Tokyo Literary Masters: Starting from the Late 1980s

Chapter 200 Japan's Loss and the Nobel Prize in Literature

At 4:50 p.m., only ten minutes remained until the "deadline" set by the legal team.

A withdrawal confirmation stamped with the official seal of Hokuriku Housing Finance arrived hastily at the legal department of Tokyo Shinchosha, accompanied by the frantic whirring of the fax machine.

The following morning, a local Hokuriku newspaper with a pungent smell of ink was faxed to the desk of the legal department of Shinchosha.

In the bottom right corner of the third edition, in a very inconspicuous position, there is a small "public statement" about the size of a tofu block.

The statement was dry and perfunctory, downplaying the seriousness of the matter by claiming that "some of our partner agencies engaged in improper conduct during the collection process," and stating that it would cooperate with relevant departments in their investigation and re-examine the agency relationship.

The statement was printed very poorly, with rough layout and a gnashing arrogance and resentment between the lines.

It's obvious to everyone that these people have no remorse whatsoever; they were forced to write this surrender document simply because their financial lifeline was being cut off.

But when Yusuke Morita sat on the leather sofa in the reception room of Shinchosha's headquarters, holding the still-warm fax copy in his hands, his shoulders instantly slumped.

The 50 million dollar noose that drove him to jump off the building finally snapped.

With a trembling deep breath, Yusuke Morita's shoulders, which had been tense for days, relaxed.

That same afternoon.

With the soft sound of the solid wood door being pushed open, Yusuke Morita met Iwa Kitahara for the first time in the Shincho Society guest room.

The 27-year-old reporter was wearing a faded shirt, his face was still pale, and his fingers unconsciously gripped the seam of his trousers.

When Kitahara Iwa pushed the door open and walked in, Morita Yusuke instinctively tensed his back, stood up abruptly, and tried to bow, but because he was too hasty, his thigh bumped into the corner of the table.

"Teacher Kitahara."

Yusuke Morita's voice was hoarse as he said, "Thank you—"

Kitahara Iwa sat down in the main seat opposite him and pushed the copy of the withdrawn 50 million dollar lawyer's letter to the center of the table.

"You're welcome."

Kitahara Iwao said, "It was your own writing that saved you. If you hadn't written it, and had locked all those photos and notes in a drawer, no one could have helped you."

Yusuke Morita paused for a moment, his eyes reddening slightly.

Kitahara Iwa looked at him and asked a very practical question: "Will you continue writing?"

Morita's Adam's apple bobbed.

The fear is still there, of course.

The smell of red paint on the door and the shadow of huge claims won't dissipate in a day.

After a dozen seconds, Yusuke Morita gritted his teeth and nodded.

"Write."

Kitahara Iwa looked at him, nodded, and said, "Then continue writing."

As for the local bank that attempted to dismiss the matter with a mere statement, the matter clearly did not end there.

The writers are only responsible for exposing the truth, while the real reckoning has been handed over to more professional people. The legal team of the alliance has directly submitted the preserved financial records and collection contracts to the Ministry of Finance and independent compliance experts.

Next, specialized financial investigators will follow this opening to dig out the massive mess they're trying to cover up.

This news quickly spread in the press.

The Japan Free Writers' League's first move didn't involve any grand slogans; it simply involved bringing back a local journalist who was nearly driven to suicide.

But it was this incident that made the outside world truly understand that the alliance declaration printed in the newspapers was not just pretty nonsense from intellectuals.

It truly has real power.

In this era of bursting bubbles, those who have been cornered discover for the first time that they are not left with no choice but to silently walk to the rooftop.

They can write letters, ask for help, and send out evidence.

They began to believe that in this darkness, there really was someone willing to catch that tiny spark of light.

A few days later, Shinchosha received a letter from an ordinary reader.

The letter was unsigned, containing only one short line: "So, the spark really can ignite."

After reading the letter, Kitahara Iwao tucked it into the first draft of "The Long Road".

Outside the window, the autumn rain that had lasted for several days had briefly stopped.

The sky over Tokyo remained overcast, but beneath this suffocating gray, faint lights were indeed beginning to appear.

However, these scattered glimmers of humanity were ultimately insufficient to melt away the chill of an entire era.

As the Ministry of Finance relentlessly pursued its liquidation efforts, the autumn of 1991 marked the beginning of the most difficult season for Japan since the bursting of the bubble economy.

The cold rain that had just stopped was merely a brief respite in the storm.

The sky over Tokyo seemed to be covered by a thick, gray film.

Rain pelted down every few days, not only soaking the GG signs along the streets of Ginza, but also completely washing away the remaining luster on those shop windows.

In the once-glittering high-end shopping mall, the shop assistants still stand ramrod straight, their faces bearing mechanical and standardized smiles. But very few people actually go inside to make a purchase.

Expensive jewelry, handbags, and imported watches were displayed on the counter.

