Chapter 44: Coronation in the Dark
In May 1987 the night hung over Azabu-Juban like a sheet of black ink.
Although Roppongi lay only a few hundred metres away, throbbing with the feverish energy of the bubble economy—taxis honking incessantly for passengers, neon lights from discos staining the sky an ambiguous purple-red—the moment one turned onto the narrow slope known as Kurayami-zaka, all sound seemed to vanish, swallowed by invisible acoustic foam, leaving only a profound and deathly silence.
The streetlights here mimicked old-fashioned gas lamps, casting a dim, yellowish glow.
At the end of the slope, dense ancient trees partially concealed a massive black cast-iron gate.
No plaque adorned the gate; only a palm-sized brass nameplate was embedded in the right-hand stone pillar, etched with two simple English words:
The Club.
Eleven o'clock at night.
The sound of tyres rolling over the damp road surface broke the stillness.
A black Toyota Century glided slowly up the slope. Its deep paint reflected a subdued lustre beneath the streetlights, and the windows were draped with opaque velvet curtains. Although no golden chrysanthemum flag flew from the front, the steady, oppressive aura belonged unmistakably to those who moved frequently through the corridors of Nagatacho.
Before the vehicle could draw near, a man in a black suit emerged from the sentry box beside the gate.
The car window lowered a crack; a black magnetic card was handed out.
"Beep."
A green light flashed.
The man returned the card with both hands, stepped back, and saluted.
The two-ton cast-iron gate slid open silently on hydraulic arms, revealing a deep driveway paved with bluestone slabs.
The Toyota Century drove inside.
Close behind followed a Mercedes-Benz S600 bearing blue diplomatic plates.
Then came a dark-gray Bentley.
There were no camera flashes here, no besieging reporters; even the engines were kept deliberately subdued.
It resembled a gathering of ghosts.
The forty-eight most powerful, wealthiest men who held the lifeblood of the nation in their hands were converging silently, on this moonless night, upon an old kazoku mansion once whispered about as the "Ghost House."
The doors of the main building were drawn open by two waiters.
A warm fragrance greeted them—a blend of aged sandalwood, Cuban cigars, and vintage whiskey.
This was not the garish gold of the nouveau riche.
What met the eye were large expanses of dark oak wainscoting, its colour so deep it approached black, burnished by the patina of time. The floors were original old teak that produced a subtle, reassuring muffled sound beneath each footstep. The crystal chandeliers overhead did not blaze; their light had been specially refracted, spilling softly onto century-old Persian rugs.
In the main lounge, named Rokumeikan Hall, Bach's "Air on the G String" flowed in a low, continuous refrain.
Shuichi stood before the fireplace.
Tonight he wore a meticulously tailored black tuxedo, his bow tie knotted with precision. After a year of navigating the treacherous waters of politics and business, every trace of the decadent, down-and-out noble had vanished from his bearing.
In its place remained an unfathomable composure.
"Welcome."
Shuichi smiled and offered a slight bow to an elderly man who had just entered.
The white-haired gentleman leaned on a walking stick. He was the former Director of the Budget Bureau at the Ministry of Finance and now president of a major policy bank. In this country he was one of the true custodians of the national purse strings.
"Oh, Mr. Saionji."
The old man glanced around, his gaze settling on the large oil painting on the wall—a portrait of a Saionji ancestor from the Meiji era.
"This place is truly splendid. It reminds me of the old Kazoku Hall. Tokyo has grown too noisy these days, with gold-plated pillars everywhere. It is this old atmosphere that truly puts one at ease."
"I am glad you like it," Shuichi replied warmly. "We do not sell alcohol here—only peace and quiet."
A waiter glided forward silently, bearing a single-malt whiskey at precisely the right temperature.
The old man accepted the glass and moved toward the sofa area deeper in the hall.
Several guests were already seated there.
One was a core member of the LDP's Takeshita faction, puffing on a cigar, smoke curling lazily upward.
Another was the chief representative of Goldman Sachs in Tokyo, a blond, blue-eyed man conversing fluently in Japanese with a zaibatsu president beside him.
Beneath the seemingly tranquil surface, however, a subtle undercurrent stirred.
