Tokyo Literary Masters: Starting from the Late 1980s

Chapter 204 Debate

As the first copy was turned, the meeting room quickly fell silent, with only the soft rustling of the paper turning.

But after reading only seven or eight pages, these publishing executives, who had been eagerly anticipating a "bombshell," clearly sensed that something was amiss.

The text contains no trace of the Ministry of Finance or Kasumigaseki officials, and also lacks the neon lights of Tokyo streets.

There was only a gray sky, scorched forests, a dilapidated shopping cart, and a father and son living together in the wasteland.

When the president of Kodansha turned to page eight, his brows were already deeply furrowed.

At this moment, he finally couldn't help but stop what he was doing, reached out and tapped a few pages of paper on the table, breaking the silence first and saying, "Wait, Murata-san."

Is this some kind of extremely subtle metaphor? Or is it just a prelude?

The president of Kodansha looked at the person opposite him with a puzzled expression and said, "It's almost ten pages already, and we haven't even seen a trace of the Ministry of Finance or the banks?"

The editor-in-chief of Wenyi Chunqiu also stopped, reached for a cigarette, lit it, took a deep drag, and frowned as he echoed, "Yes, my legal team is still downstairs working all night to highlight the key points. This opening—it's completely out of touch with reality."

"Keep reading."

A deep, tense voice suddenly rang out from the end of the long table.

The speaker was Kenichi Sato. He didn't even look up; his gaze remained fixed on the manuscript in his hand.

Kenichi Sato spoke in such a harsh tone, without any of the polite formalities between superiors and subordinates, that the president of Kodansha immediately frowned upon hearing this.

He tapped the ashtray heavily on the edge with the finger holding the cigarette, and said in a cold voice, "Editor-in-Chief Sato, watch your step."

"We are currently discussing the political risks of this core manuscript with your editor-in-chief. Since when did it become your place as the editor-in-chief to instruct the rest of us in this commanding tone?"

As soon as he finished speaking, the atmosphere in the conference room gradually became tense.

Upon hearing the president of Kodansha's words, Kenichi Sato looked up from his manuscript.

However, he didn't look at his own president, Taro Murata's, expression, but instead met the gaze of the Kodansha president directly.

Now, Kenichi Sato's bloodshot eyes hold a coldness and stubbornness that is purely characteristic of a manuscript-protecting editor.

"The presidents of various companies."

Kenichi Sato's voice wasn't loud, but it was firm and resolute: "Did you all rush into the top floor of Shinchosha tonight like sardines to read Kitahara-sensei's masterpiece, or were you merely trying to sniff out political bargaining chips that could be used to promote yourselves or make deals with Kasumigaseki?"

The president of Kodansha's eye twitched violently, his face darkening completely. He said sternly, "Sato, do you know what you're saying?!"

"If you're just here to find political dirt, then you can put down the manuscript now and walk out that door."

Kenichi Sato didn't back down, slamming his hand on the manuscript in front of him and saying loudly, "But if deep down, you all still have even the last shred of self-awareness as publishers, and you've come for Kitahara-sensei's literature—then please remain quiet and finish reading the rest of the manuscript."

"you----"

The president of Kodansha, his face ashen, abruptly turned to glare at the head of the group and said, "Murata! Is this the rule of your Shincho-sha? Sending a subordinate to lecture us?"

As soon as the president of Kodansha finished speaking, the atmosphere in the meeting room suddenly became tense.

Faced with the Kodansha president's questioning, Murata Taro shook his head, then slowly put down the copy in his hand, leaned forward slightly, and said, "Sato is so eager to protect his manuscript that he certainly doesn't know how to speak properly."

Murata Taro looked at his colleagues across from him, his tone calm but unyielding: "But gentlemen, since you've all squeezed into my office overnight, surely you have the patience to read this quietly?"

He tapped the manuscript paper on the table, his voice steady: "We've all spent most of our lives in publishing. Since you're here for Kitahara's new book, please set aside your expectations and read it as an editor."

"If any of you here really think this manuscript is not worth reading, then you can slam the door and leave. I, Murata, will not stop you."

""

The president of Kodansha's chest heaved violently twice before he finally let out a cold snort.

Since Murata Taro had given him a way out, he took the opportunity to suppress his anger and picked up the manuscript again with a gloomy face.

But when he forced himself to suppress his anger and picked up the manuscript again, his initial intention was simply to patiently read a few chapters so that he could find some faults to refute Murata Taro.

Seeing this, the other executives had the same thought, and they all restrained their emotions, continuing to flip through the pages with scrutinizing eyes.

However, after they had unknowingly finished reading the first three chapters, their initial grievances and political calculations gradually subsided.

Kitahara Iwa's writing is so steady.

