Tokyo Literary Masters: Starting from the Late 1980s

Chapter 213 The 1991 Nobel Prize in Literature, Kitahara Iwao!

The rain in Stockholm continued until dusk.

Inside the century-old conference room, the permanent secretary collected the eighteen ballots with names written on them.

The vote counting process was very quiet; no one whispered to each other, and no one tried to find out the final number of votes.

When the Permanent Secretary solemnly placed the note containing the final decision into a kraft paper bag bearing the emblem of the Swedish Academy and sealed it completely with sealing wax, the 1991 Nobel Prize in Literature was finally decided.

In accordance with the Swedish Academy's century-old tradition of secrecy, anyone who knows anything about the document must remain silent until the white door is opened 72 hours later, and the document will be locked away in a safe at the Academy's headquarters.

Meanwhile, in Tokyo on the other side of the world, the seventy-two hours of waiting for the results felt suffocatingly long.

But while the media and readers outside were in a frenzy, Kitahara Iwa, at the absolute center of this storm, appeared unusually calm.

On the last evening before the Nobel Prize announcement, several core members of the Free Writers' Alliance gathered in a secluded bar in Aoyama.

Compared to the hustle and bustle outside, the atmosphere here has a strangely relaxed feel.

"Hey Kitahara, has your heart rate really been over 70 these past few days?"

Murakami Ryu, watching Kitahara Iwao slowly adding ice to his glass, finally couldn't help but ask, "The editors at those newspapers outside have even prepared nitroglycerin pills, so why are you, the person involved, still studying the ice in your glass?"

Kitahara Iwa shook the iced tea in his hand and said, "No matter how much of a fuss there is in Scandinavia, I've finished writing the work. Once the text is released, the author's mission is over, and there's no point in being nervous about the rest."

Upon hearing this, Haruki Murakami, who was sitting next to him, couldn't help but laugh out loud.

Holding his wine glass, he joked helplessly, "You're a real monster."

"When I was twenty-seven, I was still chopping onions and washing bars in a jazz bar in Sendagaya. You're now standing at the very top of world literature, yet you're putting on a relaxed expression like you're waiting for the subway. That's quite a blow to everyone here."

Haruki Murakami's words drew a burst of good-natured laughter from those around him.

Kitahara Iwao turned his head and looked at Murakami Haruki, who was holding a whiskey in his hand and had a casual expression on his face. A meaningful smile appeared on the corner of his mouth.

"Don't rush to express your feelings, Chunshu Sang."

Kitahara Iwa gently touched his glass and said, "Ten years from now, your name will also be on the list."

O

"And I assure you, you will have a very, very long time to slowly get used to the feeling of waiting every year when the Nobel Prizes are announced."

Upon hearing this, Haruki Murakami paused slightly in his preparation to drink.

He looked into Kitahara Iwa's eyes.

In the eyes of this young giant who was about to reach the pinnacle of world literature, he saw no hint of polite jokes at the dinner table, only a kind of scrutiny and recognition as a fellow human being.

Kitahara Iwao truly believed that he possessed the absolute ability to compete for the Nobel Prize in Literature!

This realization made Haruki Murakami's heart race, and an indescribable sense of excitement surged through him.

To be so asserted by a top genius about to make history is undoubtedly the ultimate boost to any writer at the peak of their creative career.

At this moment, Haruki Murakami took a deep breath, suppressing the surging excitement in his chest, and then couldn't help but laugh heartily, his eyes sparkling with an unprecedented brightness.

"I might take your approval seriously."

Haruki Murakami clinked glasses forcefully with Iwao Kitahara, using his characteristic humor to mask his inner excitement as he said, "However, if I really had to go through this torturous waiting every year, I'd rather run a 42-kilometer marathon to distract myself."

As they were talking and laughing, Kitahara Iwa's private phone rang.

Upon hearing this, Kitahara Iwa smiled apologetically at everyone, then got up and walked to the quiet corridor.

The call connected, and Akina Nakamori's voice came through. Her speech was slightly faster than usual, revealing a hint of nervousness: "Taibahara-sensei—I've already asked the agency for leave, canceled all my appearances for tomorrow, and plan to sit in front of the TV from morning till night."