"I heard construction has still not resumed in Meguro Ward?"
The Takeshita-faction lawmaker lowered his voice, speaking as if in passing.
"Saionji has truly offended Yoshiaki Tsutsumi this time. That barbed wire…"
The zaibatsu president swirled the ice in his glass; the cubes clinked crisply against the crystal.
"Yet I also heard that Saionji has no intention of yielding. The one-billion-yen quotation remains on Seibu's desk."
"That is the problem."
The lawmaker exhaled a smoke ring, his gaze drifting toward the entrance.
"Tonight is a threshold. Yoshiaki Tsutsumi has neither come nor sent a representative. If these two families truly sever ties, those of us gathered here may soon be forced to choose sides."
Everyone present was astute.
While the Saionji family possessed ancient bloodlines, they could not yet match the sun-like power of the Seibu Group in raw strength. Should they incur Tsutsumi's resentment by attending The Club, the drink in their hands might suddenly feel uncomfortably hot.
Every pair of eyes, whether openly or discreetly, glanced toward the great door.
They were waiting for a signal.
At that moment a strange disturbance rose from the gravel drive outside.
It was not the soft glide of an ordinary sedan but the heavier, more commanding rumble of a powerful engine.
Conversation in the hall dwindled at once.
Shuichi adjusted his cuffs and looked calmly toward the entrance.
Two waiters drew the doors open.
Night wind rushed in, stirring the velvet curtains in the foyer.
A white Mercedes-Benz S600 Pullman stretched armoured limousine, resembling a great white whale, glided to a stop beneath the portico.
White.
In Tokyo's business world almost no one else would choose such a conspicuous colour.
The entire room fell into utter silence.
Everyone held their breath. Who would emerge? A thug sent to disrupt the evening? Or a lawyer bearing a final ultimatum?
The car door opened.
A long leg clad in dark-gray trousers stepped out.
Then came a thin, middle-aged man wearing rimless glasses.
Shimada.
Chief confidential secretary to Chairman Yoshiaki Tsutsumi of the Seibu Group.
He brought no bodyguards. Instead he turned, carefully lifted an enormous flower basket from the rear seat, and carried it inside.
It was an extraordinary arrangement.
A towering cascade woven from more than a hundred flawless white Phalaenopsis orchids, each petal perfect, glowing with noble coolness beneath the lamps.
At the summit of the floral tower hung a hand-written wooden plaque.
The calligraphy was bold and forceful, radiating unquestionable dominance:
[Congratulations to the Saionji Patriarch on the Grand Opening — Yoshiaki Tsutsumi]
Shimada bore the flower tower with steady steps and an impeccably appropriate smile, as though the earlier deadlock with Shuichi had never occurred.
"Mr. Saionji."
He approached, set the tower down, and offered a deep bow.
"The Chairman is occupied with official duties and could not attend tonight. He instructed me to deliver this modest gift as an expression of his congratulations."
Shuichi regarded the wooden plaque bearing Yoshiaki Tsutsumi's name, then looked at the smiling Shimada.
He was not surprised.
It was as though he had anticipated this outcome all along.
"Chairman Tsutsumi is too kind."
Shuichi returned a measured smile and extended his hand.
Shimada grasped it with both of his own, bowing even lower.
"The Chairman often remarks that the Saionji family are descendants of a distinguished house whose character is admirable. Regarding the previous matter…"
Shimada lowered his voice so that only the two of them could hear.
"That was the result of subordinates acting without authorisation. The Chairman has already dealt with them. I hope it caused you no lasting displeasure."
"Not at all."
Shuichi held Shimada's hand, a gentle smile on his face.
"Young people can be impulsive. Now that the storm has passed, all is well."
This single handshake and these few words brushed aside every grievance—the smoke over Meguro Ward, the one-billion-yen demand, the midnight mobilisation of the Metropolitan Police. All were lightly set aside.
Shimada turned, accepted an exquisite wooden box from the driver, and presented it with both hands.
"This is a bottle of Romanée-Conti from the Chairman's private collection. He said that fine wine should be enjoyed only by noble company. To open it anywhere else would be a waste."
The room stirred.
Though every guest had seen much of the world, they were still stunned by the gesture.
