitahara Iwa's portable cell phone suddenly rang.

The shrill monosyllable ringtone broke the melody in the private room. Izumi Sakai stopped singing, glanced at him, and considerately turned the accompaniment volume down to the lowest setting.

Kitahara Iwa took out the heavy black machine. He wanted to turn it off directly, but considering that only a handful of editors or old acquaintances in the literary world could call this private number, he hesitated for a moment, then pulled out the antenna and pressed the answer button.

Then Kitahara Iwa walked to the door of the private room, pushed it open, and stood in the relatively quiet corridor, holding the receiver to his ear.

Then, Haruki Murakami's slightly nonchalant voice came from the other end of the receiver.

"Kitahara-kun, are you still alive?"

"Mr. Murakami?"

Listening to Haruki Murakami's voice, Kitahara Iwa leaned against the wall, glanced at Izumi Sakai who was rearranging the song list in the private room, and then nodded, saying, "Barely."

Haruki Murakami chuckled.

"That's good. Shinchosha doesn't say that. They say your phone line is like it's been cut, and every time the editor contacts you, it's like sending a postcard into a deserted area."

Kitahara Iwa said calmly, "Because my new book isn't finished yet."

"I guessed so."

The sound of a cup gently tapping on the table came from the other end of the phone.

Then, Haruki Murakami's tone became slightly more serious as he said, "There's a private gathering in Minami-Aoyama tonight. Not many people, just acquaintances. And Kenzaburo Oe will also be there."

Upon hearing this name, Kitahara Iwa's expression shifted slightly.

Haruki Murakami continued, "Mr. Oe recently finished reading 'The Collapsing Tower'."

"He rarely praises a young writer so directly."

"But he said that your book accurately tore away the most respectable facade of postwar Japanese society."

Kitahara Iwa did not speak immediately.

At the end of the corridor, a waiter carried drinks past, and singing could be heard from other private rooms through the crack in the door.

Haruki Murakami added, "He specifically told me that if I could get in touch with you, I should definitely invite you over for a drink."

"Of course, listening to your background noise now, I feel like I've contacted you at the wrong time."

Kitahara Iwa looked back.

Inside the private room, Izumi Sakai was holding a song request book. Seemingly noticing his gaze, she looked up and smiled at him.

Kitahara Iwa turned his gaze away and replied, "It's definitely not the right time."

Then, a low chuckle came from the other end of the phone from Haruki Murakami: "That's not like you at all. What important matter has tripped you up, that you're even considering canceling Mr. Oe's event?"

Kitahara Iwa glanced through the slightly ajar door at Sakai Izumi, who was sitting obediently on the sofa in the private room looking through the song list, and then said in a matter-of-fact tone, "I promised to sing with someone, and I can't leave now."

Haruki Murakami paused for a moment, then, as if realizing something, his voice suddenly held a hint of knowing teasing between friends: "Ah—I see. Is Ms. Sakai over there?"

Kitahara Iwa didn't beat around the bush and simply gave a straightforward "hmm".

Haruki Murakami on the other end of the phone chuckled, his tone becoming increasingly relaxed: "Then I can't be that annoying, unwelcome guest."

"Mr. Oe and the others will probably be drinking until very late. The real party won't start until after nine o'clock. You're not in a hurry. You can come later after you've finished with Ms. Sakai."

Kitahara Iwa replied, "Please give my regards to Mr. Oe for me."

Haruki Murakami smiled and replied, "Understood," before tactfully hanging up the phone.

After putting away the antenna, Kitahara Iwa stood quietly in the corridor for a moment before pushing open the door and returning to the private room.

Izumi Sakai, holding a cup of hot tea, looked calmly at Iwao Kitahara and asked, "Is it something urgent?"

Kitahara Iwao walked to the sofa and sat down, picking up a glass of water to moisten his throat. "It's Mr. Murakami calling. Mr. Oe Kenzaburo is having a private party tonight and wants me to come over for a drink."

Upon hearing the name Kenzaburo Oe, Izumi Sakai naturally understood the significance of this gathering in the Japanese literary world.

She straightened up almost imperceptibly, put down her teacup, and was about to grab her coat when she said, "Then I'll get your coat for you. Let's go quickly so the seniors don't wait up—"

"No rush."

Kitahara Iwa reached out and gently pressed down on her wrist, then picked up the microphone that had been placed on the coffee table.

Looking at the still-paused screen, Kitahara Iwa continued, "I told them I'd be there later. After all, I only sang half of that song; I couldn't just give up halfway through."

Izumi Sakai paused for a moment, looking at Kitahara Iwao's stubborn face, and finally couldn't help but turn her head and chuckle softly.

Then Izumi Sakai reached out and pressed the play button on the remote control, saying half-jokingly and half-expectantly, "Then Kitahara-sensei, you'd better keep a close eye on the screen this time, and don't sing love songs with the air of negotiating with someone."

"This request might be more difficult than asking me to rewrite a book."

Kitahara Iwa looked at the countdown timer that had started flashing on the screen and let out a rare sigh.

"Then give it your all."

Izumi Sakai encouraged her softly.

The melody of the accompaniment flowed again in the small private room, and when Kitahara Iwa opened his mouth again, the monotone was still completely off-key.

Sakai Izumi leaned back comfortably on the sofa, listening to Kitahara Iwao's dry, unskilled singing, her chin resting on her hand, her clear eyes filled with a tender smile that could no longer be hidden.

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