The snow in Moscow seemed to never truly stop.
It was not like the snow in Tokyo, which carried a certain light, decorative quality, nor was it like the fine white dust that occasionally fell during Kyoto winters, appearing elegant as it landed on tiled eaves.
The snow in Moscow was more like dust.
It fell from the low-hanging sky onto the wide streets, the grayish-yellow buildings, the roofs of the black Volga cars, and the red carpet in front of the hotel for foreign guests, which had been stepped on and dirtied, only to be quickly kneaded by wheels, leather boots, soot, and mud into something of an indistinguishable color.
Kozlov appeared on time every day.
Sometimes he wore a dark blue overcoat, other times a grayish-black one.
He changed his hat twice, but his smile never changed.
The route of the Volga motorcade was almost fixed; it was always from the hotel to a certain location, and from that location back to the hotel.
The route was fixed, the speed was fixed, and Kozlov's opening remarks from the passenger seat were also fixed.
"Today we will head to..." "Between the people of the Soviet Union and Japan..." "Your generous donation..."
Shuichi sat on the right side of the back seat every day, with hot tea prepared by the hotel at his side, gently responding to the accolades relayed by the translator.
Satsuki sat next to Shuichi, her scarf tucked under her chin, wearing the most appropriate smile for photos of foreign guests.
She would not interrupt her father, nor would she make the Soviet side feel slighted.
Kozlov seemed quite satisfied with this.
An overly clever, overly proactive heir to a Japanese Zaibatsu would make all the reception staff nervous.
A polite Kazoku Eldest Miss who knew how to compliment ballet and would crouch down in a children's welfare institute to talk to the children made the promotional photos look much better.
The itinerary prepared for them by Moscow was delivered to their suite every night.
It was two thin sheets of paper, with Russian on the left and Japanese on the right.
The times were arranged very neatly, generally departing at 9:30, arriving at 10:15, lunch at 12:00, meetings at 14:00, and group photos at 16:00.
After each location, there were parentheses containing the receiving unit, accompanying personnel, and estimated duration of the visit.
The itinerary for the second day was not much different from the first.
Neither was the third.
Later, Satsuki no longer really needed to look at the words on the paper; as soon as she heard Kozlov say "Today we will head to" from the passenger seat, she knew what would follow.
The car door would open, the steps would, as usual, be swept clean, and someone would be waiting at the entrance.
Enter, take off overcoat, shake hands, give speech, translate, applause, group photo.
Shuichi was responsible for saying those gentle and formal words, and Kozlov was responsible for ensuring they retained the same decorum in Russian.
Satsuki was responsible for standing half a step behind and to the side of Shuichi.
She would crouch down in the children's welfare institute to accept paper flowers, would compliment Soviet ballet in the conference room of the cultural exchange foundation, and would smile and applaud during the handover of humanitarian supplies.
Her Russian was good enough, but most of the time she did not use it proactively.
An overly proactive heir to a Japanese Zaibatsu would make the reception staff nervous, while a Kazoku Eldest Miss willing to yield the floor to her father would only make the photos look better.
And the photos did indeed turn out very pretty.
The reception room of the children's welfare institute had clean window glass, children's drawings posted on the walls, and green plants placed on the cabinets.
The children had changed into clean clothes in advance and stood in two rows to sing, their voices a bit uneven but orderly enough.
The director spoke with great decorum, thanking the Saionji family for their generosity, thanking the friendship between the people of Japan and the Soviet Union, and thanking them for the warmth sent during this cold winter.
Satsuki crouched down to accept a paper flower handed to her by a girl.
The girl's hair was combed very neatly, and her ribbon was a bit old.
When she lowered her head, the tips of her shoes always pointed inward.
Her shoe uppers were polished very brightly, but the soles were worn through in a small spot, though the hole had been carefully sewn from the inside.
The teacher beside her placed a hand on the girl's shoulder, a light movement, as if reminding her not to take another step forward.
The medicine chest was also placed in the reception room.
White casing, red cross, the gauze inside rolled neatly.
When the director opened the cabinet door to introduce it, Kozlov stood by to translate.
