February 1986, Narita Airport, Chiba Prefecture.
The sky hung low and leaden, like a soiled rag. Fine sleet lashed the terminal's towering windows, tracing crooked rivulets that blurred the silhouettes of the great iron birds waiting on the apron.
Inside the hall the heating ran at full strength. Announcements, the rattle of luggage wheels, and the chatter of farewells blended into the restless symphony known as the "Overseas Craze."
In that winter of soaring yen, foreign travel had suddenly become affordable and alluring for Japan's middle class. A golfing trip to Hawaii or a shopping excursion to Paris for Louis Vuitton had become the season's most fashionable conversation.
Yet in an inconspicuous corner of the North Wing terminal, three men in dark suits stood apart from the holiday atmosphere.
Takahashi Hiroshi sat rigidly on a cold metal bench, clutching a black briefcase so tightly that his knuckles whitened and the veins on the backs of his hands stood out.
He was nervous.
The anxiety sprang not only from the fact that this was his first journey to an unfamiliar country, but from the crushing weight of the mission sealed inside the briefcase.
"Factory Director, would you like some water?"
The young translator beside him, Kobayashi, offered a bottle of mineral water. Kobayashi had only recently graduated from Tokyo University of Foreign Studies; his face still carried the fresh innocence of a student. He watched the stylishly dressed travelers with open curiosity.
"No, thank you."
Takahashi shook his head, his Adam's apple bobbing. A leaden weight seemed lodged in his stomach; he could not imagine swallowing anything.
He glanced at his somewhat worn Seiko watch.
Forty minutes until boarding.
Destination: Shanghai.
For most Japanese, the name existed only in black-and-white newsreels and the fading memories of their fathers—closed, backward, and tinged with uncertain political overtones.
"Takahashi-kun, try to relax," said the old accountant Sato on his other side. Sato wiped his glasses with deliberate slowness, his voice steady. "We are going on an inspection tour, not to war. I hear the cuisine there is quite good."
Sato had been appointed financial supervisor by the Saionji family. His eyes were perpetually half-lidded, as though he had never quite awakened, yet Takahashi knew the old man could be as sharp as a fox when numbers were involved.
"Sato-san, you don't understand…"
Takahashi lowered his voice, afraid even the vacationers bound for Hawaii might overhear.
"The targets the President set are terrifying."
His fingers brushed the clasp of the briefcase.
Inside lay two items.
One was the childish sketch of a plain white T-shirt, drawn by the young miss herself.
The other was a letter of appointment granting absolute authority, signed by Saionji Shuichi, together with a substantial letter of credit.
Accompanying both was an uncompromising directive.
"We do not want garments that will last ten years. We want garments that people will feel no regret discarding after a single season."
"Do not use the finest cotton—use the cheapest. Do not employ the most advanced machines—use the most obedient workers."
"Cost, Takahashi. Drive the cost so low that even a beggar in Nagoya would consider it cheap."
Those words echoed in Takahashi's mind like a curse.
Raised in the culture of "craftsmanship," he found the request almost profane. To manufacture trash? To travel abroad for the sole purpose of manufacturing trash?
Yet whenever the impulse to protest rose, he remembered that snowy afternoon when Shuichi had stood on the high platform and used money to dismantle the old order.
If they did not make trash, the factory would die.
"Passengers bound for Shanghai, please proceed to Gate 12 for boarding…"
A somewhat stiff Chinese announcement crackled over the speakers, followed at once by its Japanese translation.
Takahashi rose abruptly and smoothed the wrinkled hem of his suit.
"Let's go."
He drew a deep breath and lifted the briefcase as though it were a loaded weapon.
Whether minefield or abyss lay ahead, there was no turning back. Hundreds of livelihoods at Saionji Textiles depended on the success of this journey.
The aircraft shuddered violently as it pierced thick clouds.
Takahashi sat by the window, gazing down at the vast, dark East China Sea. The water churned black and turbulent, carrying them farther from the polished elegance of Tokyo.
The cabin was unusually quiet.
Few tourists occupied the flight. Most passengers belonged to business inspection groups like his own, or elderly overseas Chinese returning to visit relatives.
