December 1985 felt colder than any winter in recent memory. Fine snowflakes drifted down in the evening like shredded cotton, silently mantling the roofs of black luxury cars parked along Akasaka's streets.
This was Ryotei Street.
No garish neon signs blazed as they did in Ginza—only winding stone-paved slopes and towering black board fences on either side. A casual glance might miss the discreet entrances of the high-end ryotei altogether. Yet every Tokyoite understood that, within this deceptively tranquil quarter, half the headlines of tomorrow's newspapers were quietly decided.
Before the entrance of the ryotei Matsukawa, the proprietress knelt on the cold stone steps in a thick kimono, forehead pressed to the ground, welcoming the evening's distinguished guests.
A black Nissan President sedan bearing a special license plate glided to a stop.
Saionji Shuichi stepped out.
He wore a dark gray cashmere overcoat, a glimpse of starched white collar visible at the neck. In two short months his entire bearing had transformed. The lingering sorrow and anxiety that once shadowed his brow had vanished, replaced by a refined composure and quiet gravitas.
Such was the confidence granted by eight billion yen in ready cash flow.
"Lord Saionji, the guests have arrived," the proprietress murmured, her voice laced with the deference due a daimyo.
Shuichi gave a slight nod and walked directly into the deep corridor without another word.
Paper doors lined both sides of the passage, tightly closed. Occasionally the notes of a shamisen or muffled male laughter escaped. The air carried the rich aroma of broth mingled with the scent of aged tatami.
The private room at the far end bore the name Setsugetsuka.
Shuichi slid the door open.
Two men awaited him inside.
On the left sat Ogawa, Planning Section Chief of the Tokyo Metropolitan Urban Development Bureau—plump, balding, and nervously turning his sake cup between his fingers. On the right was Tanabe, Councillor of the Minister's Secretariat at the Ministry of Construction—lean, sharp-featured, and wearing gold-rimmed glasses.
To ordinary citizens these men might appear as mere salaried bureaucrats. In Tokyo's real-estate world, however, their official seals carried more weight than bulldozers.
"Oh, Your Grace!"
Both men set down their cups and rose with slight bows the moment Shuichi entered.
Such was the lingering magic of the kazoku title. Even in an age ruled by zaibatsu, for bureaucrats steeped in Confucian hierarchy, a private dinner hosted by a House of Peers member bearing a century-old name remained an honor worth noting on one's resume.
"Tanabe-kun, Ogawa-kun, forgive my tardiness."
Shuichi removed his overcoat and handed it to the waiting attendant. A warm, disarming smile graced his face. He took the host's seat without ceremony.
"The snow has made the roads rather slippery."
"Not at all, we have only just arrived," Councillor Tanabe replied politely, adjusting his glasses. "We are truly honored by Saionji-san's invitation."
"Please serve the dishes," Shuichi instructed the proprietress. "And bring out that ten-year-aged bottle of Kokuryu. On a night like this, something warm to the heart is best."
Tonight's centerpiece was fugu.
The sashimi, sliced thin as cicada wings, had been artfully arranged in the shape of a blooming chrysanthemum upon a Kutani-ware plate. The translucent flesh faintly revealed the porcelain pattern beneath.
"Cheers."
Shuichi raised his cup.
The three men clinked their vessels gently. Warm sake slid down their throats, dispelling the winter chill.
For the first half-hour Shuichi spoke of nothing related to business. They discussed the unusually heavy snowfall, the Giants' recent baseball season, and the latest idol group, Onyanko Club. Shuichi proved both witty and well-informed, interspersing amusing anecdotes from imperial garden parties that left the two bureaucrats thoroughly engaged.
It was a masterfully executed social massage.
By the time the steaming fugu hot pot arrived, the atmosphere had reached its most harmonious peak.
"Speaking of which," Councillor Tanabe remarked, lifting a piece of fish with seeming casualness, "the economic situation has been difficult lately. With the yen's appreciation, many export firms have come to the ministry complaining that their factories stand on the brink of collapse."
"Indeed," Section Chief Ogawa echoed. "Tokyo's tax revenue will surely feel the impact. Although land prices continue to rise in certain districts, it is largely a false boom. Most small and medium-sized owners are selling buildings simply to service their debts."
