In July 1987 the sun in Kanagawa Prefecture burned with merciless intensity, as though raining fire upon the earth.
Heat waves distorted the air above the streets of Hiratsuka City. Cicadas in the roadside trees emitted an irritating screech, while the occasional roar of modified motorcycles with throttles wide open shattered the stillness. These were the bosozoku unique to the Shonan region, their exhaust pipes belching black smoke that mingled with the salty scent of the sea and the acrid stench of cheap gasoline.
Itakura stood outside the automatic doors of Toto Real Estate, feeling as though he were about to melt.
His dark-blue suit had turned nearly black with sweat, clinging tightly to his back, with two large, embarrassing damp patches beneath his arms. He pulled out a handkerchief already soaked through and wiped the oily perspiration from his face, then glanced down at the crumpled piece of paper in his hand.
"Long hair. Beautiful profile. Clear eyes."
"What kind of clue is this…"
Itakura wailed inwardly.
Because of his boss's vague, almost nonexistent instructions, he had been wandering the streets of Hiratsuka City for three full days. Every time he spotted a real-estate agency he would enter pretending to inquire about a property, yet his eyes remained fixed on the female staff. For this he had been ejected five times and nearly handed over to the police as a suspected corporate spy.
This was the final agency.
If he failed to find her here, he might as well commit seppuku—though he doubted the Young Miss would hand him the knife. He had heard that land reclamation projects were quite popular lately.
"Sigh…"
Itakura drew a deep breath, adjusted the tie that threatened to strangle him, and forced what he hoped was the smile of a "successful man."
The automatic doors sensed his ample belly and slid open with a polite "ding-dong."
A blast of strong, cold air struck his face.
Itakura shivered, almost moaning with relief.
There were few customers inside. A handful of male salesmen clustered together, smoking and chatting. They glanced lazily at his sweaty, dishevelled appearance but made no move to rise.
"Welcome."
A cool voice came from behind the counter in the corner.
Itakura turned instinctively.
Then he froze.
Behind the counter stood a young woman.
She wore the most ordinary light-blue uniform vest over a white shirt, with a dark-blue ribbon tied neatly at the collar. Her black hair was pulled back simply, revealing a smooth, full forehead.
She held a stack of documents and was operating the copier with her body turned slightly sideways.
Sunlight filtered through the blinds, dappling her face.
It was a bare-faced beauty. No heavy makeup as currently fashionable, no exaggerated earrings or jewellery. Yet in that interplay of light and shadow the lines of her profile were breathtakingly pure.
It was not an aggressive, flashy beauty, but a clean, transparent one—like a mountain stream.
Itakura's heart skipped a beat.
The description on the paper had come to life.
It was her.
No confirmation was needed, not even a name. The "radar" honed by years as an otaku was screaming alarms at this moment.
The woman seemed to sense the overly intense gaze and turned her head.
Those eyes.
Clear and distinct, black and white, yet carrying a subtle detachment and quiet weariness.
"Sir? Are you here to rent or to buy?"
She asked politely. Her voice was not loud, yet it possessed a strange magnetism.
Itakura snapped back to reality. He quickly wiped the sweat from his palms, hurried forward, and nearly scattered several business cards across the counter in his nervousness.
"Ah… well, I am not here to buy a house."
He pulled out a business-card holder stamped with "S.A. Entertainment President," his movements clumsy from anxiety.
"I am… a talent scout."
Itakura pushed a card toward her, forcing what he hoped was a friendly smile.
"I am Itakura. We operate an entertainment company in Tokyo and are currently seeking promising…"
The woman glanced at the card, then at the sweaty, shifty-eyed man before her.
Her eyes turned cold at once.
That polite detachment hardened into blatant wariness.
"Not interested."
She turned back and continued organising the documents, not even glancing at Itakura again.
"I have work to do. Please do not disturb me."
"Hey? Wait! Please hear me out first!"