The air carried a distinctive scent—a blend of stale tobacco and the faint aroma of inexpensive airline meals.
Three hours later the plane began its descent.
Takahashi pressed against the porthole, drinking in the approaching land.
No neatly ordered streets like circuit boards. No glittering glass towers reflecting daylight as in Ginza.
What met his eyes was a dusty, gray-toned expanse.
Low clusters of buildings resembled scattered toy blocks along the murky Huangpu River. Vast stretches of winter-yellowed farmland extended to the horizon.
Desolate.
That was his first impression.
"Is this… Shanghai?" Kobayashi whispered beside him, unable to conceal his disappointment.
Takahashi remained silent.
Yet within that gloom he perceived something else.
Chimneys.
Countless tall chimneys belched thick smoke into the gray-white sky. Black, white, and yellowish plumes twisted together. The sight was choking, but it was unmistakably the breath of industry.
It reminded him of Japan in the early Showa 30s.
Primitive and crude, yet it also signified something far more valuable: extraordinarily cheap labor.
The landing gear struck the pitted concrete runway of Hongqiao Airport with a heavy thud.
As the plane taxied, huge red slogans on the terminal building caught his eye. Though he could not read the characters, their vivid color stood out sharply against the gray surroundings.
The cabin door opened.
A rush of damp, cold air carrying the sharp tang of coal smoke swept inside.
That was the smell of a Shanghai winter.
"Welcome! Welcome, Japanese friends!"
The moment they stepped off the jet bridge, several middle-aged men in dark blue Mao suits hurried forward with broad smiles. They held placards that read "Warmly Welcome the Saionji Textiles Inspection Group."
The leader seized Takahashi's hand and pumped it vigorously.
"I am Old Chen from the Shanghai Textile Bureau! You have traveled far! You have worked hard!"
Kobayashi translated swiftly.
Takahashi found the excessive warmth unsettling. In Japan, business receptions were usually reserved and formal.
Yet he soon understood its source.
It was the eager gaze reserved for a "God of Wealth."
In 1986 China, foreign currency was more precious than gold. Any visitor arriving with yen or dollars was a walking giant panda.
"Director Chen, we are in your care," Takahashi replied with a polite Japanese bow.
"Come, come! The cars are waiting! Let us go to the hotel first!"
Old Chen threw an arm around Takahashi's shoulder like an old comrade.
The instant they left the terminal, Takahashi was stunned—not by prosperity, but by bicycles.
Thousands upon thousands of bicycles flowed like a black steel river along the narrow roads. The constant ringing of bells rose and fell in a grand, chaotic symphony.
The riders wore uniform blue or gray padded jackets, their faces flushed by the cold wind. Most wore numb expressions, yet when they caught sight of the black Shanghai-brand sedan carrying the inspection group, undisguised envy and curiosity flickered in their eyes.
It was a raw hunger for material goods and wealth.
Takahashi rarely encountered such looks in Tokyo. The eyes of young people there held only fatigue and emptiness.
The car threaded slowly through the endless stream of bicycles.
"Mr. Takahashi, do not mind the traffic," Old Chen said from the front seat, turning with evident pride. "That is our No. 1 Textile Factory, and over there is the Dyeing Factory. Shanghai is the textile center of all China! If it can be made from fabric, we can make it!"
Through the window Takahashi studied the massive red-brick factory buildings. Slogans such as "In Industry, Learn from Daqing" were painted in bold characters on the walls. Workers pushed small carts loaded with cotton yarn in and out.
The operations still looked clumsy, the facilities rough, yet the sheer scale pressed upon Takahashi with instinctive force.
"Labor…" Takahashi asked the question that mattered most. "How much does a worker earn per month here?"
Kobayashi translated.
Old Chen paused, surprised by the directness.
He raised one finger, then traced a circle.
"One hundred?" Takahashi ventured. "One hundred dollars?"
One hundred dollars amounted to roughly twenty thousand yen—already one-tenth of a Japanese worker's wage. Very cheap.
Old Chen shook his head with a simple smile.
"One hundred yuan."
Kobayashi performed a quick mental conversion and turned to Takahashi with a strange expression.
