Tokyo Literary Masters: Starting from the Late 1980s

Chapter 206 This is the true 'light of Japanese literature'!

On the day of the release of "The Long Road", before dawn in Tokyo, a long queue had already formed in front of Kinokuniya Bookstore's Shinjuku main store, winding its way around several street corners.

The cold wind of early July morning was like a knife blowing in from the street corner.

People in line hunched their shoulders, tucked their frozen hands into their coat pockets, and stomped their feet back and forth to keep warm.

This seemingly endless queue encapsulates the diverse aspects of Japan after the bursting of the bubble economy.

There was an unemployed man with a sallow complexion, wearing an old suit that was still neatly ironed but whose collar had been washed until it was faded. His eyes, which were originally tired and numb, now revealed a hint of morbid excitement.

A newspaper reporter, wrapped in a thick overcoat and with bloodshot eyes, rubbed his hands together while whispering to his colleagues about which important figure Kitahara Iwa would uncover this time.

There are also ordinary housewives, college students, and taxi drivers.

"Who do you think Kitahara-sensei will target this time?"

Midway through the line, a college student wearing a thick scarf lowered his voice and excitedly asked his companion, "That slogan from the Shincho Club, 'The world is coming to an end,' sounds like a declaration of war!"

"The Tower has already exposed those land-speculating real estate developers and unscrupulous banks, and this time Kitahara-sensei is definitely going to go straight up to the top, targeting the real swindlers in the Ministry of Finance and Kasumigaseki!"

The unemployed man in front of them suddenly turned around and spoke up.

He gripped the crumpled briefcase tightly, his lips, purple with cold, clenched his teeth, and sneered, "These high-ranking officials hiding behind the scenes should be exposed, along with all the filth they're covering up. Let the Tokyo District Public Prosecutors Office Special Investigation Department arrest all these bastards one by one!"

At the front of the line not far away, several newspaper reporters, wrapped in thick overcoats and with bloodshot eyes, were rubbing their hands together and whispering to their colleagues.

"Shinchosha kept it so secret this time, not even a preface was leaked. Our editor-in-chief tried to get a word out of the councilor last night, but couldn't find out a single word."

A veteran reporter breathed out white breath into his frozen hands, his brow furrowed.

"The more it's like this, the more it means there's something inside that's big enough to cause an uproar."

Another colleague leaned closer, his eyes gleaming, and said, "I bet within three days of this book's release, there will be a major upheaval in the cabinet. Everyone's waiting to see the show!"

The buzzing of the crowd rose and fell in the cold wind. Ordinary housewives, college students and taxi drivers were all excitedly piecing together their imaginations of this "reckoning of the century".

However, among this noisy crowd, there were a few incongruous young men.

They wore understated dark trench coats, neither reading newspapers nor participating in others' heated discussions, but occasionally glancing anxiously at their watches or frequently checking the location of public phone booths.

These are secretaries sent by several banks involved in the case, including those in Kasumigaseki and Tibet Province.

Listening to the commoners around them discussing through gritted teeth, "Arrest all the high-ranking officials," the secretaries could only awkwardly tuck their chins into their collars, pretending they hadn't heard anything, but a chill ran down their spines.

They were given only one order: the moment they bought the book, even if they had to stand in the cold wind, they had to read it quickly, page by page, and circle all the passages that might allude to the Ministry of Finance, the bank, and the National Tax Agency, and then immediately call to report.

In the cold wind, everyone had their own thoughts.

Ordinary people are eagerly anticipating a satisfying literary revenge, while those sent by politicians and executives are anxiously awaiting the guillotine to fall.

They huddled together in the long queue, wary and suspicious of each other.

But regardless of their identities, these shivering people were all waiting for the same rolling shutter door to open.

At exactly 10:00 AM, accompanied by the piercing metallic scraping sound of the roller shutter doors rising, the crowd surged into the bookstore like a floodgate being opened.

However, the chaotic scene of pushing and trampling that was expected to occur in order to grab the books did not happen.

As soon as they rushed through the gate, the person at the front of the line suddenly stopped, and the people behind them also froze in place.

On the most prominent central display stand in the bookstore, gray books were piled high like a fortress, and below the books, a number in bold boldface was displayed that surprised everyone.

"This price tag—is it wrong?"

The unemployed man at the front of the line rubbed his eyes, pointed at the price tag, and said incredulously, "This is less than half the price of a regular light novel. Is it just a preview of the first two chapters?"

"It's a complete copy, sir. The price is correct, and there's plenty of stock."

The shop assistant standing next to the booth smiled and pointed to rows of newly opened inventory boxes behind him.

A buzzing commotion immediately arose from the crowd.

"How can it be so cheap?"

