October 29, 1991, early morning.
Tokyo, Hongo, Saionji Main Residence.
Kenjiro woke up at five-thirty, lay in bed until six, and ultimately put on his coat and went downstairs.
Without even calling the servants, he walked over to the mailbox by the front gate and brought the newly delivered newspapers back to the dining room together.
Steam from cooking rice had just begun to drift from the kitchen, and nothing was set on the long table yet.
He spread Nihon Keizai Shimbun on the very top, and the headline on the front page occupied almost half the page.
Fuji Bank Akasaka Branch Issues Unrecorded Certificates of Deposit; Amount Involved Estimated to Exceed Hundreds of Billions of Yen
Below the headline was a line of fine print: The Banking Bureau of the Ministry of Finance had already dispatched personnel to the head office of Fuji Bank last night.
He finished reading the front page in one breath, and then went to flip through Asahi Shimbun and Yomiuri Shimbun.
The wording of the three newspapers varied, but the accompanying photos were almost identical—all showing the Akasaka Branch taken at night, with the roller shutter mostly pulled down and only a single light on at the entrance.
The social section of Yomiuri had an extra paragraph stating that the pledgee of the certificates of deposit had gone to the counter yesterday morning to request redemption, without writing a name, only writing "a certain large enterprise group."
Kenjiro stared at those words and slowly put the newspaper back on the table.
From beginning to end, Saionji had not submitted a single document to the Ministry of Finance, nor sought out a single reporter, but simply bought a debt claim and then, on the day the certificate of deposit matured, had a lawyer take the branch's self-stamped letter of commitment to the counter to collect the money.
Collecting one's own money was entirely justified; if the branch could not pay, it could only report to the head office, and once the head office investigated, the hole could no longer be covered up.
So this is how it's used, I've learned something.
Footsteps came from the stairs.
Satsuki had already changed into her going-out clothes, her hair tied into a bunch at the back of her head, and she was carrying a canvas bag filled with textbooks in her hand.
She glanced at the pile of newspapers on the table and then looked at Kenjiro.
"Good morning, Uncle."
She sat down opposite him, pulled away that copy of Nihon Keizai Shimbun, glanced at the front page for just a second before flipping past it, turning page after page backward, and finally stopping at the international section.
Kenjiro waited for a moment, and seeing that she hadn't flipped back for a long time, couldn't help asking a question.
"Aren't you going to look at the front page?"
"Weren't things like that already known last night?"
Satsuki folded the newspaper in half and pressed it next to the milk glass.
Kenjiro leaned over to look—it was a small news item at the bottom of the international section, with a one-line headline: Representatives of eight Soviet constituent republics and the Group of Seven signed a memorandum in Moscow, committing to bear joint and several repayment responsibilities for the Soviet Union's external debt.
"The Soviet Union? What does this have to do with Fuji?"
"Hmm... Not yet."
The maid came in carrying toast and fried eggs, and Satsuki picked up a piece of toast, leisurely spreading butter on it.
"I just feel that when eight parties sign together saying they will repay the money, that kind of talk doesn't sound very reliable."
Kenjiro wanted to ask more, but the door of the entryway rang.
Endo walked into the dining room carrying a briefcase, first nodded in greeting to the two of them, stood still by the table, and took out today's schedule from his bag.
Satsuki didn't take the piece of paper, took a bite of the toast, and only spoke after swallowing.
"Endo, after the market opens today, help me buy some shares of Fuji."
Endo seemed to have been prepared long ago and only asked a question.
"Split among how many securities firms?"
"The more the better, don't buy too much from each, and in total do not exceed five percent."
Kenjiro was slightly stunned.
"Why five percent?"
"The large-scale holding reporting system has been implemented since the end of last year."
Endo placed the schedule on the corner of the table, turned around, and explained to him.
"Holding more than five percent of a listed company's shares requires submitting a report to the Ministry of Finance within five business days, and by then all of Japan will know who is buying."
Kenjiro looked at Endo, and then looked at the newspaper at hand.
