The New Year of 1986 brought no trace of festivity to the manufacturing districts of Nagoya. This was the industrial heartland of central Japan, home to Toyota and a dense cluster of textile and machinery factories. In years past the Atsuta Shrine would have been thronged with business owners praying for prosperity; this year the fortune slips seemed to offer only misfortune.
Heavy snow fell in wet, clinging flakes, bending the roadside trees beneath its weight and blanketing the entire industrial zone in a ghastly white. The sky hung low and gray as pig iron, threatening to collapse at any moment.
A black Mercedes-Benz crunched through the slush and passed slowly through the gates of Saionji Textiles Co., Ltd. No security guard emerged to salute; the gatehouse stood empty, a radio inside still crackling with the morning news and its grim report on the wave of small- and medium-enterprise bankruptcies triggered by the yen's rapid appreciation.
The car halted before a red-brick office building erected in the Taisho era. When the door opened, a bone-chilling wind drove snowflakes inside.
Saionji Shuichi drew his overcoat tighter and stepped out. His leather shoes sank into the unshoveled snow with a crisp crunch.
"President, watch your step," his secretary said, opening a black umbrella against the swirling flakes.
Shuichi surveyed the silent factory grounds, his breath rising in white plumes. The place was unnaturally still. It should have echoed with the rhythmic clatter of looms, the rumble of delivery trucks, and the steady hiss of steam boilers. Instead it lay as quiet as a tomb. Only a few crows perched on the cold chimneys, their hoarse cries cutting through the wind.
"Let's go," Shuichi said, and strode directly toward the office building.
The corridor lights were dim. Dampness had peeled the plaster from the walls, exposing patches of mold. The air smelled of decades-old cotton lint and machine oil—the distinctive odor of an older industrial age.
The door to the factory manager's office stood slightly ajar. Heated voices spilled into the hallway.
"…Even if the Family Head himself comes, it changes nothing! These workers have been with the Old Master since the beginning. They gave their youth to the Saionji family. Now you want to throw them out? Is that how a decent man behaves?"
That was Factory Manager Onodera.
Shuichi paused, straightened his collar, and pushed the door open with an impassive face.
The argument ceased at once.
The room was thick with cigarette smoke. Onodera stood behind his desk, slamming his palm on the wood as he berated several younger managers. Sixty-five years old, white-haired, and dressed in a faded blue work uniform stained at the cuffs, the old man wore deep wrinkles that seemed filled with fury at a world that had left him behind.
When he saw Shuichi, Onodera froze. Instead of offering the customary bow, he gave a heavy snort and dropped back into his worn swivel chair.
"So the Family Head has finally left his comfortable nest in Tokyo," he said sarcastically. The cheap cigarette between his fingers had burned down to the filter, yet he appeared not to notice. "Come to watch us country rats starve?"
Shuichi motioned for the secretary to open a window. Cold air rushed in, scattering the smoke and dropping the temperature to freezing.
"Uncle Onodera," Shuichi began, using the familiar address of his childhood, "I have not come to argue. I have come to solve the problem."
He placed a thick file on the ash-covered desk.
"This is the new restructuring plan. From next month, all low-end garment production lines will cease operation. Workshops One and Two will close entirely. We will retain only the Nishijin-ori craft line in Workshop Three. I have already prepared the layoff list. It concerns three hundred and twenty people."
Slap!
Onodera's palm struck the document so hard the teacup rattled.
"Solve the problem? You're committing murder!"
The old man sprang from his chair and jabbed a trembling finger at Shuichi's nose.
"Three hundred and twenty people! Three hundred and twenty families! They have elderly parents and small children. You want to throw them into this hellish weather and tell them to eat the north wind?"
"The current exchange rate is 192," Shuichi replied, his voice calm and even. "Last month our export orders were zero. Fifty thousand unsalable shirts are rotting in the warehouse. Every day this factory burns money. If we do not reduce staff, we will be unable to pay the electricity bill next month. Then it will not be three hundred workers who suffer—it will be all five hundred."
