In Karuizawa during July, the wind carried the fresh green of the mountains.
Unlike the sweltering heat of Tokyo, where the asphalt seemed to melt underfoot, the air on this thousand-meter plateau remained cool and transparent. Sunlight filtered through the dense larch forests, scattering into dappled spots of light that danced across the moss-covered stone paths.
Tingsong Villa.
This sixty-year-old wooden retreat stood quietly in the embrace of the forest. Its dark-brown timber walls released a faint scent of pine resin, and the wide terrace extended over the valley, where a clear stream murmured below.
On the terrace sat a white wicker round table.
Shuichi wore a loose linen shirt with the sleeves casually rolled up. He held a glass of iced lemonade, the cubes clinking softly against the side.
Before him rose several "mountains of paper"—membership applications and recommendation letters for "The Club," sent from Tokyo after preliminary screening.
Although the clubhouse in Azabu-Juban remained under renovation, with scaffolding still in place, Shuichi's careful cultivation of rumors had already spread word through Nagatacho and Marunouchi: Duke Saionji was building an exclusive private club.
He had already extended invitations to several heavyweight figures. Through calculated exchanges of interest, they had agreed to assist in promoting the venture.
In this year when money seemed to overflow, anxiety over social class had grown sharper than ever. The more mysterious, the more expensive, and the more exclusive something appeared, the more eagerly those clutching newly minted fortunes flocked to it.
Whether they sought mere excitement or genuine belonging, applications poured in.
"There are far too many."
Shuichi set down one file and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
"Yesterday alone the office received twenty applications. Presidents of construction companies, owners of supermarket chains, and several individual investors who struck it rich in the stock market."
He picked up the topmost document.
"This one, a man named Yamada, made his fortune in pachinko parlors. He claims he is willing to pay two hundred million yen simply for a membership card."
"Two hundred million?"
Satsuki, seated opposite him, gave a light chuckle.
She wore a simple white dress and a wide-brimmed straw hat. A few strands of black hair fluttered gently beside her face in the breeze.
She held a red fountain pen, its cap resting near her lips as though she were lost in thought.
"Reject it."
Satsuki reached across, took the file from her father, and—without even glancing at the contents—drew a large red "X" across the cover.
"Why?" Shuichi asked with mild regret. "That is two hundred million in cash. Pachinko generates abundant liquidity…"
"Father."
Satsuki set down her pen and picked up a slice of cut watermelon from the fruit plate.
"Have you ever seen a Michelin-starred restaurant seat guests who reek of cigarette smoke in the main dining room simply to increase revenue?"
She took a bite; red juice stained her lips.
"Pachinko may be highly profitable, but its class is far too low. If we allow such people inside, would the Administrative Vice-Minister of the Ministry of Finance still feel comfortable coming for tea? Would the President of Mitsubishi Bank still wish to discuss business here?"
Satsuki tossed the rind onto the plate and wiped her hands with a damp towel.
"The Club does not sell drinks, nor does it sell service."
"We sell adjacency. Your status as a Diet member is merely the fuse; the true value lies in the members themselves."
"When a new arrival enters the lounge and finds a Director-General from the Ministry of Construction seated to his left and a partner from Goldman Sachs to his right, he need say nothing. Simply breathing the same air will convince him that the one-hundred-million-yen membership fee was worth every yen. What we offer is the opportunity for these people to gather."
"Once impurities are introduced, however, the atmosphere shatters."
Shuichi nodded, lost in thought.
This was the ancient logic of aristocracy: circles mattered far more than money.
"Then what of this one?"
He drew out another file. Its cover was elegantly embossed in gold with the applicant's name.
"Okura Real Estate—Okura Masao. A legitimate developer who has been making waves with land reclamation in Chiba. And…"
Shuichi paused, glancing at his daughter.
"His daughter, Okura Masami, is your classmate at Seika, is she not?"
Satsuki's gaze settled on the three gold-stamped characters.
Okura.
That was the same Okura Masami who surrounded herself with followers at school, boasted about her father's newly purchased yacht, and mocked the Saionji family as "outdated aristocrats."
The corners of Satsuki's mouth curved into a playful arc.
"The Okura family…"
She lifted the fountain pen, its tip hovering above the name.
"They are rich. Very rich. I hear they recently borrowed thirty billion yen from Sumitomo Bank to develop a new resort in Makuhari."
"Then he should qualify, surely?" Shuichi asked.
"Six months ago, perhaps."
Satsuki's pen descended.
*Swish—*
Another glaring red "X."
"But not now."
Shuichi looked startled. "Why? Their family has no scandalous record, and they are not mere nouveau riche…"
"Because they are pigs."
Satsuki's voice was soft, yet it carried a bone-chilling coldness.
The wind rustled through the treetops, masking the distant calls of unseen birds.
"Pigs?" Shuichi did not understand.
"Father, have you examined their recent financial reports? The Okura family's debt ratio now exceeds four hundred percent. They have staked everything on that reclamation project in Chiba."
Satsuki tapped the table lightly with the barrel of her pen.
"It is 1986. The yen continues to appreciate, and the export slump persists. Although land prices are rising, those gains are concentrated in Tokyo's core districts. A remote wilderness like Chiba remains a muddy pit that interests no one."
"Their capital chain is stretched to the breaking point. Should the banks tighten credit even slightly, or should the project encounter delays…"
Satsuki made a small explosive gesture with her hand.
"Bang."
"They will shatter."
She looked up.
"The Club is a lounge for hunters. We welcome only those who carry shotguns—or those who possess the map to the hunting grounds."
"As for prey like the Okura family, fattened and ready to be served upon the table…"
"Hunters do not invite the food to sit and dine with them."
Shuichi stared at the red "X." An inexplicable chill ran down his spine.
"I understand."
