March 1987. Spring arrived early in Tokyo, bringing with it a restless warmth.
At the Akasaka-mitsuke intersection the cherry blossoms were still tight buds on the branches, yet the streets already pulsed with a distinctly pink atmosphere. This color did not come from flowers but from a single building.
Midday sunlight poured down unimpeded, shattering against the exterior walls of the seven-story structure. It was not ordinary paint or cheap glass; the façade consisted of tens of thousands of specially fired pink ceramic tiles.
They resembled giant fish scales, wrapping the building's skeleton in a seamless embrace. Each tile carried a subtle gradient, shifting from deep rose at the base to delicate cherry-blossom pink at the crown. Under the refraction of sunlight the entire edifice seemed alive, radiating an almost seductive luster—like melting strawberry mousse or a fresh stick of lipstick freshly twisted from its tube.
It stood out sharply amid the gray, solemn, bureaucratically charged concrete blocks of Akasaka.
Eye-searing.
Utterly eye-searing.
"It is a total disaster."
At an outdoor table of a corner café, architect Ando gripped the latest issue of Architecture Trend magazine. The cover featured a close-up of this very building beneath a shocking headline:
"The Fall of Akasaka: When Architecture Becomes a Giant Kitsch Monster."
He took a sharp drag on his cigarette. The smoke rushed into his lungs and made him cough twice.
As the building's designer, his feelings were decidedly mixed.
It was like watching a daughter he had raised with his own hands being sent off to star in a nightclub—and becoming wildly successful at it.
Ando looked up, peering across the road through his sunglasses.
There, an absurd spectacle unfolded that left every architectural critic speechless.
Even though it was a weekday afternoon and office hours had not yet ended, a long, winding queue had already formed before the archway shaped like a pair of lips.
The line consisted entirely of women.
They wore boldly tailored shoulder-padded suits or the miniskirts newly fashionable from Paris. Their makeup was flawless, their heels seven centimeters high, and they carried freshly purchased LV or Gucci handbags.
They were waiting.
Waiting to enter for an afternoon tea said to cost fifteen thousand yen, or to visit the boutique on the top floor and snatch a limited-edition hair clip.
Crisp laughter rose from the queue from time to time—a laughter free of life's burdens, containing only the pure pleasure of extravagance.
"Hey, have you heard? The restroom inside is bigger than my living room."
"Really? I want to see it too. I heard they use Bulgarian rose essential oil for the aromatherapy."
"Even if I don't buy anything, just touching up my makeup inside makes me feel like a movie star."
Two young office ladies walked past Ando, exchanging excited whispers.
Ando crushed his cigarette butt in the ashtray, stuffed the insulting magazine into his trench-coat pocket, and stood up.
The light turned green.
He merged into the crowd of women wearing expensive perfume, crossed the street, and walked toward the "monster" he himself had drawn.
The automatic sensor doors slid open without a sound.
Instead of the usual electronic chime there came a pleasant tinkle of wind bells.
A wave of warm air met his face.
The scent was distinctive—not the murky blend of leather and sweat found in ordinary department stores, but a pure, cloying fragrance. It suggested vanilla, or a freshly cut peach, laced with a faint trace of ginger.
This was the "Scent of Akasaka" that Satsuki had commissioned a perfumer to create especially for the building.
The first floor had neither lobby nor service desk.
What greeted the eye was a vast, spiraling atrium.
The floor was covered in thick white long-pile carpet; stepping onto it felt soft and spongy, instinctively slowing one's pace and lightening one's tread.
At the center stood a three-meter crystal fountain. Instead of water, it sprayed pink champagne.
Though the effect was created by a circulation pump, under the lights the churning liquid resembled flowing pink diamonds.
"Sir, do you have a reservation?"
A waiter in a tuxedo—handsome enough to star in an idol drama—approached. His smile was flawless, his voice gentle, his eyes conveying precisely measured respect.
In this building even the waiters had been selected as part of the scenery.
"I am Ando."
Ando lowered his sunglasses and pointed at his own face.
"Ah, Master Ando." The waiter showed no disdain for the wrinkled trench coat; instead he bowed slightly. "The Young Lady is waiting for you on the top floor. Please take the private elevator."
Ando replaced his sunglasses and regarded the waiter.
"No. I will take the regular elevator…"
The elevator was entirely glass.
As the car rose slowly, Ando watched the scenes unfolding on each floor.
The second floor housed a boutique. There were no crowded shelves; garments hung on brass racks like works of art, each given half a meter of breathing space. Hidden spotlights cast shifting tones of light according to the piece, making every item appear impossibly expensive.
The third floor… the elevator paused for a moment.
Several women who had just finished touching up their makeup were about to step in, their faces glowing with radiant confidence, as though freshly recharged.
"That mirror is magical; I couldn't even see my pores."
"I must bring Yumi here. She just went through a breakup and really needs this feeling of being pampered."
"Yes, yes…"
Then they noticed Ando in his wrinkled trench coat and fell instantly silent.
"I think I still need to touch up my makeup a little more…"
"Me too, me too."
Before entering the elevator they turned and walked away, their pace quickening slightly.
The doors closed and the car continued upward.
Through the narrowing gap their voices still drifted in. "What was that… what is a grown man doing here? Doesn't he have to work during the day?"
Ando had expected such reactions when he chose the regular elevator.
He did not mind; his purpose was observation.
He remembered the blueprints for the third floor.
There were no shops. The entire level had been designed as a "lounge"—or, more bluntly, an ultra-luxurious restroom.
It contained a hundred vanity stations with professional lighting, a bar serving champagne, and even velvet chaise longues where one could recline and rest.
In Akasaka, where land was worth its weight in gold, an entire floor had been devoted to a toilet.