Shuichi set down his chopsticks.
He dabbed the corner of his mouth with a napkin, his eyes conveying a perfectly calibrated concern for the nation and its people.
"Speaking of selling buildings," he sighed, "I find myself somewhat troubled by the matter as well."
The two bureaucrats exchanged glances and leaned forward attentively.
"Oh? Even the Saionji family…"
"No, no, I am not in difficulty," Shuichi waved a hand, his tone light. "A few days ago I noticed an old building in Ginza 7-chome. Its owner, a trader, was being driven to despair by his bank. I could not bear to watch, so I purchased the property and helped him escape his predicament."
"Casually purchasing a building in Ginza…"
Section Chief Ogawa swallowed. In this season of widespread anxiety and recession, few in Tokyo could "casually" produce hundreds of millions in cash.
"Your Grace truly possesses a bodhisattva's heart," Tanabe offered promptly.
"I would not claim so much," Shuichi replied with a modest smile. "I simply could not stomach the prospect of a court-seized property disfiguring Ginza."
He lifted his sake cup and swirled it gently.
"Yet after acquiring it, I realized the building is truly… an eyesore."
He frowned, as though recalling something distasteful.
"The exterior walls are peeling, the windows outdated. Sandwiched between two modern structures, it resembles a plaster patch on an otherwise beautiful face. Ginza, after all, is Tokyo's showcase. Were a foreign minister or member of the imperial family to pass by and witness such a sight, would they not mock us for failing even to maintain our storefronts?"
"This…" Ogawa hesitated. "Then what does Your Grace propose?"
"I wish to renovate it."
Shuichi snapped his fingers.
His secretary stepped forward at once, withdrew a design rendering from a briefcase, and unfolded it respectfully upon the table.
The drawing was audacious.
The original five-story concrete block had been transformed into a sleek modern structure sheathed entirely in blue glass curtain walls. More strikingly, the blueprint showed the building rising to seven stories.
"All-glass curtain wall… adding two floors…"
As a professional, Section Chief Ogawa spotted the issue immediately.
"This…" His expression clouded and he set down his cup. "Saionji-san, this may prove difficult. Ginza is governed by strict landscape regulations that limit glass reflectivity. Moreover, the plot in 7-chome has already reached its maximum floor-area ratio. By regulation it can support no more than five stories."
These were inflexible rules.
If they could not be bent, the building would remain merely a refurbished relic—rents unchanged, valuation stagnant.
If they could be broken… it would be alchemy.
Shuichi showed no displeasure at the initial refusal. He smiled, lifted the sake flask himself, and poured a cup for Ogawa.
"Rules may be rigid, but people are flexible."
His voice carried the lazy arrogance characteristic of old nobility.
"Ogawa-kun, if I am not mistaken, next spring the government intends to launch a 'Tokyo Urban Renewal' campaign to celebrate the 'increased purchasing power' brought by the yen's appreciation. I understand Minister Takeshita himself will attend."
He paused, regarding the two men with meaningful calm.
"If, at that time, this building could stand as a new landmark in Ginza—presenting a 'future-oriented' image—would that not constitute a notable political achievement?"
"As for the floor-area ratio…"
Shuichi tapped the top floor of the blueprint with one finger.
"I propose to dedicate a portion of the additional floors to a small 'public art gallery' open free of charge to the public. According to the proviso in Article 53 of the City Planning Act, a public contribution permits application for a 'special floor-area-ratio incentive,' does it not?"
Both men were momentarily stunned.
A gallery? How much space would that truly require? A few paintings on the wall would suffice as "public contribution"?
The loophole was blatant.
Yet the pretext was flawless: it offered face (urban image), substance (political achievement), and cover (public welfare).
Most crucially, the request came from Duke Saionji.
Behind him stood the House of Peers—lacking overt power, yet controlling the subtle channels that governed bureaucratic promotions.
Councillor Tanabe's glasses glinted.
He gave Ogawa a discreet kick beneath the table.
"Ogawa-kun," Tanabe began, his tone now grave, "I find Saionji-san's proposal most constructive. Ginza could certainly benefit from modern elements to lift morale. As for the regulations… there is naturally some discretion in assessing 'public contribution.'"
