October 3, 1988, 2:00 PM.
Ikebukuro, Toshima Ward, Tokyo.
Unlike the power games of Akasaka or the old-money decadence of Ginza, Ikebukuro's air was more chaotic, more alive with commoner energy. The Yamanote Line thundered overhead. The crowds in front of the station moved like tireless worker ants, flowing between massive underground passages and department stores.
Under a pale gray sky, the Seibu Department Store's Ikebukuro flagship stood like a massive modern temple beside the noisy station. A giant vertical banner hung on the outer wall, printed with the famous slogan coined by master copywriter Shigesato Itoi — a line destined to be carved into Japanese advertising history:
"Oishii Seikatsu" (Delicious Life).
On the poster, Woody Allen held the slogan with a comical expression, as if mocking this era of overconsumption.
12th Floor, Seibu Museum of Art.
The exhibition hall was very quiet. Only the faint hum of the air conditioning vents.
A retrospective for "Marcel Duchamp" was being held. The urinals and bicycle wheels that should have been in a junkyard were now inside exquisite glass cases, giving off an absurd, expensive artistic aura under the spotlights.
A middle-aged man in a dark gray mandarin-collar shirt stood before the famous Fountain — the inverted urinal.
He was thin. He wore black-rimmed glasses. His hair was a bit long, combed back casually. His eyes held a melancholy and sensitivity that belonged more to a man of letters than a businessman.
Tsutsumi Seiji.
Head of the Seibu Distribution Group. Half-brother of Yoshiaki Tsutsumi. Also a well-known poet and author under the pen name "Takashi Tsujii."
He looked at the urinal as if contemplating the most profound philosophy in the world.
"If you sign this, it becomes a work of art."
Tsutsumi Seiji murmured to himself, so softly only he could hear.
"If you sign that, it becomes a deed of sale."
He wasn't holding an exhibition catalog. In his hand was a thin sheet of fax paper, already wrinkled from his sweating palms.
The letterhead bore the logo of "Kokudo Keikaku Co., Ltd."
It was a "memorandum" sent by his half-brother — the "Seibu Emperor," Yoshiaki Tsutsumi.
The content was simple, even crude:
This wasn't a suggestion at all.
It was an order.
This was an imperial decree issued by the "Emperor" who held the land, the family legitimacy, and the lifeblood of bank guarantees, to this "exiled poet."
Clack.
The sound of high heels on the wooden floor came from behind him.
The rhythm was steady, neither hurried nor slow.
Tsutsumi Seiji didn't turn around. At this hour, there were very few people in all of Tokyo who could break into an exhibition hall closed for maintenance.
"When this piece was auctioned in New York, the estimate was three million dollars."
A cool female voice rang out behind him.
"But in a hardware store, it's only worth thirty dollars."
Tsutsumi Seiji turned.
Standing before him was a young girl in a beige Chanel tweed suit. She wasn't carrying a designer bag, but rather a guide booklet picked up for free at the entrance of the hall.
"Miss Saionji."
Tsutsumi Seiji pushed up his glasses. A gentle but tired smile appeared on his face.
"I heard you just visited my brother in Akasaka this morning. What, the red wine there didn't suit your palate, so you came to my shabby place for a change of pace?"
"The coffee in Akasaka is too bitter."
Satsuki closed the guide booklet. Her gaze swept over the avant-garde artworks in the hall.
"And it only smells of money there. Unlike here, where the air is filled with the fragrance of 'culture.'"
She walked over to the urinal and, with a gloved finger, traced the signature in the air through the glass case.
"R. Mutt."
"Duchamp used this pseudonym to mock the entire art world. What he wanted to say was: value is determined by 'concept,' not by the material itself."
Satsuki turned her head and looked at Tsutsumi Seiji.
"Mr. Tsutsumi, do you think the value of the Saison Group is determined by your 'concepts,' or by the 'balance' in your bank accounts?"
Tsutsumi Seiji's face darkened slightly.
"Miss Saionji, if you're here to talk philosophy, you're welcome anytime. But if you're here as a lobbyist…"
He waved the fax paper in his hand.
"Then you can go back. FamilyMart is a core asset of the distribution group. I will not hand it over to an outsider who makes clothes."