He dropped the file into the wastepaper basket.
"Then whom should we invite?"
Satsuki drew a small stack of unassuming files from the bottom of the pile—plain folders without covers.
"These people."
She opened the first.
"Mr. Kijima, Section Chief of the Budget Bureau at the Ministry of Finance."
"He has no money. He could not produce one hundred million yen in his lifetime," Shuichi observed with a frown.
"Grant it to him."
Satsuki spoke without hesitation.
"Give him an honorary membership card. Waive all fees. Tell him it is the Saionji family's gesture of respect for a pillar of the nation."
"And this one—the Deputy Director-General of the Industrial Policy Bureau at MITI. Grant him one as well."
"This one—Section Chief Ogawa of the Tokyo Metropolitan Bureau of Urban Development, the man who helped secure the Akasaka approvals. Offer him a ninety-percent discount."
Shuichi understood at once.
This was the laying of groundwork.
They would use the club's prestige to cultivate bureaucrats who wielded real power yet earned modest salaries. Let them enjoy honors here that they could not find elsewhere, and allow them to form their own small circles within these walls.
Even if these officials entered, the true titans would not be offended. Everyone knew that in this country many who held genuine authority possessed relatively low social status.
Ordinarily, maintaining dignity made it difficult to secure their cooperation; orders often became distorted as they passed through layers of bureaucracy, increasing both resistance and cost. In the club, however, matters could be resolved far more smoothly—perhaps in the time it took to open a bottle of red wine, something that normally required days of official procedure could be settled.
And once status and power were present, businessmen eager for favors would gladly bankrupt themselves to gain entry. In that regard, money was actually the easiest part to handle.
"Besides the bureaucrats, there is this category as well."
Satsuki produced another stack of files.
"The head of Goldman Sachs' Tokyo branch. The chief representative of Morgan Stanley. Bond traders from Salomon Brothers."
"But those are foreigners…" Shuichi hesitated. "While the original Rokumeikan was Western in style, its core remained…"
"Father, times have changed."
Satsuki interrupted him gently.
"The wolves of Wall Street have already caught the scent of blood. They understand finance better than we do, and they know how to play the game of capital."
"Let them in. We need to hear what they are saying, what they are buying, and what they are selling."
The red pen moved swiftly across the pages, circling names.
Each circled name represented core influence in a particular field.
Directors from Mitsubishi, executives from Sumitomo, the editor-in-chief of the Yomiuri Shimbun, high-ranking officers from the Metropolitan Police Department… The list grew longer and heavier.
It was no longer a simple roster of customers, but a vast spiderweb spanning politics, business, media, and law enforcement.
Half an hour later the "mountains of paper" had vanished.
Only a single thin sheet of letter paper remained, bearing forty-eight names neatly inscribed.
"Forty-eight people."
Satsuki capped the pen and returned it to its holder.
"For the first batch, we will accept only this many."
"Rarity increases value. Let the rest wait in line. Inform them that the Board of Directors is conducting strict background checks, which will require approximately… six months."
Shuichi picked up the list.
Sunlight filtered through the leaves, making the names appear to glow.
He understood that these individuals had been invited partly because they wished to grant him face and partly because they saw tangible benefits. Yet none of this yet formed a cohesive force; at best it was a loose "interest group." Transforming it into something the Saionji family could truly wield would require much more work.
Satsuki stood, walked to the edge of the terrace, and rested her hands on the railing as she gazed toward Mount Asama in the distance.
Its summit lay shrouded in mist, concealing its true form.
"Father, do you feel it?"
"What?"
"The direction of the wind has changed."
Satsuki extended her hand, letting the breeze from the valley brush across her palm.
"Last year at this time, the wind carried the scent of anxiety and despair. Everyone feared bankruptcy and unemployment."
"But this year there is a restless sweetness in the air."
"That is the scent of greed."
She turned, tucking a windblown strand of hair behind her ear, and smiled at her father. Her skirt fluttered gently.
"People are beginning to lose themselves. Banks are practically begging borrowers to take loans. The stock market sets new highs daily. Even taxi drivers discuss where land prices have risen again."
"The carnival is about to begin."
Shuichi joined her at the railing and looked out into the mist.
"So we built this club."
"Yes."
Satsuki nodded.
"When the flood arrives, this will be the first-class cabin on Noah's Ark."
"We select passengers not by how splendidly they are dressed today, but by whether they hold a ticket in their hands."
"The Okura family possesses no ticket. They are too heavy; they would sink the ship."
Shuichi remained silent for a moment, then laughed softly.
He reached out and ruffled his daughter's hair.
"It seems these forty-eight people will owe their little captain a proper word of thanks."
"Father, do you still harbor doubts about my methods?"
Satsuki allowed him to stroke her head, her voice soft.
Shuichi's hand paused.
His silence was answer enough.
"Rest assured, Father. When we correctly predict the arrival of the flood time and again, they will beg to remain aboard."
"You mean something like the Plaza Accord last time? But… can such events truly be predicted?"
Shuichi's expression grew solemn as he studied his daughter.
"Satsuki, are you truly a messenger sent by the gods? Have you reached the point where you can foresee the future?"
*Pfft.*
Hearing him speak so earnestly, Satsuki could not help but cover her mouth and giggle.
"Haha… Father, you really know how to joke." She picked up a cup of tea from the table. "I cannot claim to be a messenger of the gods. I am merely… making use of an era rich in tribulations."
Satsuki took a sip and looked at her father.
"Besides, one who profits from disaster might more accurately be called a demon, would she not?"
She flipped through the desk calendar, her finger lightly tapping a particular date.
October 19, 1987.
"Very well. This demon has decided. Let the disaster descend upon that day."
The young girl smiled, as though she had simply chosen which delicious cake to enjoy tomorrow.