The November wind carried a dry, biting chill as it swept across the asphalt of Ginza's Central Link. The sycamore trees lining the avenue had shed every leaf, their bare branches stabbing into the gray-white sky. Even on a weekend, the streets lacked the shoulder-to-shoulder bustle of previous years. The windows of Matsuzakaya and Mitsukoshi Department Stores gleamed as brightly as ever, showcasing the latest autumn and winter coats, yet the flow of customers had thinned noticeably. Everyone clutched their wallets tightly, faces set in hurried, anxious lines.
"203.50."
The day's exchange rate flashed across the electronic billboard by the roadside. In just two short months the yen had surged as though on steroids. For the Saionji family, holding substantial sums in US dollars, the movement was cause for quiet celebration. For export-dependent traders, however, it felt like a snowless, bitter winter.
A black Nissan President sedan glided through 6-chome and turned into a narrower side street.
"Father, the wind here feels even colder than on the main avenue," Satsuki remarked from the back seat. She wore a camel-colored cashmere cape and the soft lambskin gloves once belonging to this body's mother. Her gaze rested calmly on the weathered shop signs sliding past the window, as still and deep as stagnant water.
Shuichi adjusted his tie and glanced outside. "7-chome has always been an older district. Many shops have been handed down since before the war. The location, however, remains unbeatable."
The car drew to a stop before a drab, gray five-story building. Sandwiched between two sleek, tiled modern structures, it resembled a ragged beggar pressed between two well-dressed gentlemen. Patches of cement had peeled from the exterior walls, exposing the red brick beneath. A broken second-floor window had been patched with newspaper that fluttered noisily in the wind.
A crooked brass plate hung beside the entrance: Tamura Trading Co., Ltd.
"Is this the place?" Satsuki asked.
"Yes." Shuichi consulted the investigation report in his hand. "The Tamura family exports ceramics, mainly to department stores in the American Midwest. Once the exchange rate broke 220, they could no longer hold on. It is said they can scarcely afford the container shipping fees now."
The car door opened.
Before they had even stepped out, raised voices drifted toward them.
"President Tamura, please don't make this difficult for us! This is the third extension already!"
"Just one more week! Only one week! The payment from America is coming soon!"
"Payment from America? No one believes that anymore! Either pay the interest today, or tomorrow we apply to the court for compulsory execution. This building will be sealed!"
The building's rolling shutter door stood half-lowered. A middle-aged man in gray work clothes clung desperately to the handle as though it were his last lifeline. Facing him were two young men in dark blue suits, briefcases in hand.
Satsuki recognized the uniforms and briefcases at once: the bank's Asset Preservation Department—debt collectors.
Shuichi stepped onto the gravel, his leather shoes producing a crisp sound. He cleared his throat.
"Ahem."
The sound, though not loud, cut sharply through the tense atmosphere. The three disputants froze and turned in unison.
Upon seeing Shuichi's impeccably tailored suit and the sedan behind him bearing the special license plate reserved for members of the House of Peers, the two bank employees stiffened visibly.
"May I ask… who might this gentleman be?" one ventured cautiously.
Shuichi ignored them. He lifted his chin slightly and addressed the middle-aged man with stubble and hollow eyes.
"Are you President Tamura?"
Tamura blinked, then released the shutter handle and wiped his palms nervously on his oil-stained trousers. "Y-yes… I am. And you are?"
"My surname is Saionji." A secretary promptly handed over a business card.
"Saionji…"
Tamura accepted the card. When his clouded eyes registered the surname and title, they widened in sudden recognition. As an old Ginza merchant, he understood precisely what this ancient kazoku name represented.
"D-Duke?" His voice trembled. "Why would someone of your standing come to a place like this?"
The two bank employees exchanged glances; the arrogance in their eyes dimmed by half. Though the zaibatsu now dominated the world, even a lean camel remained larger than a horse. Old nobility still possessed connections that could make branch managers tremble.
"Merely passing by," Shuichi replied calmly, his gaze sweeping over the bankers. "Is President Tamura in some difficulty?"