"Factory Director… he says one hundred yuan."
"How much is that in yen?"
"At the official rate… approximately five thousand yen."
Five thousand yen.
Takahashi gripped the back of the front seat until his knuckles turned white.
In Tokyo that sum would not cover a decent dinner. Here it was the monthly wage of a skilled female textile worker?
One-twentieth? No—one-fortieth.
"And," Old Chen added, "that includes bonuses. Apprentices earn even less."
Takahashi leaned back and exhaled slowly.
He looked again at the river of bicycles outside and saw not a gray backdrop, but an ocean of potential gold mines.
The three-hundred-yen white T-shirt sketched by young miss Satsuki could indeed be produced here.
And perhaps even cheaper.
At dusk the convoy reached the Bund.
The inspection group was lodged at the renowned Peace Hotel. The Gothic building with its green copper roof had once been the tallest structure in the Far East, a silent witness to old Shanghai's vanished splendor.
Thick carpets and antique rosewood furniture filled the rooms. Though the facilities showed their age, they retained the faded elegance of a fallen aristocrat, offering Takahashi a faint sense of familiarity.
The welcoming banquet took place in the Dragon and Phoenix Hall on the eighth floor.
The table groaned with braised pork, squirrel-shaped mandarin fish, soup dumplings, and bottles of high-proof Moutai.
The Chinese hosts toasted repeatedly, invoking "Sino-Japanese friendship" and "win-win cooperation." Though Takahashi was no heavy drinker, he forced down several glasses.
The alcohol loosened the atmosphere.
"Mr. Takahashi," Old Chen asked, face flushed, "how much do you plan to invest this time? How large a factory will you build?"
Takahashi set down his glass. His cheeks were red, yet his eyes remained clear.
He remembered Shuichi's instructions: show no weakness, display no eagerness. Here he must play the benefactor who holds every card.
"Money is not a concern."
He spoke deliberately in Japanese, waiting for Kobayashi to translate.
"The Saionji family possesses ample capital. We can bring not only funds but also Japan's most advanced management methods and… orders destined for the American market."
At the mention of "American orders," the eyes of every Chinese official at the table brightened.
"However," Takahashi continued, tapping the tabletop lightly, "we require absolute controlling interest. Factory management must follow our rules. Quality standards must meet our specifications."
"We also need to see sincerity."
"Land, taxes, electricity, water—if these costs fail to satisfy us, we can go elsewhere at any moment. I understand Guangdong is also most welcoming."
It was a calculated game of chess.
Old Chen's expression flickered, then broadened into another smile.
"Everything is negotiable! Our conditions in Shanghai are certainly the best!"
The banquet stretched late into the night.
When Takahashi returned to his room he was pleasantly tipsy.
He left the lights off and walked straight to the window, drawing aside the heavy velvet curtains.
Below lay the broad Huangpu River.
Its dark waters flowed silently. Occasional barges passed with low, mournful whistles.
On the opposite bank, Pudong remained a vast stretch of pitch-black farmland and warehouses, pierced only by scattered, flickering lights.
There was no Oriental Pearl Tower, no Jin Mao Tower—only an immense, silent darkness.
Yet in Takahashi's eyes that darkness possessed an almost gravitational pull.
He took the sketch of the white T-shirt from his briefcase and studied it for a long time by the pale moonlight.
"Three hundred yen…"
He murmured the words.
On that cold winter night, in a foreign hotel, he finally grasped the ambition of the twelve-year-old girl.
This was not merely a piece of clothing.
It was an unprecedented arbitrage scheme built upon the colossal gap between two worlds.
Japanese capital. Chinese labor. American markets.
The thread connecting all three was the Saionji family.
"S-Style…"
Takahashi pressed the drawing against the cold glass, facing the dark shore as though issuing a challenge to the future.
"Since you want cheap, I will make the cheapest clothes in the world for you."
He loosened his tie. A fierce fire burned in his chest.
The cold wind of Nagoya had extinguished the fires of the old era.
Here, on the banks of Shanghai's Huangpu River, a new flame was being kindled.
Tomorrow he would visit the factories and select the workers who would soon sew the wedding dress for the Saionji empire.