"Even if that outsider can save you 20% in costs?"
Satsuki asked in return.
"Cost isn't everything," Tsutsumi Seiji's voice rose slightly, carrying the stubbornness of an idealist. "What we want to build is a 'lifestyle.' FamilyMart isn't just a place that sells rice balls. It's a supply station for urbanites, a part of the Saison culture. Once we hand over the supply chain, we lose control over quality."
"Quality?"
Satsuki gave a light laugh.
She walked over to a nearby bench and sat down, her posture as elegant as if she were in her own backyard.
"Mr. Tsutsumi, have you visited your convenience stores lately?"
"Do you know what the bentos taste like now? The rice is hard, and the fried chicken is soggy. Because the logistics can't keep up, the contract manufacturers have to pile on preservatives to prevent spoilage."
"Is this your so-called 'Saison culture'?"
"Making urbanites eat a terrible cold meal late at night and then lament the hardships of life?"
Tsutsumi Seiji was speechless. He was a macro-strategist, a poet. He cared about how to buy InterContinental Hotels and how to bring in Ralph Lauren, not whether the rice in a rice ball was hard.
"That's still not S-Food's business," he said firmly. "We will build our own factories."
"With what?"
Satsuki took a document out of her handbag and placed it gently on the bench.
"With the 2.1 billion dollars in debt you incurred from buying InterContinental Hotels?"
Having his weakness pointed out so directly, Tsutsumi Seiji suddenly felt short of breath.
Just last month, the Saison Group acquired the British InterContinental Hotels Group for the staggering price of 2.15 billion dollars. It was one of the largest deals in the history of overseas M&A by Japanese companies, shocking the world.
But it had also drained Saison dry.
"I've looked at your financing structure."
Satsuki's voice was flat.
"Most of it consists of short-term bridge loans with frighteningly high interest rates. The banks were willing to lend because they felt the Saison Group still had two cash cows: FamilyMart and the Seibu Department Store."
"But what if one of those cows gets sick?"
Satsuki pointed at the fax paper in Tsutsumi Seiji's hand.
"What if your brother, the chairman of Kokudo Keikaku, suddenly tells the banks: 'I think Saison's financial situation is a bit problematic, and I don't intend to guarantee their debt extensions for next year'?"
"What do you think those bankers would do?"
Tsutsumi Seiji's fingers tightened abruptly, crumpling the fax paper into a ball of waste.
He knew.
He certainly knew.
Those bankers would not hesitate to pull away his umbrella, demanding early repayment and draining Saison's last bit of liquidity.
He had always tried to escape his brother's shadow, tried to prove that "culture" could triumph over "land." But in the end, he found himself still locked in that cage called "Tsutsumi Yasujiro's legacy."
There was a rope around his neck. The other end of that rope was held by Yoshiaki Tsutsumi.
And now, Saionji Satsuki was helping Yoshiaki Tsutsumi tighten that rope.
"Are you here to threaten me?" Tsutsumi Seiji's voice was somewhat hoarse.
"No."
Satsuki shook her head.
"I'm here to save you."
She stood up and walked over to Tsutsumi Seiji. The distance between them was very close, close enough for Tsutsumi Seiji to smell the faint scent on her, like that of old book pages.
"Mr. Tsutsumi, you are a poet. A poet should stand in the clouds, thinking about how to turn Seibu Department Store into a museum, and how to turn MUJI into a philosophy."
"As for the dirty, exhausting work of making rice balls, transporting potatoes, and doing the books…"
Satsuki reached out and, bit by bit, pulled the crumpled fax paper from Tsutsumi Seiji's stiff fingers.
"Leave that to a vulgar person like me."
"S-Food isn't here to seize control. We're here to provide a blood transfusion."
"A 20% cost reduction means FamilyMart's net profit can double. That means better financial reports, a higher stock price, and…"
Satsuki unfolded the ball of paper and smoothed it out.
"…and the banks' confidence in you."
"With that confidence, you can continue to buy your hotels and pursue your art. You can maintain the dignity that belongs to the eldest son in front of your brother."
"It's called 'each getting what they need.'"
