Tokyo Literary Masters: Starting from the Late 1980s

Chapter 205 You can survive on cheap rice

As November arrived, rank-and-file employees throughout the Japanese publishing industry sensed an unusual and eerie atmosphere.

The sales managers of Kodansha, Bungei Shunju, and Shueisha, these fierce rivals in the industry, received internal calls from their respective company presidents on the same day for the first time ever.

The content of the phone call was even more absurd: the higher-ups ordered the removal of the most profitable projects for the second half of the month, clearing out all the core exhibition booths and promotional channels controlled by each company, just to make way for a new book from their arch-rival, Shincho Publishing.

As the center of the storm, Shincho Publishing's editorial department worked several consecutive all-nighters.

Kenichi Sato personally stayed on the front lines, practically giving the printing factory workers dark circles under their eyes from staring at him.

The tacit understanding reached by the major publishing giants in the conference room has translated into a running printing production line and tons of paper.

Under the cover of night, trucks loaded with posters quietly drove into the city's capillaries.

Workers braved the chilly early autumn winds, pressing rough brushes onto subway platforms, bookstore windows, street corner newsstands, and even the most expensive giant billboards in Shinjuku and Shibuya.

With each layer of thick paste applied, the city's original bustling visual character was forcibly covered up, bit by bit.

In less than a week, this united wave of the publishing industry swept across the entire city.

When early morning commuters take to the streets, they inevitably notice this unusual visual oppression.

The overwhelming publicity campaign, coupled with the prominent Shinchosha logo, led everyone to instinctively believe that Kitahara Iwa, the author of "The Collapsed Tower," had returned to the battlefield with a new manifesto.

In the midst of a bursting bubble and widespread discontent, the public is eager for a "verbal reckoning" against the Ministry of Finance and bankers. They are almost expecting a sense of vengeful pleasure as they prepare to face the sharp headlines.

However, when passersby actually turned their attention to the giant poster, they found that it was not the manifesto they had expected.

The image contained neither radical words denouncing bureaucrats nor any endorsements from celebrities; even the name "Kitahara Iwa" was deliberately tucked away below the title.

In the very center of the image, two simple book titles are printed all alone:

"The Long Road".

Below the book title, a line of unassuming small print floats:

Even when the world comes to an end, we will still move forward.

This seemingly harmless statement caused many commuters passing by the poster to stop in their tracks.

They stood before this oppressive gray landscape, and although they did not receive the radical slogans expected to vent their hatred, the public's emotions did not cool down.

At this critical juncture, with the bubble bursting and chaos ensuing, no one would simply regard it as an ordinary literary slogan.

A murmur quickly rose from the crowd.

"Is Kitahara-sensei preparing to launch another attack on the Ministry of Finance?"

An employee carrying a briefcase looked at the poster on the pillar with excitement in his eyes.

"It definitely is! But the title 'The Long Road' sounds a bit strange, unlike a title like 'The Tower,' which sounds menacing."

The person accompanying him stroked his chin thoughtfully.

"Look at this slogan—'The world is coming to an end.' Isn't that a blatant implication that the Japanese economy is completely beyond saving?"

"This is really exciting! I wonder what shocking secret he'll uncover this time. Those old men in Xiaguan are probably going to have sleepless nights again!"

Because Shinchosha did an excellent job of keeping things secret, no one except the staff had seen the actual manuscript in the past week.

Therefore, almost all ordinary people struggling in the debt winter naturally imagined this mysterious new work as an impending reckoning.

This gray poster, devoid of any information, not only failed to deter readers but instead heightened the anticipation and excitement across Japan.

Ordinary people on the street are eagerly anticipating a thrilling revenge drama.

However, for those important figures sitting in the upscale office buildings of Kasumigaseki and Otemachi, this sudden, deathly silence felt like an invisible noose slowly tightening.

They were confident that Kitahara Iwa would press his advantage, and some departments had even secretly prepared public relations statements to deal with the media and scapegoats to shirk responsibility, just waiting to counter their moves when the new book was released.

