November 1987 brought a dry chill to the Tokyo wind, setting the plane-tree leaves along the roadsides rustling.
Inside the president's office at Saionji Industries headquarters in Marunouchi, the heating had been turned up high.
"President Saionji, please, you must help us with this!"
The man seated across from Shuichi on the leather sofa was Yamamoto, section chief of the financing department at Sumitomo Bank's Marunouchi branch. In his early forties and already balding, he kept wiping beads of sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. A thick asset-appraisal report lay on the table before him, its cover stamped with a red "Top Secret" seal.
Shuichi picked up his teacup and gently blew on the floating leaves.
"Section Chief Yamamoto, if I remember correctly, we repaid a short-term loan only last month." He set the cup down; the porcelain base clicked sharply against the saucer. "Saionji Industries currently enjoys very abundant cash flow. Extremely abundant."
He stressed the word "extremely." This was no mere politeness. After the frenzied profits harvested on Wall Street the previous month, S.A. Investment's accounts held nearly one hundred billion yen. The Saionji family lacked for nothing—least of all money.
"I know, I know!" Yamamoto leaned forward eagerly, his backside almost lifting off the sofa. "But President, this credit line was specially approved by our branch! The interest rate can be as low as 2.5 percent. That is already a loss-making offer below the prime rate!"
He flipped open the appraisal report, his fingers trembling as he pointed to the columns of figures.
"Look, these are the latest valuations our appraisers have assigned to those… small plots of land held under your company's name."
Shuichi followed the pointing finger. The table listed hundreds of "junk plots" the Saionji family had quietly acquired over the past six months under the cover of the "Karaoke Box Expansion Plan." Most lay under overpasses, beside railway tracks, or at the ends of dead-end alleys. They were tiny, often triangular or irregular in shape.
Two months earlier, when Satsuki had instructed Shuichi to buy them, the average price had been around 300,000 yen per tsubo. Now the appraisal column showed:
Appraised price per tsubo: 1.2 million yen.
"Four times?" Shuichi raised an eyebrow, a flicker of disbelief in his eyes. "Section Chief Yamamoto, were your appraisers drunk?" He pointed to one line. "This plot in Adachi Ward sits right beside the Joban Line tracks. When a train passes, water spills from the cups. Yet you value land like that at one million yen per tsubo?"
"That is simply the current market, President!" Yamamoto replied, as though stating the most obvious fact. "Even though America suffered a setback last month, Japan is different! The central bank has spoken: easy monetary policy will continue, and interest rates will be cut further. Money is flooding the market like a tidal wave!"
"Major developers such as Mori Building and Mitsubishi Estate cannot secure large plots, so they have begun sweeping up every scrap. As long as it is Tokyo soil, even a manhole cover over a sewer is worth its weight in gold right now!"
Yamamoto pushed the loan contract forward, his eyes shining with fervent hope. "President, if you mortgage these plots to us, we can lend you two billion yen immediately. You may use the funds to buy more land, invest in stocks—whatever you wish! The Nikkei index has already rebounded to 23,000 points and is about to set new highs. This is an opportunity to pick up money for free!"
Shuichi looked at the contract. Only a month earlier these same bankers had clutched their purses in terror, refusing to lend. Now, with U.S. stocks merely stabilized, they behaved like sharks scenting blood, desperately trying to push money into other people's hands.
"Leave it here," Shuichi said. He neither signed nor refused. "I will consider it."
"Ah! Excellent! Please take all the time you need. If the interest rate is still not to your liking, I will return to the branch manager and request even better terms!"
Section Chief Yamamoto bowed repeatedly in gratitude, backing out of the office as though granted a great reprieve.
Once the door closed, silence returned.
Shuichi picked up the appraisal report and walked to the desk before the floor-to-ceiling window. Satsuki sat there, holding a red marker and circling locations on a large map of Tokyo.
"Did you hear?" Shuichi waved the report. "The junk land has risen fourfold. Our balance sheet now looks three times stronger."
"False fire," Satsuki replied without looking up. The red pen tapped heavily on the word "Odaiba."
"What?"
"I said it is a false fire." Satsuki turned, tossing the pen onto the desk. "Black Monday terrified the bureaucrats. The Ministry of Finance fears recession, and the central bank fears corporate bankruptcies. So they behave like panicked quack doctors, administering a massive dose of adrenaline whether the patient needs it or not."
"Interest rates have fallen to historic lows and the money supply has been thrown wide open. This flood of cash enters the market only to discover that the real economy cannot absorb it. Factories have no need to expand production, and shops have no need to increase inventory. So the money runs wild."
Satsuki pointed at the report in Shuichi's hand. "It pours into the stock market, driving the Nikkei higher. It pours into real estate, turning worthless scraps into gold. That is why land beside the railway tracks is suddenly valued at a million yen per tsubo. The land itself has not become more valuable; the money has simply become worthless."
Shuichi frowned at the report. "Then should we sell?"
This was a businessman's instinct. A fourfold profit was handsome in any era. Selling these hundreds of plots now would immediately bring several billion yen in cash.