They still shimmered under the cool-toned spotlights, yet seemed isolated in another time and space, completely out of place with the bleakness outside the door.

A chilly autumn wind blew across the street, swirling up several real estate flyers that had been trampled by mud and water.

Just a few months ago, these beautifully printed flyers would be solemnly handed to middle-class families by salespeople, as if they were golden tickets to financial freedom.

But now, those pages that once proudly proclaimed "asset preservation," "prime location in Tokyo," and "last chance to get on board" are all soaked and crumpled by the rain.

They clung tightly to the iron railings of the sewer, resembling talismans torn apart by the times.

But now, those pages that once proudly proclaimed "asset preservation," "prime location in Tokyo," and "last chance to get on board" are all soaked and crumpled by the rain.

They were stuck to the iron bars of the sewer, looking just like talismans torn apart by the times.

The myth has become worthless because the dealer sitting across the gambling table has already overturned the game.

As this national-level Ponzi scheme came to an end, the Ministry of Finance finally bared its fangs and officially launched the liquidation of non-performing loans.

However, the executioner's blade called "liquidation" will never fall equally on everyone's head.

Large financial institutions must be preserved, and the reputation of core banks must be polished.

Those enormous holes that could have dragged the entire national economic system into the abyss were quietly covered up by bureaucrats using all sorts of respectable financial terms.

Therefore, in order to survive, the first to be ruthlessly cut off were the last lifelines of small and medium-sized enterprises and ordinary homebuyers.

The loan extension was forcibly reclaimed, the bridge loan was unilaterally cancelled, and the window for loan renewal was abruptly closed overnight.

The bank teller behind the counter maintained the standard Japanese 90-degree bow and politeness, but the collection notice handed out through the bulletproof glass was colder and more biting than the autumn rain outside the window.

Many small and medium-sized business owners were already struggling to stay afloat.

They naively believed that as long as they could get through this winter, as long as the bank would grant them another three months' grace, and as long as they could recover the last few payments, the company could still stay afloat.

But when the autumn wind blew, all the fantasies shattered completely like bubbles.

The factory owner sat listlessly in his office, staring at the stack of unpaid payrolls and year-end bonus budgets on his desk, oblivious to the cigarette burning his skin between his fingers.

The president of a small company on the street stood alone at the entrance of the empty workshop late at night, looking at the machines that had been sealed off, his face as pale as a piece of waste paper soaked in water.

Someone called the long-time employees into the meeting room, bowed deeply, and choked up as they announced that the company would be "temporarily shut down."

In the end, even he himself swallowed the self-deceiving words "temporary".

For ordinary families burdened with "relay loans," what is descending is a hell of collective punishment that is even more suffocating than bankruptcy.

The so-called relay loan was originally packaged by banks and real estate salespeople in a very gentle way: parents take the first leg, children take the second leg, and the whole family works together to buy a bright future.

However, at the end of the year, when the legally mandated settlement loan had to be fulfilled, the bridging funds were suddenly cut off by the bank.

Thus, the baton that was once called "family inheritance" instantly turned into an iron chain that bound the whole family to the sinking ship.

The father couldn't repay the debt, and the son couldn't accept it.

The retirement home where his elderly parents in the countryside enjoyed their later years was forcibly frozen, and the land on which his wife's family depended for survival was dragged into the mire.

The family sat around the dining table, staring at stacks of payment reminders until dawn.

In the silence, no one could utter another word; only despair spread silently.

The words in the social section of the newspaper are becoming increasingly alarming.

Bankruptcy, disappearance, will, insurance fraud —

Tragic scenes of a family of three burning charcoal in a closed train car, a company president jumping from the top floor of an office building, and a middle-aged man in a suit wandering around a subway platform for over an hour before being forcibly subdued by police officers have begun to occur frequently.

At first, these blood-stained news stories would make people stop eating breakfast and sigh.

But later, when death and bankruptcy became as commonplace as weather forecasts, people's eyes became numb.

The entire country seemed to have been forced to learn how to swallow cold rice while receiving devastating news.

When the continuous autumn rain once again enveloped the city, a sense of near-death silence permeated the streets of Tokyo.

It wasn't just the smell of rainwater mixed with car exhaust, but also the scent of old suits emanating from unemployed people, reeking of camphor.

Everyone is struggling to survive under the gloomy sky.

Countless weary faces have lost their gaze toward "tomorrow".

On the eve of this cold winter without the smoke of gunpowder, the whole of Japan had silently transformed into a desolate wasteland without a single spark.

In this suffocating atmosphere, Kitahara Iwao received a transoceanic call from Robert Finley.

When the phone suddenly rang, Kitahara Iwa was sitting under the desk lamp in his study, rubbing his aching temples, his gaze still fixed on the proof of "The Long Road".

