November 10, 1990, Saturday.
Osaka.
The Kansai Financial Ten-Day Report is a local economic newspaper published every ten days.
Its circulation is not large, usually just over 40,000 copies.
Subscribers are mostly concentrated among wholesalers in the Senba area, mid-level bank managers in Nakanoshima, and back-office staff at brokerages in Kitahama.
This kind of magazine would not appear on the shelves of convenience stores in Tokyo, nor has it ever possessed national influence.
But it has a feature that no other publication can replace—the business community in Kansai reads it.
On the third page, it was signed "Local Business Observer."
The headline was printed in small font, using the thin Mincho typeface commonly used by the magazine.
"The Hunt of Tokyo Capital—The New Situation Facing the Kansai Manufacturing Credit System"
The article is not long, just over 3,000 characters including notes.
The writing style is restrained, using a large amount of passive voice and hypothetical phrasing—"it is reported," "may have," "does not rule out"—typical of Kansai financial commentary.
The views of Senba merchants always seem vague, restrained, and leave room for maneuver.
The opening used exactly four hundred characters to acknowledge the problem.
"Over the past three years, the risks accumulated by the Kansai financial system in the field of real estate financing are an indisputable fact. The credit management of some banks indeed has aspects worthy of reflection. On this point, the Kansai business community does not shy away."
Placing this paragraph first, anyone who reads it would feel it is fair.
Are there problems with the banks?
Yes, there are.
Admit it, admit it generously.
But starting from the second paragraph, the tone shifted.
"However, what is worth noting is that at a time when the Kansai credit system is being shaken by the storm, emerging capital from Tokyo is intervening in the core trade chain of Kansai manufacturing in another way—through foreign bank channels, dollar letters of credit, and independent settlement systems."
"The method and speed of this intervention have already exceeded the scope of normal commercial assistance."
Starting from the third paragraph, the article repeatedly uses the words "foreign," "Tokyo," and "Marunouchi."
"Banks may have faults, but the industry should not be taken over by foreign capital because of this."
"The ledgers of Senba merchants should not be flipped through by the hands of Marunouchi."
"The credit accumulated by Kansai manufacturing over hundreds of years should not be forced to change its surname in a single financial storm."
These three sentences appeared in the fourth paragraph, the seventh paragraph, and the ending, respectively.
They are far apart, but after reading the whole article, these are the three sentences that remain in one's mind.
The four characters "forced to change surname" are particularly eye-catching.
The entire article does not mention the word "Saionji."
Nor does it mention "Sumitomo Bank," "Itoman," or any specific corporate names.
It does not defend any party either.
It just keeps asking one question: who should actually be in charge of Kansai's affairs?
The last paragraph of the article uses a metaphor.
"When a typhoon passes, the roof will be blown off. But the person who should repair the roof should be the person living in this house. A borrowed ladder is certainly convenient, but the owner of the ladder will eventually take it back—at that time, only a bigger hole will be left on the roof."
November 10, 8:35 AM.
When the printed version of the Kansai Financial Ten-Day Report arrived at the front desks of the major wholesaler halls in Senba, the fax machines were already two hours ahead of it.
The first person to get the full text of the article was the Secretary-General of the Kobe Chamber of Commerce and Industry.
At 6:40, his private fax machine spat out five pages.
The sending end had the number of Kitashinchi, Osaka, printed on it, but the source could no longer be traced—this fax had been forwarded at least twice.
The Secretary-General finished reading it at the breakfast table, sighed, and tucked the fax paper into the day's work materials.
At 8:00, the weekend briefing of the Kyoto Prefecture Chamber of Commerce and Industry Federation was distributed internally.
At the bottom of the second page of this issue, the article's title and the first of the three sentences were quoted in a font half a size smaller than the main text.
"Banks may have faults, but the industry should not be taken over by foreign capital because of this."
After the quote, an editor's note was attached: "See the third page of the Kansai Financial Ten-Day Report on November 10 for details."
The readership of this line of small print was much higher than the main text of the briefing.
9:15 AM.
The editorial department of the afternoon edition of the Kobe Shimbun Economic Edition, a local newspaper in Kobe, received a phone call.
The caller was their old contributor, a retired former Deputy Director of the Economic Department.
He only said one sentence: "Have you seen that 'Local Business Observer' that came out on the 10th? It is worth following up on."
The director of the afternoon edition's editorial department hung up the phone and asked his assistant to buy a copy of the Kansai Financial Ten-Day Report.
Forty minutes later, when he crossed out the four characters "forced to change surname" with a red pen, he had already begun drafting his own article in his head.
By 12:00 noon, at least three tables in the member cafeteria of the Osaka Chamber of Commerce and Industry were discussing this article.
No one mentioned who the author was.
Because the signature was only five characters—"Local Business Observer."
But everyone instinctively knew that this kind of article could not be written by a mere reporter.
Its tone was too steady.
So steady that it sounded like a voice growing out of the bones of this land.
Sumitomo Metal, Osaka Headquarters. President's Office.
