In Leningrad on December 31st, it got dark much earlier than in Tokyo.
Just past three in the afternoon, the sky outside the window had already begun to darken.
The wind blowing from the direction of the Neva River had swept away the last few withered leaves from the branches, leaving only bare birch trunks standing in the snowy courtyard of the villa, like a row of plucked specimens.
Inside the state guest villa on Kamenny Island, the atmosphere today was completely different from the previous few days.
Sobchak had not arranged any meetings, and Chubais had not sent over any more documents.
When Kozlov left yesterday, he had said, "I wish you all a pleasant New Year's Eve," his tone finally lacking that flavor of using official jargon like lubricant to grease the conversation.
Emi was lying by the long table in the living room, with a small television borrowed from the hotel spread out in front of her.
On the screen, something that looked like a variety show was playing, with several men in flashy costumes speaking on stage, the Russian subtitles scrolling by rapidly.
"What is this person saying..." Emi leaned her face close to the screen, trying to read his lips. "Chizuru, can you understand?"
Chizuru was at the counter in the kitchen, arranging the Japanese snacks she had brought onto a plate one by one.
She looked up at the TV screen.
"I do not understand."
Emi pressed her face against the table. "Soviet New Year's programs are so strange; they are completely different from Japan's Kōhaku Uta Gassen."
"Can you even understand Kōhaku Uta Gassen?"
"Even if I do not understand it, I can still listen to the songs." Emi lifted her head from the table. "With this one, I cannot even understand the songs."
Satsuki sat in the armchair by the window, a Russian travel guide that she had already flipped through more than halfway resting on her lap.
Her gaze followed the window glass outward, landing on the embankment on the opposite side of the river branch.
People passed by on the road occasionally.
A middle-aged couple wearing old cotton-padded coats carried a small fir tree, with a few colored paper ribbons tied to it that flapped in the wind.
An old woman wrapped in a headscarf walked by slowly, clutching a paper bag from which the metal seal of a champagne bottle protruded.
After that, three young people ran across the road; the candy box one of them was holding in their arms popped open from the jostling, and colorful candy wrappers flew out, landing on the grayish-white snow like scattered flower petals thrown by someone.
Supplies were still scarce.
When they passed Nevsky Prospect the day before yesterday, there were still long queues in front of the shops.
But today, these people were carrying cheap Soviet champagne, a few candies, and a fir tree not even as tall as an arm, walking much faster than when they were queuing.
Satsuki closed the travel guide and placed it on the windowsill.
This city was very interesting.
On one hand, they were so poor they were about to sell their medals, yet on the other, they insisted on placing a sprig of fir on the windowsill and a bottle of cheap champagne on the table.
She recalled the empty display windows of GUM and the workers holding cardboard signs in front of the Winter Palace.
Those people would probably also be sitting in their own homes tonight, turning on the television, waiting for the New Year bells to ring, waiting for everything to get a little better after midnight.
She would not mock these people, but it was a pity that the situation would not get any better.
If no miracle happened, the Soviet Union in this world would likely also announce its dissolution on December 26th of next year.
Watching the people rushing home outside the window, she thought of something else instead.
If an old palace was marked for demolition, then before the bulldozers arrived, the things worth doing were to identify in advance which bricks could be hauled away, which iron gates could be dismantled, and which pillars had stone materials that could be used for other purposes.
When the Moscow television stations stopped playing the Soviet national anthem next year, there would be people fighting for oil fields, people eyeing mines, and people competing for fleets and military factories.
Everyone would look at the biggest, most conspicuous ones.
Which bricks were worth hauling away, which pillars could be reused, and which iron gates could be melted down and recast.
Satsuki had already listed them out in her mind.
While she was thinking about this, there was a knock at the door downstairs.
After a moment, Fujita pushed the door open and entered.
He held a kraft paper envelope in his hand; the outer layer of the envelope was sealed with the standard sealing tape of the Saionji Group headquarters, and it also had a white airmail label attached to it.
"Eldest Miss, end-of-year mail forwarded from Tokyo. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs diplomatic pouch arrived in Moscow yesterday, and the liaison office sent someone to deliver it to Leningrad this morning."
Satsuki reached out and took it.
The envelope was very thick, but there was not much that she actually needed to read personally.
There would be no shortage of congratulatory letters sent to the Saionji family at the end of the year.
Greetings from the old Kazoku, business cards from bankers, congratulatory messages from partner companies, courtesy letters from local politicians, and the customary New Year's greetings from the executives of subordinate companies were enough to pile up several cardboard boxes in the General Affairs Office of the Tokyo main residence.
But those things would not be sent to Leningrad.
The General Affairs Department would register them, the Secretary's Office would send replies, and Endo and his office would pick out the parts that had business implications.