Those bold characters on the front page pressed down on the very top; even if he didn't understand stocks, he could guess what kind of state Fuji's stocks would plummet into when the market opened this morning.
"Then today, the people going to Akasaka to withdraw money are probably going to have to line up."
Satsuki finished her last glass of milk, picked up her canvas bag, and stood up.
"People withdrawing money line up, but people buying stocks don't need to line up."
When she passed by Endo, she glanced at the schedule he placed on the corner of the table, but didn't pick it up.
"Endo, let's wait until I come back at noon to look at the schedule. I've missed enough classes lately, I can't be late for the first period again."
Endo put the schedule back into his briefcase, bowed slightly, and watched her walk out of the dining room.
...
Same day, nine in the morning.
Tokyo, Akasaka, Hitotsugi Street.
Shoji Morishita placed the last tray of bean daifuku into the glass showcase and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
He had entered the workshop at four in the morning, boiling beans, kneading dough, and wrapping fillings, and had been busy until now before finally straightening his back.
Morishita-ya had been open on this street for two generations, the copper pot passed down from his father still hung on the wall, and he had taken over for nearly thirty years.
His wife came out from the inner room, holding the newspaper delivered in the morning, her expression not quite right.
"Honey, take a look at this."
"What's wrong?"
Morishita glanced at his wife and took the newspaper.
"Take a look first." His wife urged.
He brought the newspaper closer, reading line by line, and unconsciously read aloud with his mouth.
"Akasaka Branch... issued unrecorded time certificates of deposit... used as collateral for other companies... the amount is probably hundreds of billions..."
Reading up to here, his voice stopped.
Akasaka Branch?
Wasn't his family's time deposit deposited at the Akasaka Branch?
That year's deposit certificate was processed on the second floor of that branch; the handling clerk politely invited him upstairs, poured tea, and the stamp on the certificate was also the branch manager's seal.
But now the newspaper says that those certificates of deposit were also issued personally by people at the branch, not a single seal was fake, except that the money had never entered the account.
The seal was real, the paper was real, but there was nothing on the account.
Then what about the one in his drawer?
The more Morishita thought about it, the more his heart felt creeped out.
The money saved up over thirty years—he had never thought about going to confirm whether it was actually there or not before.
Depositing it in the bank and getting the certificate—this matter had long been finished in his mind.
But what was written in the newspaper now happened to be at the branch where he deposited his money.
He put down the newspaper, turned around and walked into the inner room, pulled open the locked drawer below the household Buddhist altar, and took out the time deposit certificate from a kraft paper envelope.
Fifteen million yen, depositor Shoji Morishita, stamped with the branch manager's seal of Fuji Bank Akasaka Branch.
This was what he and his wife had saved bit by bit over thirty years; his son worked at a company in Yokohama and had long ago said he wouldn't come back to take over this shop, and this money was intended for the couple to retire on after closing the shop.
His wife also followed him in, stood behind him, and lowered her voice.
"This... wouldn't be fake too, right?"
"I'm not a bank employee, how would I be able to tell?"
Morishita looked over and back at the certificate; the paper was the bank's paper, the seal was the bank's seal, but those certificates of deposit mentioned in the newspaper sounded like they also bore the bank's seal just the same.
He had watched the news about the ryotei proprietress in Osaka back in August on television for several days.
At that time, he even told Otsuka from the soba noodle shop next door that such things would only happen in small places like credit associations, how could such things happen in a major bank.
Fuji Bank was one of Japan's proudest city banks after the war!
Morishita pinched that certificate, his fingertips growing cold in waves.
Even a branch of Fuji Bank could issue unrecorded certificates of deposit, so what else could be reliable?
Those certificates of deposit in the newspaper—the companies holding them likewise thought the money was in the account, likewise used them as collateral, and only found out there was nothing in the account when someone went to the counter for redemption.
What if this one of his was the same?
Once this thought popped up, it couldn't be suppressed no matter what.
He turned the certificate over and back again, feeling less and less confident the more he looked.