A college student, who had been clutching a large sum of money and bracing himself for a hefty price tag, couldn't help but blurt out, "This is Kitahara-sensei's new book, a Nobel Prize candidate's work! Even if it were sold for three times the usual price of a single volume, it would still sell out. Doesn't Shincho-sha want to make money?"

Faced with the crowd's questions, the shop assistant did not answer immediately. Instead, he reached out and picked up a gray copy of "The Long Road," his expression becoming somewhat serious. "The Shincho Publishing House's distribution department specifically instructed me this morning."

"For this book, Kitahara-sensei and the publisher jointly gave up the vast majority of royalties and profit margins."

Looking at the group of readers shivering and looking exhausted in the early winter wind, the shop assistant softly repeated the internal message that was sent along with the delivery slip: "Teacher Kitahara said that this is a book written for all those who are traveling in the cold winter."

"So he wanted to make sure that everyone in line, even if they only had enough change in their pockets to buy a cheap rice ball, could still take it home without any burden."

As the clerk finished speaking, the entire bookstore lobby fell into a brief silence.

One of the unemployed men, penniless and clutching his empty wallet, froze. He stared at the price tag, his lips, which had turned slightly blue from the embarrassment and cold, now trembled slightly.

In the crowd, someone couldn't help but sniffle.

This simple explanation, like a silent yet scalding stream of water, instantly melted away the anxiety and defensiveness that people had accumulated in the cold wind all morning.

"This won't do!"

After a brief silence, a young man in an old jacket suddenly broke the quiet with tears in his eyes: "At this price, it wouldn't even cover the cost of paper and printing, let alone royalties!"

"Teacher Kitahara poured his heart and soul into writing this book; we absolutely cannot let him down! Shop assistant, give me ten copies! I want to take them back to give to my colleagues at work!"

"Yes! I brought money to buy hardcover books, give me five!"

"Give me twenty copies! Even if I can't finish them all, I can give them away!"

A surge of emotion, brimming with tears, suddenly welled up in the crowd.

Ordinary people, who were originally struggling to breathe due to inflation and had to carefully calculate even the smallest purchase, were now acting as if in a contest, stuffing the change they had just taken out back into their pockets and forcefully slamming large bills, even tens of thousands of yuan, onto the cash register.

In this messed-up era, they desperately wanted to use this simple method to protect a writer who was willing to bow down and care about their life or death.

"Please wait a moment! Put away the large bills first!"

Looking at the excited readers in front of him, the clerk's eyes reddened. He bowed deeply to the crowd, then pressed his hands together and said loudly, "Shinchosha will definitely convey everyone's sentiments to Mr. Kitahara."

"However, before the bookstore opened, Professor Kitahara specifically asked us to pass on a message to everyone."

The shop assistant looked up, her gaze sweeping over the pairs of red eyes, and said softly, "Teacher Kitahara said: Please only buy what you need. Use the money you save to buy yourself a bowl of hot ramen in this cold, rainy early winter, or to bring your kids a small cake home after get off work."

"As long as you're still trying to live your lives, that's the greatest support you can give me."

The hall fell silent again.

This time, no one shouted.

The young man who had been shouting that he wanted to buy ten copies gritted his teeth, tears welling up in his eyes, and silently put the ten thousand yuan back into his pocket.

The unemployed middle-aged man wiped his eyes with the rough back of his hand, then carefully counted out a few coins from inside his coat.

Shinchosha truly demonstrated what could be described as a frenzied boldness in producing this book, while Kitahara Iwao also delivered the purest sincerity.

The sound of the receipt being printed at the cashier quickly rang out.

There was no noisy rush to buy, no chaotic pushing and shoving, only a steady and reassuring rhythm as barcodes were scanned by the machine.

People silently handed over change and accepted the gray booklet, which smelled of ink, with both hands.

Except for a very few people who really needed to give the book to a friend who was bedridden or unemployed, everyone consciously took only the copy that belonged to them.

The shop assistants kept using utility knives to cut open the cardboard boxes, continuously adding gray bricks to the mountain of books, and then solemnly delivering them to each pair of hands that longed for healing.

At 2 p.m., Shinchosha's distribution department began compiling sales data sent back from various locations.

Unlike the usual chaos of phones ringing off the hook during bestseller releases, the office was surprisingly quiet today, mostly with the rustling of fax machines spitting out papers.

From Tokyo and Osaka to Kyoto and Nagoya, bookstores are sending back nothing but routine delivery slips.

Although the line outside the bookstore was long, it moved quickly.

Most people who buy books follow an unspoken agreement: after paying, they take their books, wrap themselves tightly in their coats, and hurriedly merge into the crowd on the street.

These two million copies of the first printing of the little gray book were carried safely into the commuter bags and pockets of two million ordinary people, following the footsteps of trams, buses and pedestrians on a winter day.

Kenichi Sato leaned against the edge of his desk and rubbed his aching temples.

