Monday, April 3rd, 1989.
Shibuya, NHK Broadcasting Center, Studio 3, West Wing.
Hundreds of PAR lights and Fresnel spotlights hung overhead, baking the studio area like a desert at noon.
Even though the central air conditioning vents around them were blowing cold air at full power, the physical heat mixed with the pre-broadcast anxiety still left everyone's mouths parched.
"Thirty seconds to broadcast! Quiet on the set!" the floor director, wearing a headset and clutching a rolled-up script, shouted from a camera blind spot.
The floor was covered in colored tape, marking positions and camera spots. The lens caps were off the three massive studio cameras, their viewfinders' black-and-white images trained on the semi-circular interview table.
Osawa Ichiro sat in the guest seat on the right.
A makeup artist applied oil-absorbing powder one last time to suppress the fine beads of sweat on his forehead from the lights. He lifted his chin slightly to cooperate, but his gaze looked past the camera lens towards the opposite side.
Sitting on the left was the Deputy Manager of the Ministry of Finance's Budget Bureau, a senior bureaucrat with graying hair and gold-rimmed glasses.
The Deputy Manager was adjusting his cuffs. A thick stack of documents sat before him, each page marked with different colored sticky notes. This was the bureaucrat's armor — data, legal statutes, and meticulously prepared, watertight official rhetoric.
"Ten seconds!" the floor director raised a hand and began counting down on his fingers.
"5, 4, 3, 2..."
On the final second, the floor director pointed at the host, and the red tally light atop the camera lit up simultaneously.
On Air.
"Good morning, viewers. This is the NHK special program The Consumption Tax Launch: A Nation in Chaos," the host's voice was steady and professional, but under the table, his foot was unconsciously jittering.
"Today is the first weekday after the consumption tax implementation. Retail stores across the country are experiencing varying degrees of congestion, with constant complaints about difficulty making change and cumbersome calculations. Today, we are joined by the Deputy Manager of the Ministry of Finance's Budget Bureau, and Liberal Democratic Party Diet member Osawa Ichiro."
The camera cut to the Deputy Manager.
The Deputy Manager adjusted his glasses, leaned forward slightly, and adopted a lecturing posture.
"Regarding the current chaos, the Ministry of Finance views this as a break-in effect during the introduction period of the new tax system. Any reform is accompanied by initial growing pains. This is a necessary cost for the nation's fiscal health. The public needs some time to adapt to the new calculations, and businesses need time to upgrade their cash register systems."
He glanced down at the documents beside him, his tone as flat as chanting sutras.
"As for certain businesses independently implementing tax-exempt or rounding-down practices, while there may be some ambiguity in legal interpretation, such actions undermine fair competition principles and even border on dumping. We regret this and are studying relevant administrative guidance."
A standard bureaucratic response.
Logically airtight, flawless, but also utterly devoid of warmth.
In the control room, the director watched the ratings curve on the monitor.
The line was flat as an EKG. The audience didn't want to hear these grand principles. They wanted an emotional outlet.
"Cut to Camera Two, close-up on Osawa," the director ordered through his headset.
The red light lit up on the camera facing Osawa.
Osawa Ichiro hadn't spoken. He had just been listening quietly, his fingers tapping a silent rhythm on the table.
Until the host turned the microphone towards him.
"Diet Member Osawa, what is your view of the Ministry of Finance's explanation?"
Osawa Ichiro stopped tapping.
He didn't look at the host or the camera. Instead, he turned slightly, his gaze burning into the Deputy Manager.
"Break-in? Growing pains?" Osawa's voice was low. "Deputy Manager, did you go to a supermarket this weekend?"
"I..." The Deputy Manager faltered.
"You didn't go. Your wife might have, but you were definitely in your air-conditioned office reading reports," Osawa didn't give him a chance to interject, suddenly speeding up his speech. "Have you seen those mothers, carrying children on their backs, clutching a fistful of aluminum coins, sweating profusely and frantic at the checkout? Have you seen those elderly people, flustered and red-faced with shame because they couldn't calculate the 3% tax and were hurried by those waiting in line behind them?"
"Those are micro-level reactions within a macro policy. One cannot generalize from isolated cases..." The Deputy Manager tried to counter, grabbing a document.
"Don't talk to me about macro," Osawa Ichiro's hand reached into his inner jacket pocket.
The movement was slow, yet carried a breath-catching intensity.
All eyes in the room focused on his hand.
He pulled out two pieces of paper.
Two pieces of thin thermal paper receipts that seemed utterly weightless at that moment.
Thwap.
He slapped the two receipts onto the studio desk. The sound wasn't loud, but it was clearly audible in the quiet studio.
"Zoom in," the director in the control room, sensing a potential explosive moment, ordered sharply. "Close-up! Now!"
The camera swiftly zoomed in, the frame filling with the two pieces of paper.