Koichi Uchida saw the article around 10:00 AM.
The person who delivered it was the Section Chief of the secretarial division.
He had it in a separate transparent folder, placed on the left side of the desk—the position Uchida would look at first every day.
It took Uchida about eight minutes to finish reading.
The paragraph he flipped back to reread twice was the one about the "ledgers of Senba merchants" in the seventh paragraph.
After he closed the folder, his gaze rested outside the window.
The president's office at the Osaka headquarters is on the ninth floor, with windows facing east.
The weather is nice today, and you can see the ridgeline of Mount Ikoma in the distance.
"Has anyone from the Chamber of Commerce and Industry called?" he asked.
The Section Chief of the secretarial division stood at the door, posture upright.
"There have been two calls this morning; both were greetings."
Uchida nodded.
"Who were they?"
"The first call was from Mr. Aoki in Kitahama, and the second was from Mr. Matsuhara on Sakaisuji."
Two names, two directions.
Kitahama is the securities street of Osaka, and Sakaisuji is the main road leading to Senba.
One represents the financial sector, and the other represents the manufacturing sector.
The Section Chief of the secretarial division did not relay the content of the "greetings," because it was not necessary.
Mr. Aoki of Kitahama likely said "Thank you for your hard work lately," and Mr. Matsuhara on Sakaisuji likely said the same.
But the words "hard work" already explained the subtext.
Uchida understood.
This was a reminder to him: someone is watching.
He went to that private banquet in Tokyo on the 26th of last month.
He drank the wine Shuichi poured.
He also heard the talk about the dollar letters of credit during the banquet.
No one in Osaka knew about those things.
But Kansai is a very small network.
People move around, and news flows.
Even if no one knew the specific details of the private banquet, the mere fact that "Uchida went to Tokyo" was enough to make certain people prick up their ears.
He picked up the phone on the desk and put it back down.
Originally, this afternoon, he was prepared to have the secretarial division make a call to the Saionji Trading Osaka office to confirm the details of the letter of credit transfer process.
He would not call now.
It was not that he changed his mind because of this hint, but the timing of "today" was too glaring.
The article had just come out in the morning, and if he called in the afternoon—even if it was just a routine confirmation—it would be read as a response once it reached Uragami.
Wait, wait a few more days.
He pushed the folder to the right side of the desk and pressed it under a stack of monthly reports.
Sumitomo Electric, Headquarters.
Kawaguchi Heiji's reaction was much more direct than Uchida's.
He finished reading the article during a break in his inspection of the workshop—the secretary handed it to him at the door of the lounge, and he finished reading it while standing, taking only four minutes.
"The banks burned the money, yet they want us who make cables to keep our chastity."
He said this to the production Section Chief.
His voice was not loud, but the mockery in his tone was very obvious.
But after he returned to his office, the first thing he did was open the drawer and take out a folder he had prepared three days ago.
It contained the settlement details of Sumitomo Electric's Southeast Asian business, which he had originally planned to send to the Saionji Trading Osaka office this week for them to help verify.
He looked at it, and then put it back.
The drawer stopped when it was halfway pushed in.
He thought for a moment, and did not lock it.
Nor did he take it out. He just left it half-open.
Sumitomo Light Metal Industries.
Tatsuya Hashimoto received the call at home.
On Saturday, he did not go to the company. Just past ten in the morning, the phone rang.
The caller ID was Amagasaki—the area code for his father-in-law's house.
His mother-in-law picked it up. But it was his father-in-law who spoke.
"Hashimoto-kun, lately everyone outside is saying that the people at Sumitomo are too impatient."
Just that one sentence.
Then his mother-in-law took the phone again, chatted a few words about the weather and the children, and hung up.
Hashimoto sat in the living room, holding the receiver that no longer had any sound.
The heater was on, his daughter's small schoolbag was on the shoe cabinet in the entryway, and the child's clothes were drying on the balcony.
Everyone outside is saying—who is saying it? Where are they saying it? What are they saying?
Among the four representatives of the Sumitomo group who went to Tokyo for the banquet, Hashimoto had the least seniority and the lightest title—he was only an executive director.
The status of Light Metal in the group was already marginal, and its sense of presence had always relied on the protection of the Hakusuikai.
If he were labeled as "selling out Kansai credit," let alone the Hakusuikai, he would not even be able to hold his head up at the annual meeting of the Chamber of Commerce and Industry.
He put the receiver back on the landline.
Then he sat for a long time.
He remembered a sentence Shuichi said when pouring him wine at the private banquet in Tokyo that day.
"Mr. Hashimoto, there is no need to force yourself. You are just here to have a drink."
The tone was very soft, as if he were telling the truth.
But it was precisely because that sentence was too soft that Hashimoto felt afraid.
Because Shuichi's meaning was very clear—you can still back out now, but you have already sat down at this table.
He stood up, flipped the newspaper on the living room table to the economic section, but searched for a long time without finding the relevant article.
He did not subscribe to the Kansai Financial Ten-Day Report.
But his father-in-law had clearly seen it.