She paused, her voice soft yet remarkably firm: "If it's your writing, any honor is well-deserved. Please, you must win tomorrow."

Kitahara Iwao held the phone and softly replied into the receiver, "Thank you, Akina. Get some rest early tonight, don't be too nervous."

The phone vibrated again as soon as I hung up. This time, it was Yasuko Sawaguchi, who had just finished filming a Taiga drama.

Her voice was as gentle as ever, with a touch of lightness that could instantly calm anyone down: "Kitahara-kun, I've already bought 'The Long Road'."

"Regardless of the opinions of those old gentlemen in Northern Europe, and regardless of how noisy it will be outside after the results come out tomorrow night, I hope to congratulate you in person as soon as possible."

So, get a good night's sleep tonight and relax to welcome tomorrow.

"Okay, thanks for your kind words. See you tomorrow."

Kitahara Iwa replied softly, then hung up the phone.

He stood at the end of the corridor, looking down at the neon-lit streets outside through the one-way glass on the second floor.

Afterward, Kitahara Iwa put away the phone and went back into the room filled with the sounds of whiskey and jazz.

Twenty-four hours later, it was the night the Nobel Prize was announced.

That day, Tokyo's evening rush hour seemed much quieter than usual.

But beneath this quiet, a restless energy, suppressed to the extreme, was surging.

In the crowded Yamanote Line carriages, most of the office workers who usually doze off or flip through sports pages are wide awake tonight.

In the stifling carriage, the occasional hushed conversation could be heard: "Is there really any hope? After all, she's only twenty-seven—"

"But he wrote 'The Collapsing Tower'."

Another middle-aged man carrying a briefcase gave a bitter laugh and said, "The Ministry of Finance has brought the country to this miserable state entirely because it tore off the fig leaf. If even Professor Kitahara is rejected by the West, then all the suffering we've endured these past few years will truly have become a meaningless joke."

In the izakaya under the Shinbashi Station overpass, the usual complaints about pay cuts, bankruptcy, and mortgages were temporarily drowned out tonight by the television playing an NHK special program on the wall.

The owner stopped wiping the glasses and looked up at the Stockholm scene with the customers at the bar.

A slightly drunk employee gripped his beer mug tightly, his eyes reddening from the alcohol and deep exhaustion: "Even this one piece of good news would be enough—we've heard far too much bad news in the past six months. Even if it's just to bring honor to this country, Mr. Kitahara, you have to win!"

In countless apartments, the dinner table is cleaned up early.

Even grandparents who never read foreign literature would sit around the fireplace table with their parents, who had just come home from get off work, watching the news channel's analysis of Nordic betting odds.

From enclosed train carriages to noisy pubs, from warm living rooms to cold streets, this hidden yet immense emotion eventually converged.

More and more people gathered around the giant screen in the streets of Shinjuku.

Many office workers in suits, their faces bearing the deep weariness of a day's work, did not rush into the subway station or izakaya as usual.

They simply stood in the cold wind of early winter, looking up at the screen that was still broadcasting the evening news.

The windows of the electronics stores on the street were also crowded with silent pedestrians.

Dozens of television sets were lit up simultaneously, all displaying images of the white gates of Stockholm.

Some people anxiously checked their watches, some put their hands in their coat pockets to ward off the cold, and some hugged their newly bought copy of "The Long Road" tightly to their chests.

The atmosphere in the editorial departments of major newspapers was extremely tense.

The phone rang incessantly, and the editors in the international department stared intently at the foreign call receiver, not daring to miss a single character from Northern Europe.

On the layout table of the Ministry of Culture, three completely different front-page headlines were already prepared: one for winning the award, one for losing, and one with the euphemistic phrase "honorable defeat."

In the underground printing plant, the rotary printing presses had already been preheated, and the strong smell of ink mingled with the scorching air.

"Editor-in-chief, the proofs for all three front pages have been confirmed."