But now, looking at the briefing with the gray poster that their subordinates brought them, everyone felt a sense of panic, like punching cotton.

There were no specific hypothetical enemies, no vehement accusations, and not even a trace of emotional venting that politicians could exploit.

It was too clean.

For this group of old foxes who are used to tearing each other apart in the quagmire and who always try to figure out a bit of scheming, they are not afraid of their political enemies drawing their knives in the street, but they are afraid of their opponents remaining silent.

This flawless cleanliness, ironically, made them feel that a more deadly threat lurked in the shadows.

This maddening vacuum state was entirely created by Kenichi Sato through relentless efforts.

Because Shincho-sha doesn't have any fancy anti-theft plans at all, only the most basic physical isolation.

The typesetting room, proofreading department, and printing plant were separated. The editors responsible for proofreading couldn't even see the complete story. Each person only received a few pages of shuffled manuscripts and was completely confused as they searched for typos.

The editorial office's landline was ringing off the hook with calls from outsiders trying to get information.

Newspapers wanted an advance copy of the book, television stations wanted to do a pre-interview, and the editors of several long-established financial magazines even used their connections with members of parliament to try and get Kenichi Sato to have a drink and find out whether the book actually contained information about the housing scandal.

All of this was met with a curt "No comment" from Kenichi Sato.

There was no preview, no sample book, not even a single polite greeting.

Shinchosha is like a gourd with its mouth sawed off, completely shutting down.

But the quieter it was outside, the less sleepy the group from Xiaguan could get.

In several key offices of the Ministry of Finance, the cigarette butts in the ashtrays were piled up like small mountains.

Several bureaucrats who usually wear suits and ties and can decide the flow of billions of dollars in loans with just a few words are now sullenly staring at the poster on the table.

In their political logic of not acting until they see results, they simply do not believe that an "assassin" who has just been elevated to a pedestal by the whole of Japan and even has a Nobel Prize nomination would actually lay down his sword and become a Buddha.

"Before the release of the previous book, 'The Tower,' Shinchosha at least leaked a few unpleasant promotional slogans to give us some preparation."

99

A middle-aged section chief, his eyes bloodshot from working so hard, slammed his fist on the table in frustration and said sharply, "This time, they haven't given us a single word! What are they hiding?"

"Kitahara is not a newcomer who can be easily manipulated. He has Kenzaburo Oe behind him, the entire literary world, and the Europeans outside who are waiting to see the cabinet make a fool of itself."

The boss next to him took a deep drag of his cigarette, his voice a little dry, and said, "What if he took all our dirty laundry, gave it a new cover, and wrote it as a novel—"

He didn't dare to continue, but everyone in the room shivered.

If it really comes to that, it won't just be a matter of being scolded a few times.

With the cabinet collapsing and the Tokyo District Public Prosecutors Office's Special Investigation Department intervening, how many of you here can guarantee you won't end up in jail?

This self-inflicted fear quickly escalated into frantic, chaotic actions within hours.

In the latter half of that night, the solid wood doors of several key offices in the Tibet Ministry were locked from the inside.

At such a critical juncture, no one dares to entrust the task of destroying evidence to a secretary or young employee.

High-ranking officials, who usually have their briefcases carried for them and don't even have to open car doors themselves, are now personally stuffing handfuls of meeting minutes, covered in various irregular instructions and locked in the innermost part of their safes, into the paper shredder's feed.

The high-end custom-made shirt was completely soaked with cold sweat, sticking stickily to his chubby back.

Several high-powered paper shredders were running under continuous overload, causing their motors to emit a pungent, burnt smell, and they even frequently jammed due to overheating.

The bureau chief, who usually maintains a composed demeanor and appears unperturbed in front of the media, is now kneeling beside the wastebasket, completely disregarding his suit jacket. His hands are covered in black ink from the machine as he frantically rummages through the dense scraps of paper.

His bloodshot eyes were fixed on the pile of scrap paper, like a possessed old man, as if afraid that someone might piece together his own name or that of some important person from the shredded scraps.