Satsuki saw that the bottom shelf was actually empty, with only a few flattened paper boxes.
The words on the boxes had been worn away by half.
The director also noticed that Satsuki had noticed, quickly closed the cabinet door, and continued to smile.
The handover ceremony for humanitarian supplies was even more solemn.
The banner was hung perfectly straight, the photographer arrived very early, and the speech of thanks lasted nearly six minutes.
Medical supplies, children's educational materials, winter clothing—the list covered three pages, with a converted value of $1.06 million.
Shuichi said a few words about feeling honored, Kozlov translated, the other party nodded, then they spoke again, and translated again.
What lingered the longest were the eyes of the porters.
Before each crate was carried away, they would verify the serial number once more.
Some bent down to look at the labels, others used pencils to check off the list.
When the third wooden crate was placed on the cart, the young staff member read the crate number very softly and slowly; these items, which even ordinary people in Japan could easily buy in bulk, seemed to be rare treasures here.
Of course, $2 million worth of material aid was not something ordinary people could afford.
The handover of the donation of foreign journals was in another auditorium.
Two flags were hung at the front of the auditorium, one red, and one white with a red sun, spaced about a meter apart.
The host read a very long speech in Russian, the gist of which was friendship, cooperation, prospects, and preciousness.
Shuichi accepted the thanks on behalf of the Saionji family, while twelve researchers sat in chairs below the stage, responsible for keeping their eyes forward and also responsible for enthusiastically applauding after Shuichi finished a segment.
Several boxes of foreign journals used for photos were placed on the right.
The lids were open, and the colors of the covers were brighter than anything else in the auditorium.
Several researchers' gazes lingered on those journals for too long, so long that the person next to them had to gently nudge their elbow.
The person who was nudged quickly withdrew their gaze and looked back at the stage.
Satsuki stood one step behind and to the side of Shuichi, still wearing that reserved smile on her face.
The exhibition hall of the optical research institute was, however, bright.
The glass display cases were wiped clean, with microscopic equipment, measuring instruments, optical lenses, and prism samples arranged neatly.
Several sets of samples were not outdated in design, the lines were very beautiful, and the lens coatings shimmered with a faint bluish-purple under the lights.
The researcher in charge of the introduction spoke very quickly, fingers moving on the drawings, appearing very confident.
The Soviet Union was not crude when it came to these things.
At least not in the exhibition hall.
But the corridor leading from the exhibition hall to the conference room was very dark.
Several doors were not fully closed, and the iron shelves of the storage room were visible through the cracks.
The iron shelves had handwritten labels posted on them: optical glass, precision bearings, imported electronic components.
There was nothing under several of the labels, only logbooks.
The most recent page was filled with dates, quantities, and signatures; the same items were repeatedly registered, but the numbers were getting smaller and smaller.
Two young researchers were speaking in low voices at the corner of the stairs.
When Satsuki passed by, she only heard a few fragmented words.
Rationing, postponement, Finland.
And an English acronym with unclear pronunciation.
The two saw her and immediately stopped.
Satsuki returned a polite smile, without slowing her pace.
The evenings at the theater were the most decent part of the week.
The audience was quiet, the lighting was stable, and the technique of the actors on stage was extremely high.
White skirts unfolded under the lights, like flowers suddenly blooming on the snow.
Satsuki did indeed like ballet and watched it very attentively.
After the performance, she briefly entered the side corridor under the pretext of presenting flowers.
It was much colder there than in the auditorium.
The wall paint was peeling a bit, and the floor had been worn white by footsteps.
Several young actors were waiting by the wall, wrapped in old blankets that had been washed to a grayish color.
Someone lowered their head to untie their dance shoes; bandages were wrapped around their ankles, the bandages also gray, probably having been washed too many times.
When the actress took the flowers, her fingers were very cold, but her smile was very warm.
The photographer took a picture.
The moment the flash went off, the old blankets and gray bandages were illuminated into invisibility.
A very beautiful photo.
The probings of the young translators, however, always occurred when there were no cameras around.
At the hotel elevator, by the car door, in the theater corridor, at the corner of the institute's stairs.