A young editor from the Ministry of Culture rushed over, clutching the manuscript tightly in his hand. His voice trembled with nervousness as he said, "If we really win this—this will be the highest honor since Kawabata Yasunari in twenty-three years—"

Even if they lose, they can still make it onto the "honorable defeat" page.

The deputy editor next to him adjusted his glasses, trying to soothe the young man's emotions, saying, "Don't be too stressed. After all, Kitahara-sensei is only twenty-seven years old. Even if the judges in Northern Europe don't choose him this time, as long as he continues to write, he is the hope for the future of Japanese literature."

"future----"

The editor-in-chief, who had been silently smoking in front of the typesetting table, gave a bitter laugh, forcefully stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray, and stared intently at the ticking clock on the wall: "The word 'future' is far too luxurious for Japan right now."

The deputy editor-in-chief and the young editor were both taken aback.

The editor-in-chief pointed to the old newspapers slated for destruction in the corner, his voice hoarse, "Look at the garbage we've printed in the last six months! The stock market has crashed, housing prices have frozen, and century-old companies are lining up to declare bankruptcy. Those once respectable middle-class people can now only wander desperately between parks and train stations late at night!"

The editor-in-chief, his hands gripping the edge of the table, suppressed a tremor in his chest and said, "Every day, the front page is filled with damn bad debts, corruption, suicides, and those damned bureaucrats bowing their heads and shirking responsibility!"

"The whole of Japan is like a train with broken brakes; everyone is irreversibly falling!"

The editor-in-chief's roar silenced the typesetting desk.

Several typesetting workers also stopped what they were doing and looked over silently.

The editor-in-chief's gaze fell on the extra-large lead type that read "Kitahara Iwao wins the Nobel Prize," and his eyes reddened slightly.

"This ravaged country desperately needs a victory right now."

His voice lowered, carrying an almost drowning plea: "Even if this honor is ultimately decided by a few elderly Swedes thousands of miles away, even if we can do nothing here but wait anxiously—"

"But we desperately need to tell those struggling in despair outside that, in this sinking ruin, at least Kitahara Iwa still exists."

"Only he didn't fall with the times, but instead, for all of us, defied the odds and pierced through the dome of that world."

He raised his head and looked at the tightly closed door, as if making a final prayer to Stockholm, thousands of miles away.

"Please—tonight, it has to be him."

Unlike the pure fervor on the streets, the government buildings in Kasumigaseki were also lit up all night, but the air was filled with a restless atmosphere rife with political calculations.

Inside the Ministry of Finance's conference room, several high-ranking officials were watching the television screen with even greater eagerness than the general public outside.

"Have the draft congratulatory messages from the Prime Minister's Office and the Ministry of Education been reviewed?"

A senior executive with graying hair loosened his tie, turned around, and asked.

"The highest-level press release has already been prepared. The moment he wins the award, the government and media will immediately get to work, shaping him into the ultimate symbol of 'reviving the Japanese spirit.'"

The senior executive nodded in satisfaction, his gaze fixed intently on the broadcast screen.

They knew better than anyone that the Ministry of Finance was facing an unprecedented crisis of public trust amid this unprecedented economic collapse.

The public's anger was so intense that it nearly burned through Xiaguan Pass.

They desperately need a world-renowned "hero" to divert the nation's despair and anger.

"Please, you have to win!"

The higher-ups silently muttered to themselves.

If Kitahara Iwao wins the Nobel Prize in Literature tonight, no matter how much he satirized bureaucrats in his books, the Ministry of Finance will not hesitate to elevate him to a pedestal, using this most glamorous fig leaf to cover up the Japanese economy riddled with holes.

However, in stark contrast to the fervent anticipation of the Ministry of Finance, the atmosphere at the Metropolitan Police Department, just across the street, was as stiff as ice.

The case file of the Ginza attack was left lying alone on the table.

Several high-ranking officers from the Metropolitan Police Department stared intently at the broadcast on the television screen, their faces as somber as the night outside the window.

"Has the public relations department prepared their response?"

The Superintendent General of Police broke the silence with a cold laugh.