The text sheds any restlessness or eagerness to vent, revealing an extremely restrained, descriptive quality.

As the story unfolds, this narrative quality subtly builds up a suffocating world of despair.

At first, they were searching between the lines for clues about the Ministry of Finance or the bank, but gradually their attention was completely drawn to the fate of the father and son.

Looking at strangers in that world no longer means being one of them.

Watching hunger strip people to the very bottom, and then squeeze the most authentic evil from their bones.

Looking at that gray highway that seemed to lead nowhere, stretching endlessly before my eyes.

From some unknown page onwards, these publishing house presidents, who were originally anxious and eager to find "political leverage," even began to turn the pages with a heavy heart.

The last trace of anger on their faces vanished completely, replaced by a profound sense of immersion, deeply oppressed by the words themselves.

The meeting room fell silent again, with only the soft rustling of papers being turned over.

The lighter would light up from time to time, and the cigarette ash would fall silently into the ashtray.

The strong smell of nicotine lingered in the air, and the halo of the overhead light was tinged with a slightly yellowish hue.

The sky outside the window gradually faded from deep black to the gray-white of early morning.

These high-ranking old foxes were thus drawn in by the words, reading silently all night long.

Reading about the father leaving the last of his food for his child, reading about the child asking them with tears in his eyes if they were still good people, reading that cold, hard phrase "We carry fire," and finally, reading about the father collapsing on the snow-covered shore, and the boy standing alone at the edge of the world.

As the last copy was gently placed down, a long, deathly silence fell over the conference room.

It was already daylight.

A few beams of dazzling morning light pierced through the gaps in the blinds, falling on the cold coffee that had formed a thin film on the table.

These elderly men, who dictate the direction of public opinion in Japan, all had bloodshot eyes and looked listless, yet none of them spoke first.

The first to break the silence was the editor-in-chief of Literary Spring and Autumn.

He rubbed his stiff cheeks vigorously, his voice hoarse from smoking all night.

Pointing to the manuscript in front of him, he said, "I admit, this is an impeccable masterpiece."

"But at this critical juncture, if Kitahara Iwakami had simply followed the momentum of 'The Collapsing Tower' and swung a knife slightly towards Kasumigaseki, subtly implying those high-ranking officials who persecuted him, the cabinet would have been shaken up today because of him!"

The president of Kodansha tilted his head back, leaned heavily against the back of his chair, and exhaled a long breath.

The veteran publisher's face was filled with complex emotions, including a strong regret for not getting the "political bombshell" and a sense of powerlessness as a senior editor who felt deprived of the ability to refute through words.

"What a pity—it's such a pity."

With tears welling in his eyes, the president of Kodansha muttered to himself, "At this perfect moment when we need weapons to wage a full-scale war against the bureaucracy, what he has handed over is a shrine enshrined in ruins—"

They are not unaware of the significance of "The Long Road".

On the contrary, everyone present knew that the text on the stack of photocopies in their hands was chillingly cold.

That is precisely why they instinctively feel a sense of almost anxious resentment.

At this very moment, the entire Japanese society, and even the world literary scene, are holding their breath, waiting for Kitahara Iwao to unleash his second blow against the zaibatsu and bureaucrats.

Who would have thought that Kitahara Iwa had no intention of looking back at his enemies from the very first page? Instead, he pushed a dilapidated shopping cart and walked into the nameless gray wasteland without looking back.

Kenichi Sato remained silent throughout this time.

He sat at the very end of the long table, his eyes bloodshot, his rough fingers still pressed tightly against the edge of the manuscript.

Unlike his colleagues who were preoccupied with political opportunities and market trends, he was the only editor in all of Japan who accompanied Kitahara Iwao through the process of writing "The Collapsing Tower".

Therefore, he knew all too well why Kitahara Iwa didn't write about the Ministry of Revenue.

Kenichi Sato took a deep breath, then looked up at the publishing tycoon beside him and said, "Because it's no longer necessary."

""

The conference room fell abruptly silent because of that hoarse voice.

The editor-in-chief of Wenyi Chunqiu frowned and looked at him with some confusion.

Kenichi Sato reached out and gathered the scattered photocopies on the long table, one by one, and stacked them neatly.

"Gentlemen, let's put away our scheming that's stuck in the mud."

These words, though spoken softly, caused a slight change in the expression of the club presidents who were usually surrounded by followers.

But Kenichi Sato did not back down. His bloodshot eyes were now filled with a mixture of clarity and sorrow: "Teacher Kitahara has already turned the page on Kasumigaseki."

"Whether it's the Ministry of Finance or those big banks, these sinners who created the bubble are now firmly gripped by the mess of reality."

"Going forward, they will only continue to rot, besieged by the media and cursed by the angry public every day, until they are completely settled by the times."