Itakura panicked, clinging to the counter and refusing to leave.
"I am not that kind of scammer! Our company is very capable! We have a building in Shinjuku, an office in Roppongi…"
"The last man who approached me claimed he was a producer from Fuji TV and wanted me to shoot a swimsuit photo book."
The woman did not turn around; her voice remained icy.
"The one before that said he was a modelling agent and wanted to take me to a high-end club in Akasaka to 'see the world.'"
She slammed the organised documents onto the table with a sharp thud.
"Uncle, your lines are all the same. Can you not come up with something new?"
"No! I am not asking you to shoot a photo book!" Itakura's face flushed red with urgency. "I think your aura… I mean, I believe you might be able to sing!"
The woman paused.
Then she turned and pressed the intercom on the desk.
"Security, there is a customer harassing the front desk. Please escort him out."
"Don't! Please don't call security!"
Itakura watched the burly guard emerge from the break room and closed his eyes in despair.
It was over.
Mission failed.
Just as the security guard's thick hand was about to land on Itakura's shoulder—
"Wait."
A childish yet authoritative voice cut through the sweltering air, echoing clearly in the quiet hall.
The automatic doors opened again.
Satsuki stood at the entrance.
Today she wore a simple white dress, a wide-brimmed straw hat, and a pair of sunglasses.
She removed the sunglasses, revealing eyes deeper than a dark pool.
She did not look at the security guard or at Itakura.
Her gaze passed straight through the hall and locked onto the woman behind the counter.
"Miss Sachiko Kamachi, is it?"
Satsuki walked inside. Her steps were light, yet the male salesmen instinctively straightened as though a supervisor had arrived for inspection.
The woman—Sachiko Kamachi—regarded the suddenly appearing girl with surprise.
"Who are you?"
"I am his boss."
Satsuki pointed at the dishevelled Itakura beside her.
"And the only one who came not for your face, but for your voice."
She approached the counter but offered no business card. Instead she withdrew a small notebook from her bag.
"Worked as a real-estate receptionist, a race queen, and appeared in a few background karaoke videos you disliked."
Satsuki opened the notebook and read calmly.
"You are beautiful. Everyone tells you that if you are willing to undress, if you are willing to smile, you will become famous."
"But you refused."
Satsuki closed the notebook and looked up, meeting Sachiko's eyes directly.
"Because after work, at izakayas or on deserted beaches, you secretly write lyrics."
"Because you believe those who treat you like a vase do not understand the magma hidden inside you."
Sachiko's pupils contracted sharply.
Her hands, still holding the documents, trembled slightly.
This was her deepest secret. In this restless era everyone sought quick money; no one cared whether a race queen wrote poetry.
"You… who are you, really?"
Sachiko's voice had lost its earlier coldness and now carried a trembling hint of anticipation.
"I am the one who has come to give you a microphone."
Satsuki turned and pointed outside.
"There is a snack bar called 'Seagull' nearby. I have just rented it."
"Go and sing a song."
"If you believe I am lying, you may leave at any time. After all, your life now cannot become much worse, can it?"
Sachiko looked at the girl who was only in her teens.
She remained silent for a moment.
Then she untied the ribbon at her neck and removed the uniform vest that symbolised restraint.
"Very well."
Sachiko stepped out from behind the counter.
"I will go with you."
"Seagull" Snack Bar.
It was a typical Showa-era tavern with red velvet sofas, dim lighting, and a few guitars hanging on the walls.
Since it was afternoon there were no customers, only the old air conditioner humming steadily.
The proprietress tactfully withdrew to the back kitchen.
Itakura sat nervously in the corner, clutching a glass of ice water.
Satsuki sat at the bar, pressing a few buttons on the large karaoke machine.
She did not choose the sweet, currently popular songs of Seiko Matsuda.
The screen lit up.
It was an old English song.
The Beatles – Let It Be.
The piano introduction began.