Several senior executives from the banks involved also held a meeting overnight.

In the conference room on the top floor of the headquarters, the mahogany table was piled high with slabs of stomach medicine and cold black coffee.

Several financial giants, who are usually meticulous even on the cover of financial magazines, were now irritably tugging at their silk ties and arguing incessantly amidst the smoky atmosphere.

"If Kitahara Iwa's latest move targets the illegal lending on that golf course land in the Minato Ward, how should we respond?"

A managing director, his face covered in cold sweat, gulped down a mouthful of cold coffee, his voice trembling slightly.

"Then immediately send out the branch manager in charge of financing to take the blame."

The bank manager, sitting in the main seat, had a grim face. He tapped a stack of documents on the table with his cigarette-holding fingers and said, "The apology draft, ghostwritten overnight by the PR firm, stating 'deep remorse and resignation,' is here. Have him memorize it first thing tomorrow morning."

"But what if Kitahara Iwa also uncovers the 50 billion yen hole we secretly covered for those housing companies?!"

Another manager suddenly stood up, clutching his stomach in pain, and said, "That's not the kind of public outrage that can be quelled by the death of a branch manager. The Special Investigations Department will definitely seal off the headquarters building!"

"Then let the vice president hold the press conference! Bowing, kneeling—any gesture is acceptable as long as it puts the fire out!"

This privileged class, which controls the lifeline of Japan's economy, is now like a group of prisoners awaiting their final verdict, cautiously and meticulously calculating which level of scapegoat to put forward.

They didn't even know that the book called "The Long Road" didn't mention them at all.

Before they even saw a glimpse of their opponents, this group, gripped by extreme panic and a guilty conscience, stripped themselves bare, leaving them with nothing but their underwear.

This farcical act of treating thin air as if facing a formidable enemy precisely exposes just how much filthy mess is hidden beneath the group's gleaming suits.

While Kasumigaseki and the financial world were on edge over a hypothetical enemy, "The Long Road" was being produced in large printing plants on the outskirts of Tokyo.

The rotary machine room was as hot as a steamer late at night.

The massive printing press roared deafeningly, and the dry, hot smell of the paper rubbing against each other at high speed, mixed with the pungent smell of ink, went straight into people's lungs.

The foreman, Yamazaki, who was in his fifties, tugged at the collar of his old work clothes, which were soaked with sweat, and irritably examined the samples from the night shift with his rough hands, which were full of black dirt under his fingernails.

He's been having trouble sleeping lately, and just now, while he was at the boiler room, he gulped down two mouthfuls of cheap liquor. Right now, his stomach is churning with acid.

The young apprentice passing by shrank his neck, not daring to even breathe loudly.

Everyone in the factory knows that foreman Yamazaki is someone you shouldn't mess with lately.

His eldest son, who used to work at a real estate company and was always the pride of the family, was laid off last month.

The family defaulted on their exorbitant mortgage payments, and the daughter-in-law took her grandson back to her parents' home. A once happy family was torn apart just like that.

Around 3 a.m., the first batch of loose pages from "The Long Road" were delivered to the sampling inspection station.

Yamazaki vigorously rubbed the sweat from his palms on his work pants, picked up a scrap of paper and held it up to the bright light, habitually squinting to stare at the ink coloring.

This was a job that could be done with one's eyes closed, but as he was looking at it, the swear words he was about to use to curse the worker for "the layout is crooked" suddenly got stuck in his throat.

The paper was printed with this passage: A father and his young son were hiding in a cold, abandoned house.

The child was sick, delirious with fever, and asked his father if they were going to starve to death.

The man, who was so hungry that he could barely stand, put the last bit of dried-out scraps he had found into his mouth and chewed them up, feeding them to the child bit by bit.

The father told his child, "We won't die, because we will keep going."

There were no grand pronouncements or fancy words used.

But these few dry words of conversation suddenly struck Yamazaki's alcohol-numbed stomach like a heavy punch.

Images from over a decade ago flashed before his eyes.