"We've prepared three plans—but sir, if he really wins the award, no matter how you explain the attempted robbery," the public won't buy it.

The subordinate wiped the cold sweat from his forehead, his voice trembling as he said, "Once he's adorned with the sacred halo of the Nobel Prize, which no one can touch, his past misdeeds will definitely be dug up. If the Western media delve into the Yakuza and our shady dealings behind that attack, the Metropolitan Police Department will be stripped bare!"

The meeting room fell into dead silence.

They now only pray that that damned name doesn't come out of the Swedes' mouths.

Time was ticking away.

As Tokyo time passed the late hour, the television screen finally switched to Stockholm.

Outside the headquarters of the Swedish Academy, flashbulbs from global media were everywhere, their cameras fixed on the famous white wooden door.

At that moment, crowds across Japan who had been talking in hushed tones suddenly fell into a deathly silence so deep you could hear a pin drop.

From the chilly streets of Shinjuku to the smoky izakayas, and then to the TV sales outlets next to the train stations, all the noise seemed to be instantly sucked away.

In the newspaper's editorial department, the people who had been working all night also stopped what they were doing.

The entire island nation of 120 million people held their breath in that single second.

In a quiet apartment in the port area.

Izumi Sakai stood beside Iwata Kitahara, her hands clasped in front of her chest, her whole body trembling slightly.

Her gaze was fixed on the television screen, and she even held her breath as still as possible.

There was a cup of tea on the table that had gone cold.

Kitahara Iwa sat in the chair, his expression still calm.

On the television screen, a heavy white wooden door was slowly pushed open.

Then the permanent secretary of the Swedish Academy came out.

With a deafening roar, the flashbulbs on the scene instantly turned the area into a white ocean.

The permanent secretary stood in front of a podium filled with microphones and began reading in Swedish.

The simultaneous interpretation on the television station was slightly delayed, and the Japanese viewers, unable to understand the lengthy and solemn Swedish at the beginning, could only stare intently at the bottom of the screen as the Japanese subtitles appeared one word at a time.

The permanent secretary then paused and switched to English.

He glanced down at the document in his hand, his voice clear and steady, yet carrying a power capable of shaking the entire world: "The 1991 Nobel Prize in Literature is awarded to the writer—"

The permanent secretary paused for half a second.

The Japanese viewers watching on television almost forgot to breathe for a moment.

"Northern Rock."

He then looked down at the document in his hand and continued reading: "In recognition of his work in contemporary novels, which uses a cold and profound style to penetrate the illusions of the times and to safeguard human dignity and the faint embers of hope in a ruined reality."

The moment the name was announced, the dense crowd below the giant screen tilted their heads back, as if a collective pause button had been pressed, their brains seemingly unable to fully process the meaning of these few foreign syllables.

From the streets to the pubs, and then to the editorial offices on high alert, countless people remained in the same position as a second ago, unaware even of the glass tilting in their hands or the typesetting paper slipping to their feet.

Then the Japanese simultaneous interpretation on television finally came in, and a voice trembling slightly with extreme excitement confirmed the result: "The 1991 Nobel Prize in Literature is awarded to the writer—Kitahara Iwao!"

The next second, Tokyo, which had been suppressed for more than half a year, rebounded violently like a spring compressed to its limit.

A sound powerful enough to shatter glass exploded from every corner of Shinjuku.

Many people frantically threw their briefcases into the air. Normally, employees who were dressed in suits and ties and were very cautious were now loosening their ties. Some even knelt on the cold stone road and wailed and cried in front of the giant screen.

The wooden door of the izakaya was suddenly pushed open, and men with flushed faces rushed into the street, shouting that name with all their might.

The unemployed who had been lingering on park benches and the housewives who had been carefully managing their finances in their apartments all rushed onto their balconies and lit up every window.

The once lifeless night sky seemed to be instantly ignited.

The deafening cheers, shouts, and car horns mingled together, completely shattering Tokyo's long-standing indifference and dullness.

In this near-out-of-control outburst, people were not only expressing their respect for a great writer, but also their frustration with this damned, suffocating bubble age.