Sachiko stood in the centre of the room, holding a somewhat chipped wired microphone. She appeared uneasy, gripping the stand tightly with both hands like a drowning person clutching a lifebuoy.
She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath.
"When I find myself in times of trouble…"
The moment the first note left her lips.
Itakura's glass trembled; the ice cubes clinked against the sides with a crisp sound.
That voice.
It was no longer the cool detachment she had shown at the front desk.
It carried a grainy texture, slightly low yet incredibly clear. It was neither sickly sweet like those of idol singers nor overly ornamented like enka performers.
It was direct.
It pierced through the smoky air, through Itakura's thick layer of fat, and struck straight at the heart.
It was the sound of vitality.
A cry that, even in despair, still longed to run, to breathe, to live.
Satsuki listened quietly.
She watched the girl singing with closed eyes.
At this moment Sachiko was not yet the national diva later known as ZARD, standing at the pinnacle of the 1990s. Her vocal technique remained somewhat raw, her English pronunciation not quite polished.
Yet that force called "authenticity" had already broken through the soil.
The song reached its climax.
Sachiko leaned forward slightly, her hair falling across half her face. She was no longer uneasy; her voice grew stronger, steadier, as though she wished to vent every grievance endured at the real-estate office and the racetrack through her singing.
"Speaking words of wisdom, let it be…"
The final note faded.
The room fell into absolute silence.
Sachiko slowly opened her eyes, breathing lightly. She looked at Satsuki with a trace of anxiety, like a child awaiting judgment.
"Clap, clap, clap."
Satsuki applauded softly.
"Itakura."
"Yes, yes!" Itakura stood quickly, his eyes slightly red. For a moment the otaku had nearly wept from listening.
"Take out the contract."
Itakura fumbled in his briefcase and placed the document on the water-stained table.
Satsuki pushed the contract toward Sachiko.
"Look at the terms."
Sachiko hesitated, then picked it up.
She had expected harsh clauses—"no dating allowed," "must obey company packaging," "penalty of one hundred million yen," and other unfair conditions.
Instead she froze.
The contract was simple.
Party B's Rights:
No forced public appearances. (If you do not wish to appear on television, you may simply release records.)
No forced swimsuit shoots.
Full ownership of lyric-creation rights.
"This…"
Sachiko looked up in disbelief.
"Why?"
"Because your face is beautiful, but your voice is more valuable."
Satsuki slipped down from the bar stool and walked up to Sachiko.
She reached out and gently smoothed the woman's slightly dishevelled long hair.
"Miss Kamachi, this era is too noisy."
"Everyone is shouting, screaming, going mad for money."
"But after the crazy bubble bursts, when everyone is left bruised and battered."
"What they will need is not sweet candy, but painkillers."
"Your voice is that medicine."
Satsuki took the pen from Itakura and handed it to Sachiko.
"Sign it."
"We do not need you to be an idol. We only need you to be yourself."
"Wearing jeans, bare-faced, singing the songs you wish to sing."
Sachiko held the pen.
Tears flowed without warning.
All these years.
Before those lecherous cameras, at those dinners where she had been treated like a vase, she had been waiting for one sentence.
Waiting for someone to say "be yourself."
"I will sign."
Sachiko wiped her tears and nodded firmly.
At the end of the contract she wrote her name with solemn care:
Sachiko Kamachi.
"Good."
Satsuki put away the contract, a smile curving the corner of her mouth.
"Welcome to S.A. Entertainment."
"From today, forget the name Sachiko Kamachi."
She turned and pushed open the door of the snack bar.
The sunlight outside remained glaring; the sea breeze carried a salty tang against her face.
"We will give you a new name."
"A name as free as the wind, as mysterious as a puzzle."
Itakura followed behind, looking at the newly signed artist.
Although he did not know what the future held, he had a premonition.
Today, in this shabby little tavern, he had witnessed the birth of a legend.