Dead silence fell over the exhibition hall.
Only Duchamp's urinal remained inverted, as if mocking this world filled with the stench of money.
Tsutsumi Seiji looked at the girl before him.
She was clearly only in her teens, but her insight into the human heart and her mastery over capital were as seasoned as a monster that had lived for hundreds of years.
He suddenly felt a deep sense of powerlessness.
Is this the capitalist of the new era? No sentiment, no obsession, just naked efficiency and calculation replacing everything.
Compared to his brother, who only knew how to suppress people with land and violence, this girl smiling while handing over a knife seemed even more terrifying.
She was a natural-born capitalist.
"And if I don't sign?" Tsutsumi Seiji asked one last question.
"Then I'll just have to invest in 7-Eleven."
Satsuki shrugged, her tone light.
"Mr. Toshifumi Suzuki is very interested in my logistics system. If S-Food's supply chain is added to 7-Eleven's management…"
She didn't finish.
But the meaning was clear.
If FamilyMart did not accept this "gift," then the gift would turn into a bullet fired at it. When the time came, under 7-Eleven's offensive, FamilyMart would die a very ugly death.
Tsutsumi Seiji closed his eyes.
He remembered his father Tsutsumi Yasujiro's gaze before he died, remembered his brother Yoshiaki Tsutsumi's insufferable face, and remembered his own lofty ambitions when he signed the deal to buy InterContinental Hotels in London.
"Art needs bread to be sustained."
He let out a long sigh, his entire being seeming to age ten years.
"Fine."
Tsutsumi Seiji opened his eyes and pulled a fountain pen from his breast pocket.
"Miss Saionji, you win."
"But I hope you can remember today's promise. You can make money, but you cannot ruin the FamilyMart brand."
"Of course."
Satsuki smiled, her elegance impeccable.
I will take it away.
She beckoned, and Fujita Tsuyoshi, who had been standing at the entrance of the hall like an invisible man, stepped forward quickly and handed over a contract prepared long ago.
"Strategic Cooperation Agreement between S-Food and the Saison Group regarding the Fresh Food Supply Chain."
Tsutsumi Seiji didn't look at the terms in detail. He knew it was useless. This was a treaty of surrender.
He signed his name at the end of the document. The nib of the pen scratched across the paper, making a rustling sound that, in this empty museum, sounded like a wail.
"Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Tsutsumi."
Satsuki put away the contract, her face still maintaining a proper smile.
"Believe me, this step is the beginning of the Saison Group's journey toward glory."
And also the countdown to its destruction.
"I want to be alone for a while." Tsutsumi Seiji turned around to face the urinal once more.
"Then I won't disturb your leisure."
Satsuki gave a slight bow.
She took Fujita Tsuyoshi and turned to walk toward the exit.
The sound of high heels on the wooden floor gradually faded away.
When she reached the entrance of the hall, Satsuki stopped.
She looked back at the somewhat hunched figure standing under the spotlight.
Around him hung Picasso's paintings and Giacometti's sculptures. Those priceless artworks crowded around him like a magnificent tomb.
"Fujita."
Satsuki said softly.
"Look, this is the end of a poet."
"To save his castle in the air, he had to sell the foundation on the ground."
"When the bubble bursts, people like him are often the ones who die the most tragically."
"Because he won't even know how he died."
Fujita Tsuyoshi kept his head down, not daring to respond.
"Let's go."
Satsuki pushed open the heavy doors of the museum.
Outside, the clamor of Ikebukuro rushed toward them.
The steel wheels of the Yamanote Line ground against the rails, emitting a piercing screech that was instantly swallowed by the tsunami-like roar of voices in front of the station. Young women wearing broad-shouldered suits and bright lipstick crossed the zebra crossing like a flock of proud peacocks.
The speakers of a roadside record store were blasting Akina Nakamori's "Tattoo," the bass vibrating the glass storefronts. Several salarymen smelling of alcohol stood by the road, holding up 10,000-yen bills, trying to hail a taxi with a "Vacant" light that refused to slow down.
This was Tokyo in the bubble era, a glittering age of prosperity built on gold and desire.
A dream that was dazzlingly brilliant, yet would shatter at a single touch.