This was more than a bottle of wine.
It was the Emperor of Seibu lowering his head—an acknowledgment, and even a signal of alliance.
The Takeshita-faction lawmaker, who had appeared somewhat tense, now relaxed visibly. He took a deep pull on his cigar and remarked with a smile to the man beside him:
"It seems we no longer need to worry about choosing sides."
"Indeed," the Goldman Sachs representative added, raising his glass. "Even Yoshiaki Tsutsumi must show respect. This Mr. Saionji possesses remarkable skill."
Shuichi accepted the wooden box and passed it to Fujita behind him.
"Please convey my gratitude to Chairman Tsutsumi. I shall pay him a visit another day."
"You are too kind."
Shimada bowed once more.
"Then I shall not disturb your enjoyment. Farewell."
He departed as swiftly as he had arrived.
The white Mercedes glided away, disappearing into the night.
Yet those brief five minutes had transformed the atmosphere of the evening entirely.
The guests who had been observing cautiously now regarded Shuichi with entirely new eyes. If earlier they had seen the Saionji family merely as an old noble house with some lingering influence, they now recognised a top-tier player capable of standing as an equal to the reigning zaibatsu—and of compelling the other side to extend the first olive branch.
Second floor.
The former master bedroom had been converted into a circular library bathed in soft, dim light.
In the shadows behind the railing, Satsuki sat on a high chair, a glass of deep-purple grape juice in her hand.
She had not gone downstairs.
At an occasion filled with older men, the presence of a thirteen-year-old girl would have been inappropriate. She preferred to remain behind the curtain, quietly observing every actor upon the stage.
"Young Miss."
Fujita stood behind her, his voice trembling with irrepressible excitement.
"That was Yoshiaki Tsutsumi… he actually sent a gift."
"Is that so surprising?"
Satsuki's finger tapped lightly against the side of her glass, producing a crisp note.
"Grandfather Fujita, this is the world of adults."
She looked down at the hall. Shuichi stood surrounded by several zaibatsu magnates, chatting and laughing. The old man from the Ministry of Finance had even taken the initiative to offer him a cigarette.
"Only children nurse grudges after a quarrel. Adults look only at interests."
Satsuki took a sip of grape juice, her gaze deep.
"If we had merely thrown a tantrum over that strip of land, Yoshiaki Tsutsumi would have sent a bulldozer to crush us. But he is a clever man, and a politician."
"When he realises that we not only possess teeth capable of biting him painfully, but that those teeth are also connected to the Metropolitan Police Department and the old kazoku networks…"
"He will treat us as one of his own."
Satsuki smiled.
"In this circle, respect is granted only to those who can cause him trouble."
"Tonight's bouquet was not sent to a friend."
"It was sent to a 'respected opponent'."
Downstairs, Shuichi walked to the centre of the hall beneath the crystal chandelier.
All conversation ceased. Every gaze turned toward him.
At that moment he stood with the portrait of his ancestor behind him and the pinnacle of contemporary power before him.
"Everyone."
Shuichi raised his glass.
"In this mad era the world outside changes by the hour. Today's friend may become tomorrow's enemy, and today's fortune may vanish by morning."
"Yet I hope that within The Club, time itself stands still."
"Here we do not speak of stock prices, only of character. We do not dwell on grievances, only on friendship."
"Even if storms rage beyond these walls, inside there is always a quiet drink waiting."
"Cheers."
"Cheers!"
Forty-five crystal glasses rose in unison.
The crisp sound of their clinking echoed through the hall like a refined melody.
It was the sound of power interlocking.
It was also the sound of the Saionji family's formal coronation.
From the second floor Satsuki watched the scene and drained the last of her grape juice.
"Cheers, Father."
She spoke softly.
"And… thank you for the flowers, Mr. Yoshiaki Tsutsumi."
"Though we will still collect that one billion yen from you—not a single yen less."
She set down the glass, slipped from the chair, and turned to walk deeper into the darkened corridor.
Downstairs the melodious strains of a violin began to play.
On this moonless, rainy night, inside the Showa-era rokumeikan, the masquerade of power and desire had finally begun.
And the Saionji family was no longer merely a guest awaiting an invitation.
Tonight they were the hosts.