"That is your problem!" Onodera roared. "You are the Family Head! You are supposed to find a way! When the Old Master was alive, even in the year of defeat he never let anyone go hungry. Why must your generation turn the knife on its own people?"
He circled the desk until he stood inches from Shuichi, his bloodshot eyes blazing.
"Shuichi, I watched you grow up. I even washed your pants when you were a child. How has your heart grown so hard? Have those Tokyo vampires corrupted you?"
Shuichi regarded the elderly man who had lost all restraint. He remembered Onodera in his prime, when Shuichi's father still lived: a vigorous technical backbone of the factory. But times had changed. The "human touch" Onodera cherished had become the heaviest shackle on the eve of a bubble in which capital moved at blinding speed.
If Shuichi did not break that shackle, the Saionji family itself would sink.
"Times have changed, Uncle Onodera," he said quietly. "Father is gone. I am now the head of this family."
"You are in charge?" Onodera gave a shrill, bitter laugh. "A fine 'in charge' indeed."
He spun toward the red emergency button in the corner—the siren reserved for fire or major accident—and slammed it.
Woooooo—!
The piercing wail tore through the factory's deathly silence, slicing across the wind and snow.
"Since you want to lay people off," Onodera shouted, his face twisted with the madness of a man ready to go down with the ship, "say it to their faces! See if they agree! See if the Family Head can walk out of these gates today!"
Ten minutes later the central courtyard was packed.
Hundreds of workers in oil-stained uniforms and safety helmets stood hunched against the snow, their faces a mixture of confusion, fear, and rising anger. Union representatives at the front held megaphones and shouted questions.
Shuichi stood on the second-floor iron platform, looking down at the crowd. Wind-driven snow stung his face like knives.
"President… perhaps we should withdraw," the secretary whispered, pale with alarm. "The mood is dangerous. If—"
"Withdraw?" Shuichi adjusted his collar. "If I retreat now, the Saionji family will never manage another enterprise."
He brushed past the secretary and descended the iron stairs one measured step at a time. The sound of his shoes on the metal was swallowed by the storm, yet his figure advanced like a nail driven into chaos.
A murmur rippled through the workers.
"It's the Family Head…"
"I heard there are layoffs…"
"If I lose my job, what about my home loan…"
The whispers coalesced into a low, ominous hum.
Onodera stood at the front, microphone in hand. When he saw Shuichi descend, he raised his arm like a tragic hero.
"Listen, everyone! This is our Family Head! He has not come to hand out year-end bonuses. He has come to smash your rice bowls! He wants to close the workshops and throw us out like garbage!"
The crowd erupted.
"You must be joking!"
"We've given this company our whole lives!"
"We will not accept it! Never!"
Some began to push forward; others brandished wrenches. Anger spread like contagion, and the situation threatened to explode.
Shuichi stepped onto the temporary podium. He did not reach for a microphone. He simply stood in silence, his gaze sweeping across the distorted faces below. His expression was not fierce—merely calm.
Gradually the crowd quieted. The eerie silence that followed felt heavier than the earlier clamor.
Shuichi took the microphone from the stunned Onodera. A screech of feedback echoed across the grounds.
"I am Saionji Shuichi."
His voice rolled through the old speakers, overpowering the wind.
"Factory Manager Onodera has just told you I am here to smash your rice bowls."
He paused, eyes resting on Onodera's flushed face.
"He is correct."
An uproar swept the courtyard. No one had expected a capitalist to admit it so bluntly.
"However," Shuichi continued, raising his voice, "if I do not break these three hundred rice bowls, then by this time next year every person here—including myself—will have nothing to eat."
He pointed to the silent factory building behind him.
"The shirts you produce are rotting unsold in the warehouse. Americans find them too expensive. Japanese buyers find the styles outdated. We lose money on every garment."