Even if he ran to the branch to ask now, and the person at the counter said "everything is in the account," what basis did he have to believe it? The ones issuing fake certificates of deposit were originally people inside the branch.
The money was in the bank; he couldn't see it nor touch it.
Morishita opened his mouth, and after a long while, turned his head to look at his wife, his voice also dropping lower.
"How about... taking it out today?"
His wife was slightly stunned, looked at the certificate in his hand, and then looked at the spread-out newspaper in the outer room, neither saying good nor bad, just hesitatingly asking a question.
"Then... should we withdraw from the shop's account too?"
Morishita's hand paused.
The shop's revolving account was also opened at the Akasaka Branch.
The day after tomorrow was the 31st; the notes of the red bean and sugar wholesalers were supposed to be deducted from the account on that day, and if the money wasn't there, the notes would bounce.
If notes bounced twice within half a year, the bank would cut off all his transactions, and this shop wouldn't be able to stay open either.
"Then let's not touch the shop's for now, just withdraw the time deposit."
"But if the time deposit is terminated early, won't the interest be gone?"
"If the interest is gone we can earn it back, but if the principal is gone, everything is gone."
He put the certificate back into the envelope, tucked it together with the bank seal into the inner pocket of his coat, pulled out a folded Morishita-ya paper bag from under the counter, and stuffed it into his pocket.
The branch was only a few minutes' walk from the shop. Before even reaching the intersection of Tamachi-dori, Morishita stopped in his tracks.
The sidewalk was densely packed with a dark crowd.
In front of the two brass revolving doors of Fuji Bank Akasaka Branch, the queue lined all the way down the stone steps, swung out along the sidewalk for seventy or eighty meters, and was about to turn into the back alley.
Across the street, two vans bearing TV station logos had already set up cameras, and three or four reporters with cameras hanging around their necks were continuously clicking their shutters facing the main door, flashes lighting up one after another.
Morishita's heartbeat suddenly accelerated, and he jogged over to the end of the line.
The queue was crowded with people whose complexions were ashen.
Standing in front of him was an old woman wrapped in a scarf, her two withered hands tightly clutching the cloth bag in her arms, whispering to a middle-aged woman in a woolen overcoat next to her: "...I'm just here to take a look; when the old man at home passed away, he left five million, what do I know about certificates of deposit, I'm just here to take a look..."
In front of the old woman was a young clerk in his twenties, beads of sweat exuding on his forehead, holding a genuine leather briefcase under his arm, repeatedly looking at his watch: "The president said, no matter what today, we must get the company's fifty million out; if we can't get it out, don't go back... How is this supposed to be queued up..."
Various lowered voices drifted across the line from time to time.
"Have you heard? The bad certificates of deposit issued amount to four hundred billion!"
"What four hundred billion, securities firms over in Kabutocho are all spreading that it's six hundred billion! The deputy branch manager was taken away by the Special Investigation Department in the middle of last night!"
"Don't talk nonsense, people from the Ministry of Finance are still inside investigating!"
The branch's response appeared flustered and rigid.
Erected at the entrance of the lobby was a freshly rushed white handwritten board, with large characters written in red ink: Notice on Deposit Safety of Akasaka Branch: All legal depositor deposits of this bank are fully guaranteed by the Ministry of Finance and this bank, please rest assured, dear customers.
Four young male clerks holding a thick stack of plastic number tags distributed them all along the line, bowing incessantly while distributing.
"We are truly very sorry, please hold your cards and wait a moment, we guarantee processing today... Very sorry..."
The grey-haired branch manager himself stood by the glass door, bending his waist extremely low, repeating apologies over and over again.
However, looking at that notice, and looking at that branch manager whose head was almost lowered to the ground, Morishita's stomach spasmed fiercely.
He was also a person who had done business for decades; the more they hung out the sign of "full guarantee," the more the shopkeeper bowed desperately at the door, the more it showed that the messy state inside the store could no longer be covered up.
The wind drilled inward along the collar of his neck.
Morishita stood from morning until past noon.