Ogawa understood at once.
When his superior had spoken, what principles need a mere section chief defend?
"Yes, yes," he replied quickly, raising his cup with a broad smile. "If it serves the public good, the matter is entirely different. For a 'special application,' the bureau can convene a meeting. It should… present no great difficulty."
"Then I leave it in your capable hands."
Shuichi raised his own cup, his expression serene, as though they discussed tomorrow's weather rather than billions in future profit.
"Additionally, to express gratitude for your tireless efforts in Tokyo's urban development, the Saionji family intends to make a donation to the 'Tokyo Urban Development Foundation.'"
He named no specific sum.
Everyone present understood. The so-called foundation served as a discreet conduit for departmental slush funds or even more clandestine transfers of benefit.
"Saionji-san is too generous!"
"It is merely our duty!"
The cups clinked once more with a crisp ring.
Amid that exchange of sake and pleasantries, the dilapidated little building in Ginza 7-chome—though not a single brick had yet been moved—had already doubled in value over the course of a single meal.
This was the alchemy of power.
Two hours later the banquet concluded.
Shuichi stood at the ryotei entrance, watching the two taxis vanish into the swirling snow.
The flakes fell thicker now.
He exhaled a plume of white breath and regarded the murky mist hanging in the cold night air.
"Is it finished?"
The car window lowered, revealing Satsuki's delicate face.
She had remained outside. Such a greasy gathering of middle-aged men was hardly suitable for a twelve-year-old girl. She had passed the time reading in the warm interior.
"It is finished."
Shuichi entered the car, bringing with him a gust of frigid air.
He leaned back against the leather seat, feeling less triumph than a profound weariness.
"They agreed," he said, closing his eyes. "Floor-area-ratio incentive and glass-curtain-wall permit. We should receive approval as early as next week."
"As expected."
Satsuki closed her book, her tone matter-of-fact.
"For them it is merely a signature. For us it means the rentable area of that building increases by forty percent, and the modern appearance will command at least a fifty-percent rental premium."
She lifted a thermos from beside her and handed it to her father.
"Drink some water. Too much sake is bad for your health."
Shuichi accepted the cup but did not drink. He turned his gaze to the passing streetscape.
The lights of Akasaka's tall buildings glowed especially bright against the snowy night. Yet Shuichi knew how many had lost their jobs that evening, how many factory furnaces had been extinguished beneath that brilliance.
And he—armed only with the privilege of his family name—had, in casual conversation with a handful of bureaucrats, amassed wealth that ordinary men could not earn in several lifetimes.
"Satsuki."
Shuichi spoke suddenly.
"Yes, Father?"
"I once believed that making money required diligence, integrity, and the creation of good products."
He stared at his palm—the same hand that had just shaken the greasy palms of those officials, as though some indelible scent still clung to it.
"Yet now I see… making money requires only sharing a meal with the right people at the right time."
It was the collapse of old values and the forging of a new worldview.
Satsuki regarded her father.
She sensed the inner turmoil—the clash between the reserve of an old-era aristocrat and the raw greed of a new-era capitalist.
This would not do.
She reached out and placed her small hand over his.
"Father."
Her voice rang clear in the quiet cabin.
"This is not called making money. This is called plunder."
Shuichi trembled and turned to look at her.
Satsuki's face showed neither guilt nor hesitation—only calm acceptance.
"A lion hunts a zebra not because it is diligent or honest, but because it is stronger, and its teeth are sharper."
"In the forest of the coming bubble, if we do not become lions, we will become zebras."
"What you did tonight was no shameful transaction."
She squeezed his hand. Her dark eyes reflected the flowing neon lights beyond the window.
"You were simply sharpening our teeth."
Shuichi remained silent for a long moment.
The car passed the Imperial Palace Outer Garden. The moat gleamed black and bottomless beneath the falling snow.
At last he slowly returned the pressure of her hand.
"Teeth…"
He murmured the word.
His gaze hardened with the resolve required to survive in a cruel world.
"Then let them be sharper still."
He looked ahead into the darkness.
"Tomorrow, instruct the design team to begin."
"I want that building to become the sharpest blade in all of Ginza."