"Factory Manager Onodera is a good man. He wishes to protect everyone and preserve the warmth of a large family. Yet he has forgotten that a family must also eat. To run a business on sentiment alone is to be irresponsible to everyone."
His tone grew stern, each word striking like a hammer.
"We are all adults with families to support. Instead of empty talk about 'family feeling,' let us speak of practical realities."
He drew a folded sheet from his overcoat and opened it.
"This is the new severance plan."
The courtyard fell utterly still. Every worker held his breath, staring at the paper.
"For those on the layoff list, the company will pay a lump sum of—"
Shuichi drew a breath and announced a figure that would have astonished any financial advisor.
"Twelve months' salary as severance."
Absolute silence.
Even the falling snow seemed to pause.
In this era of lifetime employment, three months' pay upon dismissal was considered generous. Twelve months—N+12—was almost inconceivable.
"In addition," Shuichi went on, "anyone who signs the agreement promptly will receive an extra three months' bonus. That is fifteen months' salary in total."
"The money will be paid in cash. Sign the papers, take the money, and go home for the New Year."
The crowd exploded—this time not with rage but with shock, disbelief, and raw ecstasy.
Fifteen months' wages could clear a mortgage or seed a small business back home. In this bitter winter the offer felt warmer than any slogan.
The union representatives who had stood behind Onodera quietly lowered their banners. Greed flickered in their eyes as they exchanged glances.
"This… this is impossible!" Onodera's face had gone ashen. He stared at Shuichi as though seeing a ghost. "You're mad! Where would the company find such money? Are you squandering the ancestral fortune?"
"That is no longer your concern," Shuichi replied. He turned to the old man who had been left behind by the age. "Mr. Onodera, in view of your recent actions in inciting a strike and disrupting production, the Board has decided to dismiss you from the post of factory manager immediately. In recognition of your forty years of service, your pension will be issued at double the standard rate. You may leave now."
"You… you…"
Onodera's lips moved, but no further words came. He looked down at the workers, searching for the loyal subordinates who had moments earlier vowed to stand with him to the end.
Not one met his gaze. Every eye was fixed on the paper in Shuichi's hand or on the mental calculations of how much money each man would receive.
Loyalty, it turned out, was as fragile as tissue paper when weighed against fifteen months' pay.
Onodera swayed. In that instant he understood: his era was finished, slain by money.
"Fine… fine…"
He gave a hollow laugh that aged him another decade. He removed the safety helmet he had worn for decades and tossed it onto the snow. The helmet rolled twice, staining itself with mud.
Without looking back, the old man hunched his shoulders and trudged toward the gate. Wind and snow soon blurred his figure into a solitary black speck forgotten by the world.
Shuichi watched the retreating back. A flicker of pity crossed his heart and vanished as quickly as it had come.
He turned to the eager crowd below.
"The finance office has the cash prepared. Those who wish to collect it may line up now. Those who prefer to remain may report for work tomorrow. But understand this: Saionji Textiles will no longer carry idle hands. Anyone who stays must accept the new rules."
The workers surged toward the finance office like ants whose nest had been disturbed. No trace of dissatisfaction remained—only the sharp, urgent desire for money.
Shuichi stood on the high platform, observing the milling heads. Cold sweat dampened his palms.
This was cutting off a limb to save the body.
Satsuki had been right. If he did not excise the gangrenous flesh, the great tree of the Saionji family would surely die.
"President… you truly have it," the secretary murmured behind him, wiping sweat from his brow in open admiration. "A moment ago I thought we were about to have a riot."
"There was never going to be a riot," Shuichi replied. He took out a handkerchief and cleaned the snow from his glasses. "There is nothing in this world that money cannot solve. If something appears insoluble, it is only because the sum offered was not yet large enough."
He replaced his glasses, the lenses concealing the deep exhaustion in his eyes.
"Prepare for tomorrow. I wish to meet the technicians who returned from overseas study. The factory will continue, but it cannot continue as it has."