"It… it is nothing." Tamura lowered his head awkwardly, like a child caught misbehaving. "Just… a small cash-flow problem."
"We are from Sumitomo Bank," one employee said, forcing himself to continue. "President Tamura has been overdue on interest for three months. According to regulations…"
"How much?"
Satsuki's voice cut in suddenly.
She stood behind her father, barely reaching his chest in height, yet her tone suggested she was inquiring about the price of cabbages.
The employee stared at the doll-like girl. "Huh?"
"I asked how much interest he owes that compels you to shout and block our path," Satsuki said, frowning as though displeased by the air itself.
"Uh… two… two million yen," the man answered haltingly.
Two million yen.
To the Saionji family it amounted to little more than the cost of a few meals. To Tamura it was the final straw.
"Father," Satsuki tugged Shuichi's sleeve, "it is too noisy here. Could you ask them to be quiet? I wish to go inside and look around."
Shuichi glanced at his daughter and understood her intention at once.
He withdrew a checkbook from his breast pocket—a platinum Mitsui Bank check. With a Montblanc fountain pen he wrote out a sum, tore the check free, and extended it between two fingers.
"Take it."
The employee accepted the slip of paper as though it were a divine edict. He verified the seal repeatedly, bowed deeply to Shuichi, seized his companion, and fled into a waiting taxi.
Silence descended.
Tamura stared, mouth agape wide enough to hold an egg.
"This… this…" he stammered. "Duke, this money… I… I will repay it without fail!"
"No need to rush."
Shuichi tucked away the checkbook and surveyed the dilapidated building.
"I understand President Tamura possesses many fine ceramics. My daughter has recently developed an interest in the tea ceremony and wishes to select a few pieces for practice. You would not object if we stepped inside to look, would you?"
"Of course not! Please, come in!" Tamura exclaimed, grasping at the lifeline. He heaved the shutter door upward with desperate energy. "Though it is rather messy inside…"
The interior was indeed chaotic.
The first floor, once a showroom, now overflowed with unopened wooden crates stamped "Fragile" and "To New York." The air smelled of old straw and moldy cardboard. With the lights off, the dim space resembled a vast tomb.
"They are all good things," Tamura said, prying open a crate and lifting out an exquisite painted platter. His eyes were dull. "This was a custom Christmas design for Macy's. Three months ago it was in high demand. Now they sent a fax saying they will only accept the shipment if we cut the price by twenty percent."
"Twenty percent? That would not even cover the workers' wages," he added with a bitter smile, returning the platter.
Shuichi said nothing. He picked up a teacup and examined it with the air of a connoisseur.
Meanwhile, Satsuki wandered among the crates with her hands clasped behind her back, like a supervisor on inspection. She paid no attention to the ceramics. Instead she studied the walls, the load-bearing pillars, the pipes and wiring along the ceiling.
Though the plaster was peeling, the building's skeleton was sound. Structures from the Showa 30s might appear plain, yet they had been built with solid materials. The floor height was generous. Once the cluttered partitions were removed and replaced with floor-to-ceiling glass curtain walls…
She calculated silently.
The lot measured roughly eighty tsubo—approximately two hundred and sixty square meters. In favorable market conditions the land alone would be worth five hundred million yen. At present, however, the district was depressed, and the building's wretched exterior had earned it the nickname "Ghost Building." Its valuation would be discounted by at least thirty percent. A court auction would drive the price still lower, but it would also attract flocks of vultures.
It had to be secured now.
"Mr. Tamura," Satsuki said suddenly, stopping before a pillar.
Tamura's body stiffened. "Yes… it is mortgaged to the bank for three hundred million."
"If those men return tomorrow—or next month—what do you intend to do?" Satsuki turned, her eyes bright in the gloom yet utterly devoid of warmth. "Continue borrowing from loan sharks merely to service the interest?"
Tamura's face turned deathly pale. He leaned against a stack of crates as though his spine had been removed.
"I… I don't know…" He clutched his head, voice choking. "I only want to save the family business…"
"You cannot save it," Satsuki said softly.
