December 24, 1988.
Christmas Eve.
The sky over Tokyo hung low with thick clouds. The forecast called for snow, but only freezing rain mixed with dust fell as evening approached.
Bunkyo Ward, Saionji Main Family Residence.
In the main dining room, a massive crystal chandelier bathed the century-old room in warm yellow light, making it feel almost dreamlike. Oak logs burned in the fireplace, crackling softly now and then. The air carried the scent of herb-roasted turkey and mellow red wine.
A pristine white linen tablecloth covered the long dining table.
Shuichi sat at the head of the table, knife and fork in hand, cutting into the tender, juicy turkey on his plate.
Satsuki sat across from him. Tonight she wore a deep red velvet dress, a delicate holly brooch pinned at the neckline, her black hair falling softly over her shoulders.
"Father, the meat here is more tender," Satsuki said gently, pointing to the breast of the turkey.
"Hmm." Shuichi put a piece of meat into his mouth and chewed slowly. "This year's sauce is quite good. Strong cranberry flavor."
Father and daughter moved with practiced elegance, the clink of silverware against porcelain kept to a minimum. If not for the television humming in the corner, it would have been a perfect scene of a wealthy family's Christmas dinner.
But from the 29-inch Sony color TV came a roar like a beast.
"Crush it! Crush it!"
"Enemies of the people!"
"That violent resolution is invalid!"
The screen showed no Christmas special. It was a live broadcast from the House of Representatives plenary hall in the Japanese Parliament building.
The image shook violently. The cameraman was clearly struggling to keep his balance amid the jostling.
The chamber was in utter chaos. Distorted faces crowded the lens. Roars, curses, and the dull thuds of physical scuffles poured through the speakers, jarringly loud in the quiet dining room.
Shuichi set down his knife and fork, picked up a napkin, and dabbed at the corner of his mouth.
"It's begun," he said, looking at the screen. "So Shinjuku's underground fight club opened a branch in Parliament."
Satsuki didn't look up. She scooped a spoonful of pumpkin soup with her silver spoon and brought it to her lips.
"For some people, this is more brutal than a fight club," she said, swallowing the hot soup. "This is a funeral. Takeshita Noboru is cremating himself, along with that old political era built on connections and money."
Nagatacho, House of Representatives Plenary Hall.
This was the heart of Japanese power. Tonight, it had become purgatory.
The clock on the wall read ten p.m.
Only two hours remained in the session.
If the consumption tax bill failed to pass within those two hours, the Takeshita Cabinet would collapse completely, and the Liberal Democratic Party would face a crisis of division.
To block the vote, opposition lawmakers had deployed their final weapon — the "cow-walk."
It was an ancient, shameless obstruction tactic. Lawmakers formed a long line, and the few dozen meters from their seats to the ballot box would take them hours to cross.
On screen, a female lawmaker from the Socialist Party stood in the aisle.
She lifted her right foot, held it suspended for five seconds, then moved it forward five centimeters in slow motion.
"Hurry up! Stop stalling!" ruling party lawmakers roared.
"This is our democratic right! You're trampling on democracy!" the opposition shouted back.
Both sides hurled insults across the aisle, spittle flying under the harsh lights. A few young lawmakers rushed the podium to snatch the Speaker's microphone, only to be dragged away by burly security guards.
The chamber was a scene of absolute chaos.
The camera pushed through the frenzied crowd and settled at the very front of the chamber.
The Prime Minister's seat.
Takeshita Noboru sat there alone.
He wore his usual dark suit, hands resting properly on his knees, his back ramrod straight.
Someone threw a paper ball at him.
Someone pointed at his nose and screamed "Thief! Traitor! Murderer!"
A leather shoe arced through the air, hit the table in front of him with a thud, and bounced to the floor.
Takeshita Noboru didn't blink.
His face was paper-pale, his eyes sunken, as if he hadn't slept in days. Those eyes that always squinted in a friendly smile were now wide open.
His pupils were utterly lifeless.
He was like a thousand-year-old stone statue, immovable amid the overwhelming malice and abuse.
He couldn't hear the noise.
Or rather, the only voice he heard was his dead secretary's.
Prime Minister... please.
Takeshita Noboru's fingers twitched, brushing the cold fountain pen in his jacket pocket.
His heart contracted, each beat lancing pain through his chest. But the pain kept him alert.
He could not fall.
At least not tonight. Not in this final moment. He had to become a demon.
"How many left?" Takeshita Noboru asked hoarsely, turning to the Chief Cabinet Secretary beside him.
"Over a hundred still haven't voted," the Chief Cabinet Secretary said while wiping sweat from his brow. "At this rate, we won't finish by tomorrow morning. The session ends soon."
