At 6:28 PM.
South of Kitahama, at the end of the Sanjō-suji shopping street, there was a nameless ramen shop.
Yasui had arrived at 5:40 PM.
He had not driven.
After leaving the Sumitomo Bank Osaka main branch, he walked along the pedestrian path by the Dōjima River, turned into Sanjō-suji, and walked for about twelve minutes.
He sat at the innermost seat of the counter, a bowl of soy sauce ramen in front of him, a thin layer of back fat floating on the soup.
The owner did not ask why he had come.
The shop had been open for over thirty years; the owner had seen all kinds of faces—bankers, stock traders, shipping company runners.
The owner only cared about making noodles, not why the customers were sitting there.
Yasui ate slowly.
He picked up noodles with his chopsticks, put them in his mouth, chewed, and swallowed.
There was a distinct pause between each step.
He was not thinking about anything, nor was he dazed; his movements had simply slowed down naturally.
Like a clock with its mainspring loosened, the gears were still turning, but he no longer needed to rush.
Half the soup was gone.
A faint ring of grease remained on the rim of the bowl.
At 6:03 PM, Yasui laid his chopsticks flat on the edge of the bowl and reached out to touch the cigarette pack in his suit pocket.
His fingers touched the pack, then paused.
He glanced at the no-smoking sign on the wall—an A4-sized laminated card taped next to the range hood with transparent tape, the edges of the paper already curled.
He pulled his hand back and picked up his chopsticks again.
At 6:11 PM, a rush of footsteps suddenly sounded.
The curtain was shoved aside violently, hitting the door frame twice.
The owner did not even look up, just pushed a freshly cooked bowl of noodles to the window.
Umeba stood at the entrance.
He was holding a brown paper file folder, unsealed, revealing the edges of a few sheets of thermal paper inside.
His suit was neat, his tie knotted tightly, and a small patch of his shirt collar was soaked with sweat.
His breathing frequency was clearly faster than normal, but he tried hard to control it so he would not pant audibly.
His gaze swept across the counter and quickly locked onto the back of the person sitting at the far end.
Yasui did not turn around.
Umeba walked over quickly and sat in the seat next to Yasui.
He placed the file on the counter, pressing his fingers down on it as if afraid it might be blown away by the wind.
"Executive Director."
Yasui did not turn his head, his chopsticks picking up noodles and putting them into his mouth.
Umeba lowered his voice, but spoke quickly.
"The cross-reference table from Sumitomo Chemical just arrived."
"The Sumitomo Chemical secretariat copied us directly, and the home office legal department also received a copy."
Yasui continued chewing.
Umeba glanced at him and pushed the file forward.
"I have read it three times, every column."
"The reasons for the rejection, Saionji Trading's amendment opinions, the actual time of opening the letter of credit, the loss estimates—it is all there."
"That last column—"
He paused, pressing his fingers against the file.
"It says, 'Requires further confirmation in conjunction with your bank's internal review basis.'"
Yasui swallowed the noodles and picked up the bowl to take a sip of soup.
Umeba's voice dropped half a degree.
"Executive Director, this is more troublesome than the accusations."
"It puts the burden of proof back on us."
"If we say there is a basis, we must produce it."
"But—"
He did not finish.
The blank space after that half-sentence "But" seemed exceptionally clear amidst the smoke and steam of the ramen shop.
Yasui set the bowl down.
The bottom of the bowl hit the counter with a soft, dull thud.
He still had not said a word.
Umeba continued.
"It is not just Sumitomo Chemical anymore."
"This morning, Sumitomo Metal, Sumitomo Electric, and Sumitomo Light Metal all sent inquiries."
"And—"
He swallowed.
"None of them sent the originals."
Behind the counter, the owner scooped the cooked noodles into a bowl, poured on the soup, and sprinkled a pinch of green onions.
Umeba's voice began to tighten involuntarily.
"Executive Director, I have calculated it."
"From the inventory financing of Itoman to the rejection records of the Sumitomo-affiliated manufacturing firms, from the foreign exchange position occupation to the priority of settlement—if the home office legal department's inquiry formally enters internal audit, every technical review by the Osaka branch financing department in the last six months will be dug up and compared line by line."
He paused for a second; his voice was trembling slightly by now.
"Most of those rejections were handled by me."
Yasui picked up his chopsticks, picked a slice of chashu from the bowl, and put it into his mouth.
Umeba's voice became even lower, almost a whisper.
"Executive Director, have you thought about it? If we are deemed to have conducted 'technical reviews without reasonable basis'—that can directly trigger a lawsuit for damages."
"For that 7.4 million business with Sumitomo Metal, the shipping delay and the cost of re-issuing the letter of credit alone—"
Yasui turned his head.
Not because of what Umeba had said.
He had just finished his noodles and wanted another bowl.
He glanced at Umeba, but still ignored him.
Then he looked at the owner behind the counter.
"Owner, another bowl."
The owner nodded, did not ask any questions, and turned to boil water.
Umeba's mouth opened and then closed.
He looked at Yasui.
Yasui had already turned his head back, his gaze falling on the bowl in front of him, which only had half the soup left, though it was unclear what he was looking at.
The light from the signboard shone in, splitting his profile in two; the side closer to the window was brighter, and the side closer to the counter was darker.
Umeba suddenly felt that he had said so much, yet it seemed he had said nothing at all.
Yasui picked up his spoon, stirred the last bit of soup at the bottom of the bowl, and took a sip.
"Umeba."
"Yes."
"Have you eaten?"
Umeba was stunned.