The one on the left was crumpled, bearing the Daiei supermarket logo. A series of complex numbers were crammed together: Base price 3478 yen, consumption tax 104 yen, Total 3582 yen. At the very bottom was a glaring line of small print: Change: 18 yen.
The one on the right was flat and clean, the red square S-Mart logo particularly eye-catching. It had only one clean line of numbers: Total: 3500 yen. Printed at the bottom: consumption tax: 0 (borne by S-Mart).
"This is your so-called growing pains," Osawa pointed at the left receipt. "For this 18 yen in change, the cashier spent a full two minutes counting those damn aluminum coins. The customers behind waited for twenty minutes. The checkout area was filled with impatience and hostility. Is this the adaptation the government is giving the people?"
Then, his finger moved to the right.
"And this one, the transaction took only five seconds."
"A private enterprise, Saionji Industries. They didn't use a single yen of tax money, didn't hire a single extra civil servant, and even had to cover the cost themselves. They just used their brains and solved a problem that's giving all of Japan a headache."
Osawa Ichiro grabbed the S-Mart receipt, held it up beside his face, and looked directly into Camera Two's lens.
At that moment, his gaze pierced through the screen, striking straight at the hearts of every viewer in front of their televisions.
"The Deputy Manager says this is breaking the rules?" he gave a cold laugh. "If saving the people money, time, and trouble is called breaking the rules, then we might as well do without such rules."
"The people aren't opposed to paying taxes. The people are opposed to incompetence."
"Why can a private enterprise achieve this efficiency and decency, while the government we support with so much tax money cannot?"
Dead silence fell over the studio.
Only the slight hum of the PAR lights overhead could be heard.
The Deputy Manager's face turned beet red. His lips moved, wanting to refute, but he found all his economic theories seemed pale and powerless against those two tangible receipts.
Osawa Ichiro set the receipt down, straightened his tie, and spoke a line that hadn't been in the rehearsal to the camera:
"If the current cabinet can't solve the problem of those three coins, then please hand over power to those who know what they're doing."
"Cut! To commercial!" the director's roar exploded in the headsets.
The live broadcast signal was cut.
The studio's red lights went out.
The Deputy Manager slammed the documents in his hand onto the table, angrily standing up, his chair scraping a screeching noise across the floor.
This time, he wasn't pretending.
"Osawa-kun! That line wasn't in the script! You're just grandstanding!"
Osawa Ichiro ignored his outburst.
He unhurriedly removed his microphone and handed it to the stunned sound assistant beside him.
Then, he picked up the S-Mart receipt, carefully folded it, and placed it back in his pocket.
"Seeking cheap applause?" Osawa stood up, looking down at the bureaucrat who was flushed with anger. "No, Deputy Manager."
"I'm just helping you all make a dignified exit."
Nerima Ward, S-Mart Hikarigaoka Store.
The afternoon sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, spilling onto the wooden floorboards of the rest area.
The place was packed. It felt less like a supermarket's rest area and more like a community's communal living room. Around over a dozen white round tables sat housewives who had just finished shopping. In front of them were cups of S-Cafe coffee and oden, and their shopping bags beside them were stuffed with goods bearing Tax-Free labels.
On the television hanging on the wall, the NHK live broadcast had just ended.
When Osawa Ichiro held up that S-Mart receipt and uttered the word incompetent, an uncontrollable buzz erupted in the rest area.
"He said it perfectly!" a middle-aged housewife with permed hair slapped her thigh hard, nearly knocking over the paper cup on the table. "Exactly! Yesterday I went to that nearby Seiyu supermarket, and just lining up took half an hour. That cashier was so clumsy, counting the coins three times! It's much better here, just hand over a whole bill and you're done."
"Right, right! It's just a shame this place is too far from my home, otherwise I wouldn't want to go to that Seiyu supermarket even once! When will this store open near my place..."
"That big shot official was still talking about growing pains — it's not him who's in pain!" another young mother holding a child said indignantly. "They have official cars when they go out, and secretaries to do their shopping. How would they know the hardship of us counting coins?"
"The Saionji Family is much more decent," an elderly woman with graying hair took a sip of hot tea, her eyes full of gratitude as she looked at the shopping receipt in her hand, which had no odd change amounts. "I heard they pay this 3% tax out of their own pockets for us. How much money must that be? This is what you call a conscientious enterprise."
The chatter rose and fell.
Here, politics was no longer a distant topic in the newspapers. It had become a matter of personal interest, transformed into the coins saved in one's hand.
At this moment, the S-Mart membership card seemed to have turned into a ballot.
A ballot cast for efficiency, for respect, for the Saionji Family.
In a corner of the rest area.
Satsuki wore a beret, holding a cup of hot cocoa. She wasn't watching the TV, but instead gazed through the huge floor-to-ceiling window at the pedestrians on the street outside, carrying S-Mart shopping bags with relaxed expressions on their faces.