Takeshita Noboru nodded.
Slowly, he rose from his chair.
The uproar stuttered for a second.
Every eye turned to the old man who looked ready to collapse.
Takeshita Noboru didn't look at anyone. He turned toward the Speaker's seat and gave the sweat-drenched Speaker an almost imperceptible but resolute gesture.
It meant to cut it off.
The Speaker shuddered.
He understood.
This was the final, extraordinary measure.
The Speaker met Takeshita's dull eyes for a heartbeat, then gritted his teeth.
"The current cow-walk tactic is severely obstructing the normal operation of Parliament!"
He slammed the gavel. The sound cracked through the speakers.
"Under parliamentary rules, I am authorized to terminate ballot box voting!"
"What?!"
"How dare you?!"
The opposition benches exploded. The roar seemed loud enough to lift the roof.
"Order!"
The Speaker struck the gavel again. His voice shook, but his tone was resolute.
"We will now switch to a standing vote!"
"All lawmakers in favor of the consumption tax bill, please stand!"
Time seemed to freeze.
Opposition lawmakers surged toward the podium to stop the outrage. Security guards formed a human wall, desperately holding them back.
And against that chaotic backdrop, in the Liberal Democratic Party seats, someone stood.
One person stood, then two, then three. The Takeshita Faction's solid bloc rose to its feet.
Then the Abe Faction stood. The Miyazawa Faction stood. Every ruling party lawmaker, past grievances and schemes forgotten, stood as one.
A forest of black suits rose.
The group was silent and oppressive, and it carried an unstoppable force.
Takeshita Noboru stood too.
He stood at the very front, his back to everyone.
He didn't look back at the forest of supporters. He didn't look at the opponents who wanted to tear him apart.
He simply raised his head and stared at the massive crystal chandelier on the chamber's domed ceiling.
The light seared his eyes.
"The result of the vote..."
The Speaker's voice trembled with fear and relief.
"Majority in favor!"
"The consumption tax bill is passed!"
The declaration ignited the chamber.
Curses, wails, and the crash of overturned tables and chairs blended into a single cacophony. Some threw documents into the air. Others slumped to the floor, weeping.
And in the middle of that hell, Takeshita Noboru still stood straight.
The dead do not cheer.
Slowly and deeply, he bowed.
He bowed to the void.
He bowed to the friend who would never return.
He bowed to his own political life, now ending.
Saionji Main Family Residence, dining room.
The TV screen froze on Takeshita Noboru's deeply bowed back.
The silver fork in Satsuki's hand stopped mid-air.
A perfect piece of honeydew melon gleamed on the tines, catching the light.
She looked at the screen. She watched the old man who sat alone amid the chaos, who would advance though ten thousand barred his way. She witnessed the terrifying will that had erupted from him — a will beyond profit and loss.
She had always believed in game theory.
She believed people were rational, seeking gain and avoiding harm. In her script, Takeshita Noboru should have cut his losses and left the table before they grew worse.
But he hadn't.
He had pushed all his chips, and his life, onto the table. All to buy a result called "the nation's future," a result that gave him no personal benefit at all.
"Father."
Satsuki set her fork down.
The honeydew fell back to the plate with a soft plop.
"We have indeed plucked the fruit of victory," she said, turning to Shuichi.
Shuichi held a wine glass, watching the television with a complicated expression.
"But he buried himself in the earth and became a root," Satsuki said softly. For once, there was a note of respect in her voice that even she hadn't expected.
"Is this the final seppuku of a Showa man?"
She closed her eyes. The image of the old man standing flashed in her mind.
He was foolish, stubborn, and out of place in the modern world. Yet he was also awe-inspiring.
"Yes," Shuichi sighed deeply and drained his red wine. "Even if he's covered in mud, and even if tens of thousands curse him, some things must be done by someone."
"This is the difference between a statesman and a politician."
He picked up the remote, about to turn off the TV.
"Wait."
Satsuki pressed her father's hand.
Her gaze returned to the screen.
In the frame, Takeshita Noboru had raised his head.
Amid the chaotic background, his eyes seemed to pierce through the lens, looking at everyone watching.
"This page has turned," Satsuki said softly. "The old lion is dead."
"The jungle is now empty."
She picked up the champagne glass on the table and raised it gently toward the old man on the screen.
Golden liquid swayed in the glass, bubbles rising and bursting.
"Goodbye, Mr. Takeshita."
"Thank you for the legacy you've left us."
"You were a worthy opponent."
Outside the window, the long-overcast sky finally released its first snowflake.
The snow was heavy.
It fell thick and fast.