When drawing the plans, Ando had thought Satsuki mad.
Now, seeing the satisfied expressions on those women's faces, he wondered whether it was the world itself that had lost its mind.
Top floor.
The elevator doors opened.
The whistle of wind across the terrace rushed into the car.
Satsuki leaned against the railing, holding a pair of binoculars and gazing down at the crowd below.
Today she wore a white turtleneck sweater and a red plaid skirt, looking every bit the middle-school girl who had skipped class to play.
Yet at her feet lay a thick stack of financial statements.
"You're here?"
Satsuki did not turn around, still peering through the binoculars.
"Look down there. Doesn't it look like ants moving house?"
Ando walked to her side. He offered no reply, simply pulling the magazine from his pocket and tossing it onto the table.
"Look at this. The critics are calling me the 'pimp of the architectural world' and this building a 'trash can of desire.'"
"Those are rather poetic insults."
Satsuki lowered the binoculars and glanced at the magazine cover.
"It shows they are panicked. Those old men cling to their Le Corbusier and Bauhaus, believing architecture is merely concrete and steel, and that function is everything."
She turned and leaned back against the railing. Sunlight spilled over her hair, creating a golden halo.
"Mr. Ando, do you know what 'consumption' truly is?"
"Spending money to buy things?" Ando shrugged.
"No."
Satsuki raised a finger and wagged it gently in the air.
"Consumption is the process of confirming one's self-identity."
"Those women queuing below—do they lack clothes? No. Do they lack handbags? No. What they lack is a feeling."
"A feeling of 'I am the protagonist.'"
She pointed beneath her feet.
"In the office they are ordinary OLs who serve tea, supporting characters ordered about by male superiors. At home they are daughters or wives who cook and do laundry."
"But here."
"In this pink building they are queens."
"They walk on carpets softer than lawns, use vanity mirrors reserved for Hollywood stars, and are attended by handsome men with perfect courtesy. Even a cup of coffee is sprinkled with gold flakes."
"In that moment they feel they deserve the very best the world has to offer."
Satsuki smiled.
"For that feeling they are willing to empty their wallets. Fifteen thousand yen for afternoon tea? No, that is too cheap. It is their entry ticket to purchase 'dignity.'"
As Ando listened, a chill ran down his spine.
He looked at the thirteen-year-old girl as though gazing at a thousand-year-old demon.
She was not selling products.
She was selling dreams—brief, addictive dreams wrapped in pink packaging.
"But…" Ando pointed at the magazine, "from a purely architectural standpoint, this building really is ugly."
"Is it ugly?"
Satsuki turned and picked up the binoculars once more.
"I think it is beautiful. It is the only bright color in this gray city."
"It is like lipstick applied to the dead face of Akasaka."
"If it were not abrupt, eye-searing, and 'kitsch,' who would notice it?"
She pulled a sheet from the stack of reports at her feet and handed it to Ando.
"Look at this."
Ando took the report.
It showed real-time sales data up to three o'clock that afternoon.
Turnover: 48,536,000 yen (the figure stopped there because nothing in the building cost less than one thousand yen).
Ando's hand trembled.
Forty-eight million yen. In half a day.
Remember, the building had only seven floors, and much of its area was devoted to public space and scenery.
"That is only revenue," Satsuki said calmly. "After costs, the gross profit exceeds eighty percent."
"Because what we are truly selling is air. The premium for service, the premium for environment, the premium for emotion."
She pointed toward a gray office building in the distance.
"That building is twice as tall as ours and packed with hardworking men. Yet its monthly rent may not equal what we earn selling cakes in three days."
"This is 1987."
Satsuki turned to face Ando, her eyes clear.
"Mr. Ando, do not worry about the critics. They are simply jealous."
"They are jealous that you understand women, jealous that you understand this era, and jealous that you have built a money-printing machine."
Ando looked at the report, then at the magazine cover.
Suddenly the magazine seemed ridiculous.
"A money-printing machine…"
He muttered the words to himself.
He took a cigarette from his pocket and lit it.
This time he inhaled deeply and did not cough.
"Young Lady."
Ando exhaled a smoke ring that dissolved in the sunlight.
"So, how long can a dream like this last?"
"As long as people continue to revel, the dream will not end."
Satsuki gazed toward the distant Tokyo Tower.
"Besides, this is only the beginning."
"The pink building is merely an appetizer for the women. Next we will prepare a main course for those even richer and greedier men."
"A main course?"
"The renovations at Azabu-Juban should be nearing completion, correct?"
Satsuki asked.
"Yes. Structural work is finished. That underground wine cellar…" Ando paused, "was built to your specifications, with climate control equivalent to a nuclear bunker."
"Very good."
Satsuki nodded.
"Keep that report safe. It will serve as the 'report card' we show to the banks."
"With this report card we can negotiate favorable terms with the Seibu Group for that 'trash land' in Meguro Ward."
She brushed dust from her hands and walked toward the elevator.
"Come, Mr. Ando. I will treat you to a cup of that coffee sprinkled with gold flakes."
"Let us see what 'dignity' actually tastes like."
Ando watched her back.
The little girl in the plaid skirt walked with the bearing of a monarch inspecting her domain.
He glanced downstairs.
That long pink line continued to grow, more and more women joining it. Their faces shone with happy anticipation, unaware—or perhaps perfectly willing—that they were stepping into a carefully designed sweet trap.
Ando gave a bitter laugh and followed her.
"The taste of dignity, huh…"
He tossed his cigarette butt into a trash can.
"It probably tastes cloyingly sweet."
The elevator doors closed.
The giant pink tower continued to emit its lethal allure in the spring breeze of Akasaka.