Listening to the steady readings coming from the distribution department, he didn't, as he had done in the past when he produced a phenomenal bestseller, invite the editors to an izakaya to celebrate with champagne.

He picked up the now-cold tea and took a sip, his gaze falling on the book "The Long Road" beside him.

Without a hardcover binding or a fancy dust jacket, this little booklet, priced so low it barely makes any profit, feels rather flimsy in your hand.

But when it comes into our lives, it becomes very real.

It was rolled into a tube and carelessly stuffed into the tattered leather bag of an unemployed person looking for a job.

They were taken to a cramped apartment where people were arguing fiercely about next month's mortgage and gas bill.

I sat with the middle-aged man with a full beard on a drafty, cold bench outside the employment agency.

Meanwhile, "The Long Road" was also brought over to the well-heated office in Xiaguan.

Inside the conference room, the heavy blackout curtains were drawn tightly shut.

Several high-ranking bureaucrats, who had been urgently summoned, sat around a long table, each holding a dusty, inexpensive booklet.

On the table, the red and blue pencils, sticky notes, and review forms that are usually used to approve the national budget are neatly arranged.

"Check word by word."

The officer in the main seat pushed his reading glasses up his nose and said, "Administrative guidance, residential specialization, non-performing loans—circle them all, even the most suggestive ones!"

The group nodded silently, and the only sound in the meeting room was the rustling of papers turning.

For the first ten minutes or so, these old foxes were like frightened birds.

Upon seeing "ashes," a heavy red circle was immediately drawn next to it.

Upon seeing the "destroyed city," some people were so nervous that they crumpled the corner of that page.

But as they watched, the bureaucrats' fingers, which were gripping the pencils, froze.

There is no Tokyo, no Ministry of Finance, no bank, and no National Tax Agency.

There isn't even a single person who can be forcibly identified with this description.

The book depicts a wasteland world where even currency and financial systems no longer exist.

A father pushes a dilapidated shopping cart, carrying his hungry and cold son, southward along a road that seems to have no end.

"Sir—"

A deputy official sitting in the middle section scratched at the rough paper with his fingernails in frustration, and asked in a low voice, "This passage describes them starving in the snow. Is it an allusion to our loan withdrawal, or is it a direct criticism of the housing monopoly?"

The person next to me, sweating profusely, flipped through a dozen pages, shook his head, and said, "It doesn't seem like it—later on, even the money disappears, leaving only cannibalistic lunatics. Surely they can't be implying cannibalism is a reference to debt collection agencies, can they?"

The faster they looked, the more confused they became.

Kitahara Iwa's writing is too clean, clean, cold and hard, without even a trace of the greasiness of politics.

When the last page was turned, the conference room fell into an ear-piercing silence.

After a long while, a young secretary sitting at the end of the table seemed to come alive.

He slumped back in his chair, frantically wiping the cold sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief, and managed to squeeze out a weak, surviving voice from his throat: "Sir—it didn't...it didn't mention us at all!"

Upon hearing this, the officer in the main seat paused for two seconds.

Then, his shoulders, which had been tense all night, suddenly slumped, and he leaned heavily into the leather chair, letting out a long breath of stale air.

"Okay! Okay!"

The officer slammed his hand on the table and casually tossed aside the red and blue pencils he was using to pick at the flaws.

His old face, which had been so gloomy it looked like it was about to drip water, instantly blossomed into a bright, even somewhat comical, rosy smile.

He turned to the whiteboard in the corner of the conference room and waved his hand dismissively: "Get the PR department to erase all those damned apology statements and clarifications right now!"

"Go and tell your acquaintances at a few major newspapers that Kasumigaseki highly praises Kitahara-sensei's new work!"

As soon as the officer spoke, the atmosphere in the conference room instantly transformed from a morgue to an izakaya (Japanese pub).

The bureaucrats, who had just been grieving, breathed a sigh of relief, loosened their ties that they had been wearing all night, and put on the confident, politician smiles again.

"Teacher Kitahara truly deserves to be called the conscience of Japan!"

A vice minister, picking up his now-cold coffee as if it were champagne, exclaimed with delight, "To forgo worldly grievances and focus solely on exploring the bonds of kinship in dire circumstances—that's the grand vision befitting a Nobel laureate!"

"Exactly! Those third-rate reporters who only know how to criticize our Tibet Province aren't even worthy of carrying Professor Kitahara's shoes!"

The official beside him immediately smiled and echoed, spouting insincere praise: "This is truly the light of Japanese literature! When this book is submitted for next year's major awards, our Agency for Cultural Affairs must give it the green light and strong support!"

The conference room was instantly filled with a jubilant atmosphere as the politicians celebrated their victory, shamelessly praising the inexpensive novel whose spine they hadn't even warmed yet.

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