"The exchange rate will not retreat. Americans will not buy these plates. And the bank will not lend you another yen."
"When the court auction arrives, this building will sell for scrap. You will lose the family business and shoulder a lifetime of debt. Your wife and children will be driven from your home and left on the street."
Tamura trembled violently and let out a suppressed wail.
Shuichi watched his daughter and felt an unexpected pang of pity. Yet he also understood that this was the unvarnished essence of commerce. Mercy belonged to the dead; the living required only profit.
"However," Satsuki continued, her tone shifting, "if you are willing, we may be able to render you a service."
Tamura's head snapped up, a spark of hope igniting in his eyes. "Wh-what service?"
Satsuki stepped to her father's side and tugged his hand.
Shuichi understood perfectly.
"President Tamura," he said, his voice gentle and measured, "I have developed a modest interest in this building. Though it is old and would require troublesome repairs, I happen to need a place to store certain miscellaneous items."
"I can settle the three-hundred-million-yen loan with the bank on your behalf. In addition…"
He raised one finger.
"I will provide another fifty million yen in cash as a transfer fee for the building."
"Three hundred and fifty million?!" Tamura cried out.
The price, while far below last year's valuation, was fair under current conditions. More importantly, the fifty million would arrive as immediate cash—capital that could keep his family afloat or even allow a fresh start.
"But there is one condition," Shuichi added.
"The agreement must be signed today. A private transfer. I have no wish to see this building appear on the court's auction list; that would be far too unseemly."
Tamura looked from Shuichi to the small girl standing quietly at his side.
He knew he was being robbed while his house burned. Yet he felt strangely grateful for the robbery.
If he refused, he would have nothing next month. If he accepted, he would at least retain fifty million.
"I'll sell!" Tamura gritted his teeth, tears streaming—not from sorrow, but from overwhelming relief. "I'll fetch the title deed and seal at once! Duke, thank you! You are a Bodhisattva!"
He hurried up the stairs toward the office, steps stumbling yet urgent.
Only Shuichi and Satsuki remained in the dim warehouse.
Shuichi watched Tamura's retreating figure and sighed. "A Bodhisattva? I feel more like a robber."
Three hundred and fifty million yen. After renovation, the building would easily be worth a billion by this time next year.
"Father, we saved him," Satsuki said. She gave a light kick to a crate at her feet marked "Fragile."
"In the coming winter, a man with fifty million in cash will be far happier than one clinging to a broken building no one will buy."
She looked up, surveying the dark, damp structure. Beneath the peeling plaster she seemed to glimpse the future: towering floor-to-ceiling glass windows, brilliant crystal chandeliers, noble ladies in Chanel suits gliding through scented air heavy with expensive perfume.
This would no longer be a warehouse for cracked ceramics.
It would become the first flag the Saionji family planted firmly in Ginza.
"Buy it," Satsuki murmured. "Then throw all this junk away."
"We are going to give this building a new face."
Half an hour later, Tamura stood on the sidewalk, clutching the check that still carried a trace of warmth. He bowed deeply toward the Saionji family's car until its taillights vanished around the corner.
Inside the sedan, Satsuki removed her hat, revealing slightly tousled hair.
"Father, where to next?"
Shuichi held the freshly signed property transfer agreement, his emotions complex. He felt the thrill of a bargain secured, yet a subtle shame at behaving like a mere speculator despite his noble birth.
"Let us return home," he said. "That is enough for today."
"No."
Satsuki shook her head. She drew a map from her bag—this one of Akasaka—and pointed to an intersection at Akasaka-mitsuke.
"It is not yet dark."
"There is a textile export company in that area. I hear the president is preparing to jump from a building."
"Let us go… save him."
Shuichi looked at his daughter's innocent face and felt a chill run down his spine.
Still, he tapped on the partition and instructed the driver:
"To Akasaka."
The sedan accelerated into the twilight, an elegant yet greedy black panther slipping into the bewildering night of Tokyo.
The hunt had only just begun.