"Truly impressive..." the butler Fujita, standing behind her, murmured in admiration. Dressed in his impeccable black tailcoat, he stood like a statue guarding the young lady, his eyes sweeping over the excited housewives around them. "Young Lady, it seems Mr. Osawa's words had an even greater effect than anticipated."
"It's just mutual benefit," Satsuki took a small sip of hot cocoa, the sweet flavor melting on her tongue. She watched the spirited Osawa Ichiro on the TV, a faint smile curling at the corner of her mouth. "He needs public opinion to attack his political enemies. We need political backing to stabilize our market. Those two receipts were the weapons I gave him."
She put down her cup, her slender fingers lightly tapping the table.
"Fujita, listen to these voices."
Satsuki tilted her head slightly, gesturing towards the housewives who were fiercely criticizing the government and praising the Saionji Family's conscience.
"This is the sound of the spiral of silence being broken."
"Normally, they wouldn't care about who becomes Prime Minister, nor would they mind what those old men in Nagatacho are arguing about. But when politics reaches into their wallets to take coins, they become more astute than any commentator."
She picked up the napkin on the table printed with a red logo, folded it gently, neatly packaging the nation's public opinion.
"Now, Osawa Ichiro has become their mouthpiece. And the Saionji Family..." Satsuki pressed the folded napkin under her cup. "...has become their ally."
"This kind of alliance is more solid than any monetary bribery."
Evening, 6 PM.
Port Area, Azabu-Juban.
The streets were slightly slippery after the rain, the air filled with the distinctive aroma of high-quality dashi broth from upscale restaurants.
Inside the cigar room on the second floor of The Club, the light was dim, with only the flames in the fireplace flickering.
Shuichi sat on a single-seater sofa, holding a glass of whiskey with an ice ball. Across from him sat Watanabe, the editor-in-chief of the Yomiuri Shimbun, and Tanaka, the head of the editorial department at the Asahi Shimbun.
On the coffee table lay several proofs of tomorrow's newspapers.
The main headline on the front page was already set: Public Wisdom vs. Bureaucratic Arrogance: S-Mart Model Sparks National Debate.
"Mr. Saionji, this was a masterful move," Editor-in-Chief Watanabe blew out a smoke ring, pointing at the proof. "Elevating a commercial act to the level of administrative efficiency. This way, S-Mart is no longer just a supermarket engaged in price wars, but has become a symbol of resistance against bureaucracy. Even MITI would have to weigh public opinion if they wanted to cause trouble."
"Not at all," Shuichi smiled and shook his head, raising his glass in a toast. "We've only done some insignificant work. The real heroes are those housewives who have to budget carefully even in the cold wind."
He put down his glass, leaned forward slightly, his tone becoming meaningful.
"Regarding the discussion on the S-Mart phenomenon, I think we could delve a bit deeper."
"Don't you all think the viewpoint that S-Mart's existence proves inflation is not invincible, as long as someone is willing to share the profit — is worth a thorough exploration on the editorial page?"
The two media figures exchanged a glance, understanding perfectly.
This was about creating a saint.
Packaging the Saionji Family from a profit-driven zaibatsu into a corporate citizen that worries about the nation and its people, actively shouldering social responsibility.
"An interesting angle." Department Head Tanaka nodded, jotting down a few notes in his notebook. "I think tomorrow's editorial can guide the discussion in this direction."
In this closed room, the direction of public opinion was quietly set on its course.
The night grew late.
Nagatacho, the House of Representatives Members' Office Building.
The lights in the corridor were somewhat pallid.
Osawa Ichiro returned from the live broadcast site, his face still bearing the unremoved stage makeup, yet his expression was unusually exhilarated. His secretary behind him was excitedly reporting the instantly skyrocketing viewership ratings.
Passing a corner, Osawa spotted several old bureaucrats from the Takeshita Faction.
Those men, holding documents, were slinking along the base of the wall, looking dejected. Seeing Osawa and his entourage approaching in a grand manner, they instinctively lowered their heads, like mice seeing a cat.
Osawa stopped.
He looked at those hunched backs, a cold smile curling at the corner of his mouth.
He took out from his pocket that crumpled receipt from shopping at Daiei supermarket.
The prop he had displayed on television.
Thud.
He casually tossed it.
The ball of paper traced an arc through the air, landing accurately in the trash bin by the corridor.
And inside the trash bin lay a discarded Liberal Democratic Party Takeshita Faction pamphlet, its cover printed with the words consumption tax is the Nation's Future, now bearing half a footprint.
The balled-up receipt landed right on the pamphlet's face.
"Trash belongs in the trash," Osawa said softly.
Without another glance, he straightened his collar. The sound of his leather shoes tapped out a crisp rhythm on the marble floor as he strode towards the door at the end of the corridor, the one leading to the core of power.