Their foreign language skills were all very good; they could translate Shuichi's diplomatic rhetoric appropriately and handle Kozlov's jokes without being rude.
But once their superiors turned away, they would ask in a very soft voice.
"Is a video recorder in Tokyo really much cheaper than in Moscow?"
"Is it easy to buy Japanese jeans?"
"Are Sony Walkmans always in stock at department stores in Tokyo?"
After asking, they would immediately avert their gaze.
As if it were just a casual remark.
On the last night of the week, Fujita brought back the first batch of feedback from the trading company.
German foundations, American universities, and Finnish academic projects had all been in contact with Soviet researchers.
Some were public academic exchanges, some were business cards passed after conferences, and others were invitations routed through third-party companies.
The list was not long.
But it was enough to show that the Saionji family were not the only ones to have spotted these people.
After reading it, Satsuki placed the pages back on the table.
It was still snowing outside the window.
The muddy footprints left on the red carpet in front of the hotel during the day had not yet been cleaned, and they were already being covered by new ones.
Kozlov would still appear on time tomorrow, and the new itinerary would likely be delivered before nine in the evening.
It was just that there was not much left for the Soviet side to arrange for them to see.
It was time to end this stage play.
Kozlov appeared at nine o'clock sharp the next morning.
Just like every day before, he stood under the hotel portico, his overcoat buttoned up to the very top.
But he was not holding an itinerary.
When Kozlov walked in, his pace was a little slower than usual.
He first shook hands with Shuichi, then bowed to Satsuki, then straightened up and spoke in a carefully considered tone.
"Lord Saionji, Miss Saionji."
"The Moscow trip has now come to a successful conclusion. All visits, handovers, and cultural exchange activities have gone very smoothly, and all superior agencies have expressed high praise for your generosity and sincerity."
He paused for a beat.
"If you plan to return to Tokyo soon, we will arrange a special passage and exit procedures at Sheremetyevo. Flight times can be flexibly adjusted according to your needs."
Shuichi nodded slightly, his gaze gentle.
"Mr. Kozlov, thank you for your thoughtful arrangements these past few days."
Just as he was about to continue, Satsuki spoke softly.
"Mr. Kozlov."
Kozlov turned to her.
"Yes, Miss Saionji?"
Satsuki tilted her head slightly, her tone carrying a hint of embarrassment.
"Actually, I have a somewhat immature idea."
Kozlov's shoulders tensed subconsciously.
In the past week, he had learned one thing—when this Eldest Miss of the Saionji family said the words "not very mature," what followed was often something as mature as it could possibly be.
"Please, go ahead."
"It is rare for my father to leave Japan." Satsuki looked at Shuichi. "He is almost tied to Tokyo by his work on a daily basis. This trip was originally intended to let him rest a little."
She turned her gaze back to Kozlov.
"The Moscow itinerary was wonderful, but I have always regretted not having the opportunity to go to Leningrad. The Winter Palace, the Neva River, the Kirov Theatre... I have read about these places for many years."
She smiled, a smile that fell exactly between "sincere" and "coquettish."
"So I would like to accompany my father to Leningrad in a private capacity. No formal arrangements are needed, just a stroll, looking at paintings, and attending a ballet."
She paused.
"Of course, if this causes you too much trouble, we will not insist."
Kozlov's smile froze on his face for a second.
His gaze shifted from Satsuki to Shuichi, and then back again.
Shuichi did not rush him.
He just held his tea and added naturally.
"It is shameful to say, but I read quite a bit of Russian literature in my youth and have always wanted to see the Neva River with my own eyes. But every time, I could not get away because of work."
He sighed with a smile.
"It is rare to be out this time, and after being persuaded by my daughter, I am truly tempted."
Kozlov was silent for three seconds.
From his perspective, there were two ways to handle this.
The first was to politely persuade them to return to Tokyo.
The reasons were sufficient—the itinerary was full, reception resources in Moscow could not be extended indefinitely, and Leningrad would require re-coordinating with foreign affairs departments and local friendship associations.
But there was a problem: the Saionji family had just donated supplies with a total value of $5 million.