Back then, there was no such thing as economic collapse, and no daily bank bills tormenting you.

He only remembered that on the day he became the assistant supervisor, he casually brought back a cold tuna rice ball from the convenience store after his night shift.

My seven-year-old son was sitting on the steps in the entryway, eating a rice ball with seaweed crumbs all over his mouth, and looking up at me with a silly grin.

The machine was still roaring deafeningly, and the hot air made people dizzy.

Yamazaki, however, stared intently at the paper in his hand, his gaze repeatedly sweeping over the short text, as if someone had pulled out his tendons.

The father in the book, who couldn't even afford half a clean loaf of bread, was clearly a useless man who could only eke out a living in the ruins.

But he didn't abandon his child to commit suicide, nor did he fly into a rage at his sick child.

He simply walked silently ahead, shielding the child from the wind and snow.

Looking at these lines of text, Yamazaki suddenly felt as if he had been slapped hard across the face, and his face burned with pain.

When the real snowstorm hit, how did I, as a father, act?

The despair in his eldest son's voice when he called a few days ago seemed to transform into a rusty, dull knife, suddenly echoing in Yamazaki's ears again.

"Dad, I might really not be able to hold on any longer—"

The man in his thirties was gasping for breath on the other end of the phone.

And what did I do back then?

He angrily yelled into the microphone, "If you're a man, don't spout such pathetic nonsense!"

Then, with trembling hands, he smashed the phone receiver.

He regretted it the second he hung up the phone, but he didn't dare to face it.

He felt that since he couldn't pay off his son's tens of millions of yuan in debt, he couldn't stand up straight as a father.

All I could do was hide in this sweltering factory and numb myself with cheap liquor.

It wasn't until this moment, looking at the image of a penniless father on the paper, that Yamazaki suddenly realized—in this collapsing world, his son's phone call wasn't to ask him to repay the money at all.

The son was just scared; he just wanted to hear his father, who used to buy him rice balls, say, "It's okay. Even if we lose everything, we can still survive."

Yamazaki's rough thumb gripped the paper tightly, his chest heaving up and down.

After a long time, as if he could no longer stand, he slowly hunched over and squatted down in the shadows next to the machine by the sampling table.

This rough-looking man, who usually yelled like a broken gong in the factory, suddenly buried his head between his knees and covered his mouth tightly with his hands covered in black ink.

His shoulders heaved violently in the dim light, and murky tears washed away the grease on his face.

The rotary machine continued its tireless roar, making the concrete ground beneath our feet tingle.

Under the cover of this enormous and monotonous mechanical noise, no one heard the muffled sobs escaping the throat of an old man in his fifties.

He bit his ink-stained hand tightly, afraid of making a sound, yet he cried like a child admitting his mistake.

The next morning, when it was time to hand over the shift, it was still dark.

The cold wind outside the factory gate seeped into my collar, making my bones feel tight.

Yamazaki walked out of the server room and subconsciously touched his pocket.

The half-bottle of cheap liquor is still there.

He took the bottle out, looked down at it for a few seconds, then suddenly unscrewed the cap and poured all the liquid inside into the roadside ditch.

With a "clatter," the empty glass bottle was accurately tossed into the trash can.

A young worker passing by saw this and stopped in surprise, asking, "Master Yamazaki, aren't you going to have a drink to warm yourself up today?"

Yamazaki didn't turn around, but pulled the collar of his work clothes tighter. His back, which had been hunched over for years and seemed to be crushed by life, appeared to be a little straighter than last night.

The bank's bad debts are still there, and the house might be auctioned off next month, but none of that matters anymore.

I am still alive, and my son is still alive.

"I'm not drinking anymore."

Yamazaki's rough voice was a little hoarse in the cold wind, but he said with unusual determination, "I'm going to find a public phone."

"Who are you calling?"

"For my son."

Yamazaki walked towards the street corner in the dim morning light, answering without turning his head: "Tell that kid that if he loses his house, he can move back in with me."

"You can survive on cheap rice."