At this point, Sato Ken paused, his gaze sweeping over his colleagues, his tone revealing undisguised contempt as he said, "Let these people, destined to be swept into the dustbin of history, take up space in this new book?"

"They don't deserve it at all!"

"Teacher Kitahara wouldn't even bother wasting a single punctuation mark on them."

Upon hearing this, the president of Kodansha was taken aback, his fingers holding the cigarette freezing in mid-air.

Kenichi Sato placed the last page of the manuscript on top of the stack of papers, gently smoothing it with his palm. His voice, no longer as sharp as before, now carried a deep weariness as he said, "The Tower has already finished criticizing everyone who needed to be criticized. But, everyone, what happens after you've finished criticizing?"

"Companies go bankrupt every day, and people who can't repay their loans are lining up to jump off trains."

"At this point, what's the point of writing about the schemes within Xiaguan Pass and the wins and losses of the cabinet for those ordinary people who are freezing to death in the snowstorm?"

He looked at his colleagues and gently patted the manuscript in his hand: "Teacher Kitahara wrote about a rotten, wasteland world where people even eat each other, just to tell those ordinary people outside who are about to give up —"

"No matter how hard life gets, even if you have nothing, you must never lose your basic human decency."

"So, Kitahara-sensei isn't looking for revenge against anyone; he just wants to help these people out!"

As Kenichi Sato finished speaking, the Shueisha executives silently looked at the manuscript in their hands, and the resentment they felt for not getting the "political dirt" finally dissipated completely.

He finally understood why he had broken out in a cold sweat earlier.

This book doesn't actually cover bad debts, but it does describe how people survive when trillions of dollars in bad debts turn into a blizzard and crash down on ordinary people.

Political revelations may at most lead to the downfall of a cabinet and the imprisonment of a few bureaucrats, but this book, "The Long Road," is something that can truly give a nation in despair a second chance at survival.

Murata Taro stubbed out his cigarette, rubbed his temples wearily, but a hint of undisguised pride crept onto his lips.

Then, Murata Taro stood up, took the envelope back into his hand, and looked at his silent colleagues.

"Alright. Now, do you all still think it's a pity that Kitahara-sensei didn't write about revenge?"

No one answered.

Murata Taro stubbed out his cigarette, his tone returning to the crisp and decisive manner typical of the head of Shinchosha: "Since there's no political purge, then all our previously planned propaganda tactics are null and void. Sato, take the manuscript to the printing press immediately and follow the confidential procedures."

"As for how to decide on the cover and how to do the publicity, it's all up to you as the editor-in-chief. You don't need to ask the marketing department."

"clear."

Kenichi Sato nodded vigorously.

Murata Taro's gaze then swept across the long table, landing on the high-powered shredder in the corner that had been on standby all night: "Destroy all the copies on the table, leave not a single piece."

Kenichi Sato immediately stepped forward, gathered up all the scattered copies in front of everyone, and headed straight for the shredder.

Accompanied by the machine's low chewing sound, the paper was quickly swallowed up, turning into dense white scraps.

The president of Kodansha stood up and patted his wrinkled suit.

This seasoned publisher, usually shrewd in business battles, looked at the shredder with an unprecedentedly solemn expression and said, "Murata-san, although we didn't get the weapons targeting Kasumigaseki this time, the literary merit of this book means we don't need to resort to those low-level political gimmicks."

The editor-in-chief of Literary Spring and Autumn also stood up, stubbed out the last half of his cigarette in the ashtray, and said seriously, "From today onwards, all of our publicity channels will be fully open to Shincho Publishing."

"You can ask for the book at the bookstore's main display area, front-page book reviews in various newspapers and magazines, or radio screenings whenever you need them."

The usually taciturn executive from Shueisha picked up his briefcase, nodded slightly, and said, "Since Mr. Kitahara wants to leave a spark for the people in these ruins, then we, his colleagues, should work together to help him make that spark burn even brighter."

Murata Taro looked at these old foxes in the industry who never act without a clear benefit, yet now, in order to protect this work, they were unhesitatingly giving up their most crucial territory. A smile immediately appeared on his face as he said, "Then thank you all very much."

After a brief exchange of pleasantries, the club presidents left one after another.

Murata Taro walked to the French windows and turned to look out.

Outside the window, the Tokyo morning in 1991 was still shrouded in a gray haze.

The post-rain mist bathed the distant Xiaguan high-rise buildings in a white light, while the muffled rumble of the early morning trams rubbing against the rails drifted faintly from the end of the street.

Regardless of the shock that occurred in this conference room last night, the reality outside remains harsh.

The country is still struggling in a quagmire of bankruptcy, defaults, and endless debt.

But at least, Kitahara Iwa has left a path for ordinary people to continue on this cold wasteland.