This number was not small, and its implied political meaning was far more important than the number itself—a Japanese Kazoku Zaibatsu proactively reaching out to the Soviet Union.
In the current international environment, this could be packaged into many things.
If they were sent away now, this story would end in Moscow.
But if they were allowed to stay—to go to Leningrad, see the Winter Palace, listen to ballet, take more photos—then this story could be told longer, more beautifully, and would be more suitable for inclusion in the friendship association's annual report.
Besides, rather than letting the Saionji party return to Tokyo to independently recount their experiences in the Soviet Union before the Japanese media and business community, it was better to keep them where the foreign affairs department and the friendship association could see them.
Guests within sight were always safer than guests out of sight.
Kozlov's smile relaxed again.
"Miss Saionji, that is a wonderful idea."
His tone even carried a hint of enthusiasm.
"Leningrad is one of the most beautiful cities in our country. The Winter Palace's collection is world-famous, and the Kirov Theatre's ballet is also of world-class level."
"I will immediately contact the branch of the friendship association in Leningrad to arrange for reception and accommodation."
"As for transportation, I suggest taking the overnight train from Moscow to Leningrad. The 'Red Arrow' is our country's finest long-distance train, and many international dignitaries have experienced it."
Shuichi nodded.
"Then I will trouble you."
"Not at all, not at all." Kozlov waved his hands repeatedly, then added, "Of course, the specific arrangements will need a day or two to coordinate. If you do not mind, you can have free time in Moscow for the next two days, and I will arrange for a vehicle and a liaison officer to accompany you."
"Thank you so much."
Satsuki bowed slightly.
"Mr. Kozlov, you have really been a great help."
Kozlov showed a sense of satisfaction at being trusted, and his pace when he left was lighter than when he arrived.
The revolving door turned once.
The lobby became quiet again.
Shuichi took a sip of tea.
"The Red Arrow." He repeated the name, his tone carrying a hint of amusement.
"The name certainly sounds like something from the Soviet Union."
Satsuki did not respond.
She walked to the window on the side of the lobby, watching Kozlov's figure disappear into the snow outside the door.
"Father."
"Yes."
"Are you not going to ask me why I want to go to Leningrad?"
Shuichi placed his teacup on the windowsill and stirred it slowly.
"Leningrad has the Winter Palace, and the Winter Palace has paintings. You like paintings."
"And you had the pages about Leningrad in the travel guide dog-eared before we even left."
Satsuki's eyelashes fluttered.
Shuichi smiled.
"Do you really want to accompany me on this trip?"
Satsuki stood in front of the window.
Moscow outside was gray and hazy, with snowflakes still falling, landing on those wide streets and square buildings.
She was silent for a few seconds.
During those few seconds, Shuichi did not rush her.
He just held his tea, as if waiting for an answer that did not need to be rushed.
"Yes, Father."
Her voice was a little softer than usual.
"This time, it is true."
Shuichi looked at her profile.
The gray light from outside the window fell on her face, the scarf covering the lower half.
The exposed part, her brows and eyes, were very quiet.
He reached out and pressed gently on the top of her head.
"That is good."
Satsuki did not dodge.
She even tilted her head slightly, leaning towards the direction of that hand.
Then she straightened up, transforming back into that Kazoku Eldest Miss standing half a step behind and to the side of Shuichi, with a reserved smile.
"I will go have Fujita make preparations."
"Yes."
When she walked to the door of the side hall, Shuichi said from behind.
"Satsuki."
She turned back.
Shuichi was holding his teacup, his expression no different from usual.
"If there are boats on the Neva River, we will take one."
Satsuki was taken aback for a moment.
"The Neva River in November is probably already about to freeze over, Father."
"Then we will look at it from the shore."
Satsuki looked at him.
Shuichi's hair looked whiter under the yellowish light of the hotel than it did in Tokyo.
His overcoat was draped over the back of the chair beside him, he had not taken off his scarf yet, and his posture holding the teacup was very relaxed.
He really looked like a father on vacation.
"Okay," Satsuki said.
Let us go to Leningrad.