Just as Izumi Sakai was carrying a freshly brewed cup of hot tea to the table, she was startled by the sudden, urgent ringing of the bell. The steaming teacup in her hand wobbled slightly, and the porcelain lid made a crisp sound as it tapped.

Then, Izumi Sakai subconsciously turned her head and looked at the black landline phone on the corner of the table.

Upon hearing this, Kitahara Iwa casually placed the pen on the paper, stretched his stiff neck from sitting for a while, and then reached for the receiver.

"Feed?"

There was a series of crackling, static-filled sounds from the other end of the phone, followed by Robert Finley's distinctive British accent.

"Mr. Kitahara."

Finley's tone was completely different from usual at this moment.

His usual shrewdness and competence when discussing overseas copyrights, and his cold arrogance when facing Japanese Ministry of Finance officials, were all gone at this moment.

Instead, there was a tense voice, and even the breathing sounded heavier than usual, as if suppressing a kind of fanaticism that could not be concealed at all.

"Mr. Kitahara, I think you'd better find a chair and sit down properly now, and then listen to what I have to say."

Kitahara Iwa glanced out the window.

A cold wind whipped up autumn rain, pounding against the glass, and the distant Tokyo night view appeared desolate.

Then Kitahara Iwa leaned back, adjusting to a comfortable position, and said in a normal tone, "I'm already sitting down. What happened?"

Finley chuckled softly on the other end of the phone and said, "Very good."

Then Finley took a deep breath, as if trying to calm himself down, or as if brewing a storm that was about to blow the roof off, and said: "Reuters and the BBC will jointly release a cultural news story that will shock the world in two hours."

"Literary societies in many European countries, along with several top-tier literary institutions, have officially recommended your work to Sweden."

Upon hearing this, Kitahara Iwa's left hand, which was about to pick up a teacup, suddenly stopped in mid-air.

Before Kitahara Iwa could even confirm, Finley on the other end of the phone could no longer contain his excitement, his voice even trembling slightly as he dropped a bombshell: "To be more precise, Mr. Kitahara, you have officially entered the final shortlist for this year's Nobel Prize in Literature with 'The Collapsing Tower'!"

As Finley finished speaking, the air in the study seemed to be sucked out all at once.

Kitahara Iwa's gaze suddenly narrowed sharply.

Seeing this, Izumi Sakai, who was standing by the table, carefully placed the perfectly hot tea on the soft cushion of the tray, without making the slightest sound of the porcelain cup clattering.

Izumi Sakai knew Kitahara Iwao so well that even though she couldn't hear anything from the receiver, she could still sense the significance of this overseas call just by noticing Kitahara Iwao's unusual loss of composure.

After a moment of silence, Finley on the other end of the phone reacted as if he had anticipated this nuclear-bomb-like reaction of not giving a reason.

Even though Kitahara Iwa didn't say a word, he still said excitedly, "Of course, this is not the final result yet. Those old fogies at the Swedish Academy have always kept the list a secret."

"But please trust my channels, Mr. Kitahara. This information has been cross-confirmed at the highest level through several absolutely reliable inside sources in Stockholm!"

"You have no idea how crazy the entire European cultural scene has been these past few months!"

"The brutal dissection of capitalism in 'The Collapsing Tower,' the violent raids by the IRS, the attempted assassination by the Yakuza, and your alliance of free writers who stood up to the government—"

Finley's speech quickened, taking on a solemn reverence: "These realities have all been stitched together by the European media."

"Those judges no longer see you as a bestselling author from the Far East."

"In this literary trial where one man stood against the state apparatus, they regarded you as the greatest living witness of our time!"

Upon hearing this, Kitahara Iwa took a deep breath and leaned his slightly tense back back into the leather chair.

He was not overwhelmed by the enormous halo.

"Thank you for reminding me, Mr. Finley."

Kitahara Iwa responded.

"This is more than just a reminder."

Finley chuckled softly on the other end of the phone, his tone carrying the keen and fervent awareness of a top publisher smelling blood. "In fact, Ladbrokes' Nobel Prize odds have already begun to fluctuate dramatically."

"Before dawn, your name will definitely be among the top three in the world. At the latest, Reuters' news will be all over the world tonight."

Finley paused for a moment, then added with a hint of sarcasm, "Mr. Kitahara, I must congratulate you in advance."

""

"But next, the rooftops of all of Tokyo will be blown off, and your apartment door is destined to become quite a spectacle."

"Good luck."

The call ended, and a monotonous dial tone came through the receiver.

Upon hearing this, Kitahara Iwa stared at the pen on the table for a few seconds before snapping the microphone back onto the landline.

The only sound in the study was the faint ticking of the clock's second hand.

Izumi Sakai then took half a step closer, noticing Kitahara Iwa's clearly unusual expression, and asked softly, "What's wrong? Is it something difficult?"

Kitahara Iwao turned his head, looked into her clear eyes, and said, "Finley said I've made it to the final shortlist for the Nobel Prize in Literature."

>