Yasui's tone was very normal, as if he were asking about the weather.
"Not yet."
Yasui pointed his chin toward the owner.
"Ask him to make you a bowl, too."
Umeba did not move.
He sat there, his hand still pressing on the brown paper file.
The paper was already soaked through by the sweat from his palm, the corners curling up, revealing the base color of the thermal paper inside.
Yasui did not urge him.
The owner began kneading the dough for the second bowl of noodles.
The sound of the dough hitting the cutting board was solid—thud, thud—a rhythm completely unrelated to this place.
Umeba's Adam's apple bobbed once.
"Executive Director."
"Yes."
"Are you not worried?"
Yasui did not answer immediately.
He pushed the bowl away slightly, took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, glanced at the A4 no-smoking sign on the wall, and then glanced at the owner—the owner was kneading the dough and was not paying attention.
But Yasui still tucked the cigarette pack back.
"Is worrying useful?"
He said this very softly.
Umeba finally moved his hand away from the file.
As his fingers left the paper, the edge of the thermal paper sprang back, making a faint sound.
"Owner."
His voice was smaller than he had expected.
"Please, make me a bowl too."
The owner did not look back, just said, "Okay."
The dough was slapped onto the board.
Umeba leaned his back against the chair.
The wooden backrest was hard, pressing against his shoulder blades through his suit jacket.
He looked up at the ceiling—water stains, aging pipes, a dead fly stuck high on the wall—everything was the same as yesterday.
Yasui finished the last bit of soup in his bowl.
He set the bowl down, his fingers resting on the rim for a few seconds.
"Do you know what I saw when I came down from upstairs today?"
Umeba did not answer.
Yasui's gaze fell on the wood grain of the counter.
The wood had been polished smooth by countless elbows, and there was a deep, old crack in the middle, embedded with years of grime that could not be washed away.
"That young man in the financing department named Yamashita was sitting at his desk, staring blankly at a fax."
Yasui paused.
"I walked by and he did not notice me."
"I looked down—it was a notice from Sumitomo Light Metal."
He stopped for a few seconds.
"He had a copy of the 'Foreign Exchange Position Review Form' beside him."
"I had him do page six of that document—the detailed reconciliation of the margin occupation for that Itoman account."
Yasui withdrew his fingers from the rim of the bowl and placed them on the counter.
"I suddenly remembered that I had signed off on that margin occupation too."
The water in the ramen pot boiled, and the owner began to cook the noodles.
Steam rose, blurring half of Yasui's face.
Umeba sat there, saying nothing.
He suddenly realized that it was not that Yasui did not care.
It was that he cared too much.
After passing a certain threshold, all emotions had instead flowed over the dam like water, silently flowing to a very deep place, so deep that even he himself could not reach it.
The owner scooped the noodles into a bowl.
This time, Umeba did not wait for Yasui to speak.
He reached out, took the bowl, and placed it in front of him.
The bowl was very hot.
A sesame seed stuck to the rim of the white porcelain bowl.
The back fat on the surface of the soup glistened faintly under the light.
He picked up his chopsticks.
He took a mouthful of noodles and put them in his mouth.
The noodles were alkaline noodles, a bit hard, with a rough wheat texture when chewed.
The soy sauce base was a bit salty, but left a sweet aftertaste in the throat.
He had never eaten at this shop before.
The owner was wiping bowls behind the counter.
Yasui pushed his empty bowl aside and leaned back in his chair, eyes closed.
It was unclear if he was resting or thinking about something.
His breathing was steady, his suit jacket draped over the back of the chair, motionless, like an old piece of clothing forgotten there.
Umeba ate the noodles mouthful by mouthful.
The soup was hot, the noodles salty, the bowl scalding.
He chewed the noodles for a long time before swallowing.
Every mouthful was very slow.
Halfway through, his eyes suddenly stung.
He did not want to cry; it was a different kind of soreness.
A wave of heat suddenly welled up deep in his nasal cavity, as if blocked by something.
He lowered his head, burying his face in the steam of the bowl.
The steam from the noodle soup hit his face—it was hot.
He took a deep breath of the noodles, suppressing that sour feeling.
Then he continued eating.
Yasui never opened his eyes.
The ramen shop was very quiet.
The owner was washing bowls by the sink, the water from the tap hitting the stainless steel counter with a faint rustling sound.
The incandescent bulb above the counter flickered—probably a truck passing outside, causing the vibration.
The clock on the wall reached 6:41 PM.
The second hand was moving.
Umeba drank the last bit of soup in the bowl.
When he set the bowl down, the bottom hit the counter with a sound almost identical to Yasui's bowl.
Yasui opened his eyes and looked at him.
Umeba's lips moved as if he wanted to say something.
But in the end, nothing came out.
He pushed the empty bowl in front of him, placing it side-by-side with Yasui's empty bowl.
Two bowls.
The bottoms were both dry.
Yasui took his wallet from his pocket, pulled out a few thousand-yen bills, and pressed them onto the counter.
He stood up, picked up his suit jacket from the back of the chair, did not put it on, and draped it over his arm.
"Let us go."
Umeba stood up too.
The owner wiped his hands dry and walked over to collect the bowls.
He stacked the two bowls together and carried them back to the sink.
The bowls were stacked very steadily.
The door curtain was lifted and then fell back down.
A wisp of Kitahama's night wind blew in, making the thousand-yen bills on the counter slide slightly.
The owner turned off the tap.
The shop went quiet.
Only the broken light box outside the door was still glowing meaninglessly.
Or rather, it was not glowing anymore.