Midway, he wanted several times to pick up his feet and go back to the shop to see how the bean paste on the fire was simmering, but every time he moved half a step forward and looked back to see thirty or forty more people lined up behind him, he couldn't move his feet away no matter what.
At one-thirty in the afternoon, the sky turned overcast.
The bank, which should have settled accounts and closed its doors at three in the afternoon, finally transmitted a notification through the loudspeaker at the door: "Due to the large number of customers arriving at the store today, the Akasaka Branch will extend its operating hours until all present customers are processed..."
The crowd let out a commotion, but no one left; instead, they lined up even tighter.
At two-forty, Morishita finally squeezed into that usually grand business hall along with the flow of people.
The heating in the hall was turned on very fully, but it was stuffy with a mixture of sweat odor, wet coats, and crowd breathing, so stuffy that it made people breathless.
All seven counters were packed with people, two security guards guarded the corner, their expressions tense.
"Number four hundred and seventy-two!"
Morishita trembled all over, pinched the plastic card full of hand sweat, and walked quickly to the front of Counter No. 3.
Inside the counter sat a male teller around thirty years old. He was expressionless, without even lifting his eyelids, and took the time deposit certificate and seal handed in by Morishita.
"Early termination, full cash withdrawal right?"
"Yes... Sorry to trouble you."
Morishita pressed his hands on the edge of the counter to prevent his voice from shaking even more severely.
The teller stuffed the certificate into the verification machine behind him, his fingers typing rapidly on the keyboard, bringing up the stub.
In that minute, Morishita's chest felt as if a stone were pressing down on it. Until the teller pushed out the termination form for him to sign, the heart hanging in his throat suddenly dropped back into his stomach.
It was real.
His own certificate of deposit had a record on the account.
But looking at the more than nine hundred thousand yen in interest forcibly deducted on the termination form, Morishita still gritted his teeth hard, closed his eyes, and stamped the seal.
"Mr. Morishita, your 15,030,000 yen, please count it."
Fifteen bundles of cash were stacked on the tray, with a few loose sheets pressed next to them.
Morishita had no mind to count them sheet by sheet in front of the counter, pulled out the Morishita-ya paper bag from his pocket, and shoved the money all at once into it.
Usually this bag contained bean daifuku, six in a bag, selling for 720 yen.
He hugged the paper bag tightly against his chest, wrapped it with his coat, and walked quickly toward the main door.
The moment he stepped out of the revolving door, the cool wind outside poured in, choking him into coughing several times.
There were even more people on the street than when he came in the morning.
The sidewalk was completely occupied, the long line queuing up had turned two street corners, and a few office workers pushing bicycles were discussing loudly on the roadside:
"What is Akasaka, I heard that the entrance of the Marunouchi head office has also been lined up since noon!"
"The whole of Tokyo is withdrawing money..."
Morishita lowered his head, his two arms tightly clamping the paper bag in front of his chest, plunging headfirst into the wind, his pace so fast he was almost running.
He only slowly slowed his pace after walking past the intersection of Tamachi-dori.
The wind poured in from the collar, and his back felt a chill.
Only then did he realize that the shirt inside had long been soaked through by cold sweat, clinging to his body, icy cold.
He lowered his head to glance at the paper bag in his arms, his hands still trembling slightly.
In February of the 21st year of Showa, he was only a child of twelve or thirteen.
That winter, the government overnight announced the freezing of all deposits, issuing new banknotes, and each household was only allowed to withdraw a tiny bit of living expenses from the bank every month.
The money his father had saved for several years, preparing to reopen the shop on the site burned down by the air raids, was locked in the bank just like that.
He had followed his father there once, and the entrance of the bank was also densely crowded with people like this, but that time, most of the people who queued up to the counter came out empty-handed.
His father stood at the counter for a long time, and finally only received a few new banknotes, not saying a word on the way home.
When the deposits could finally be withdrawn later, prices had long risen several times over, and that money couldn't even build half a shop.
Morishita hugged the paper bag tighter into his arms.
This time, the money was in his hands.
To be able to withdraw it, it's truly great.