"Sell?" Satsuki smiled as though hearing a joke. "Father, selling now would be like trading a gold mine for scrap iron."
She walked to the window and looked down at the busy streets below. "This fire has only just been lit. The banks are sitting on piles of cash, insurance companies are desperate to repair their balance sheets, and corporations want to record handsome asset gains in their annual reports. They are like starving wolves; they will pounce on any piece of meat they see."
"We must wait," Satsuki continued, pressing her palm against the glass as if feeling the city's pulse. "We wait until this fire burns so fiercely that it scorches away all reason. We wait until a plot the size of a toilet sells for a hundred million yen. We wait until they fall to their knees, weeping and begging us to sell. That will be the moment to act."
Shuichi studied his daughter's back. She was only fourteen, yet when speaking of business measured in hundreds of billions she carried the calm authority of a seasoned general. He had long since grown accustomed to her extraordinary insight.
"Very well. We will not sell." Shuichi dropped the report into a drawer. "Let the weeds keep growing."
4:00 p.m. Shimokitazawa, Setagaya Ward.
The sky was darkening, though streetlights had not yet come on. An ambiguous night-time atmosphere already seeped into the streets. Long queues had formed in front of the row of yellow shipping containers beside the railway tracks. Most of those waiting were university students fresh from class or young office workers carrying briefcases, eager to sing a few songs before heading home.
"Make way! Make way!"
Itakura directed two uniformed security guards. After months under Satsuki's influence he had grown steadier and now carried himself like genuine middle management within the Saionji family.
Several guards carried heavy canvas bags from the management office behind the containers to an armored truck. The bags contained that day's revenue—entirely in 100-yen coins. Their weight dragged the bottoms along the ground, producing a dull metallic scrape.
Though Itakura held the title of president, in practice he had little real work beyond stamping whatever documents Satsuki placed before him. To avoid seeming useless he sometimes joined the team collecting the change himself.
"Oh, Mr. Shuichi!"
Itakura looked up, spotted Shuichi standing by the roadside on an inspection tour, and hurried over. He wore a neat suit and his face shone with irrepressible excitement.
"Business is booming again today! The coin slot in Box 3 jammed because it was stuffed too full!"
Itakura rubbed his hands and pointed at the armored truck. "This load is worth about two million yen—and that is only from this one location!"
Shuichi watched the heavy bags being loaded. This was solid, honest money earned by providing a genuine service and meeting real demand. Behind every coin lay a song sung at full voice and an emotion released.
This was real industry.
He turned his gaze to the plot of land beneath his feet—overgrown with weeds, littered with gravel, and deafening whenever a train passed. According to Section Chief Yamamoto's report earlier, this scrap of land, less than fifty tsubo, had been appraised at sixty million yen.
Without conducting any business, simply by letting the plot sit idle for two months, its price increase equaled two years of Itakura and his team's hard work collecting coins.
"Itakura-kun," Shuichi said suddenly.
"Yes!"
"Do you think these coins are more valuable, or this land?"
Itakura paused, scratching his head. "Well… both are valuable, aren't they? Coins are cash you can hold, and land can be sold for a lot. But… I prefer the coins because you can actually touch them."
Shuichi offered a small, bitter smile. "Yes. Coins are real."
He patted Itakura on the shoulder. "Keep up the good work. Count the coins carefully. This may be the only real thing left in this mad city of Tokyo."
Itakura nodded, only half understanding. Had the big boss also caught the little boss's habit of saying puzzling things? He excused himself and returned to supervising the guards.
Late night, 11:00 p.m. Saionji Main Family Residence.
Shuichi stood on the second-floor terrace, a glass of whiskey in his hand, though he did not drink. His gaze swept across layers of rooftops toward the distant lights of the Daito Construction site. Since Gondo had signed the agreement the previous week, the long-stalled project had resumed. Searchlights from the tower cranes pierced the darkness, and even from here the faint roar of concrete mixers could be heard.
That was the sound of money burning. It was also the sound of desire expanding.
"Is this the false fire…" Shuichi swirled the glass; the ice clinked against the sides.
America had barely survived a catastrophe, its wounds still raw. Yet Japan, as though injected with stimulants, danced frantically on the edge of a cliff. Land prices rose, stock prices rose, wages rose. Everyone believed tomorrow would be even better.
This was a road with a beginning but no end. Once a bubble began to inflate, only one conclusion awaited: everything would eventually burst.
"Father."
The sound of a sliding door came from behind. Satsuki stepped onto the terrace, a thin coat draped over her shoulders.
"Not asleep yet?"
"I cannot sleep." Shuichi pointed toward the distant lights. "It is too bright."
"You will grow used to it." Satsuki joined him at the railing. In the early-winter night her gaze felt colder than the air itself. "This light will remain bright for a long time yet—bright enough to blind everyone."
She extended her palm upward, as though catching an invisible snowflake. "When the time comes, we will turn off the lights."
Shuichi looked at his daughter. Under the glow of the distant searchlights her profile appeared exceptionally sharp and clear.
"Very well." Shuichi tilted his head back and drained the whiskey. The liquid burned down his throat like a ball of fire igniting in his stomach. "Then let it burn."