In the end, what made it into this kraft paper envelope would only be things that the Tokyo side deemed "the Eldest Miss should not wait until returning to the country to see."
The first document was the routine year-end summary from the Group's General Affairs Department, listing the main congratulatory letters and gift lists received by the main residence.
It was a formal document with no real content.
The second was a short report sent by Endo from Osaka, confirming that the first batch of letters of credit from the Sumitomo manufacturing side had gone through the entire process and were all cleared before the end of the year.
The third was clipped separately behind a white note.
The note was in Endo's handwriting.
— "This document appears to be a year-end greeting, but the content concerns the review of old project data in cold regions for Saionji Construction. It is signed by Gondo Tokuhiro. Subordinate believes it requires the Eldest Miss's personal review."
Satsuki's finger paused on that line of text for a moment.
Gondo Tokuhiro.
She thought for a while before remembering who this former president of Daito Construction was.
This person did not have much interaction with her; for him to send a separate letter now, it was probably...
Satsuki unfolded the letter paper.
The first half was a respectful New Year's greeting.
The wording was proper, the sentence structure conservative, and it used the format of an old-fashioned business letter.
Phrases like "Happy New Year" and "Wishing the Group ever-increasing prosperity" would not attract any attention in any year-end greeting letter to a superior.
The tone of the latter half changed.
"...During the review of parameters for old projects in cold regions, while I was organizing the correspondence between cost specifications and external explanatory materials, I discovered an explanatory risk. The nature of this matter is not suitable for explanation via telegram or regular written channels."
"I earnestly request that, after you return to the country, you grant me permission to report the details in person. Before then, the materials for this item will still be submitted normally according to the Group's notification; I will not take any other action."
The letter stopped there.
After reading it, Satsuki actually chuckled softly.
Emi lifted her head from the TV and glanced at her.
"Satsuki-chan, whose letter is that?"
"A work letter from Tokyo," Satsuki said. "Nothing important."
Emi said "Oh" and turned back to watch TV.
The variety show on the screen had changed to a new group of people; a female singer was singing something, and the melody was actually better than the men talking just a moment ago.
Fujita, who was standing to the side, shifted his gaze slightly.
"Eldest Miss, do you need the Tokyo side to immediately take control of the relevant personnel?"
"Not for now." Satsuki refolded the letter and put it back in the envelope. "Reply to him: wait for a summons after returning to the country; continue organizing the materials as usual, and take no additional action."
Fujita bowed his head.
"Understood."
"The phrase 'take no additional action' must be sent back exactly as is."
Fujita bowed his head again.
"Yes."
Satsuki pressed the envelope under the folder at her side and did not look at it again.
That whole mess with Gondo had already been uncovered in the second month of Maki's tenure.
His letter had not come too early, nor too late.
However, in reality, the money he embezzled had actually further aggravated Tsutsumi Yoshiaki's burden; from the perspective of poison, he could even be considered a contributor.
But the problem was that this would easily give the other side leverage to launch a counterattack.
The fire in Tokyo had not started yet, but he could already smell the smoke; this at least showed that he was not stupid enough to sell himself directly to Seibu.
A person who knows fear is always more useful than someone who thinks they can play both sides.
Seibu could not give him a way out.
What Tsutsumi Yoshiaki needed was a pretext to renegotiate Gokurakukan, not to preserve Gondo's reputation in his twilight years.
When it came time to truly tear things open, remnants like Gondo, who had been incorporated into Saionji from the old Daito Construction, would instead become the most suitable people to be pushed to the forefront as witnesses and dirty gloves.
If he could not even understand this point, he would not have survived until today.
Dinner was prepared by Chizuru.
Dinner was originally supposed to have a formal menu prepared by the Soviet kitchen.
Cold dishes, smoked fish, meat jelly, dishes with sour cream, caviar, roast chicken, desserts, and several bottles of Soviet champagne were listed on the paper, even accompanied by a small line of neat French dish names.
Even though there were long queues in front of the shops in this city, the supply system of the state guest villa could still barely maintain a decent appearance.
It was just that after Satsuki finished reading the menu, she crossed out most of it.
"Let them go back early today too," she said.
Keeping a group of Soviet chefs and waiters in the villa to serve Japanese guests on New Year's Eve was too much like some kind of anachronistic imperial relic.
What Sobchak needed right now was not this kind of superficial formality, but to reduce the resentment of everyone willing to work for him.
So, in the end, the only things left were a few items that had already been prepared: bread, sour cream, smoked fish, pickled cucumbers, a small box of caviar, and a chicken that had been marinated in advance.
Chizuru put the chicken into the oven, and using the miso soup packets and rice brought from Tokyo, she put together a hodgepodge New Year's Eve dinner that was unexpectedly edible.
Emi ate two bowls of rice, picked up a pickled cucumber with her chopsticks, twirled it three times before putting it into her mouth, her expression complex.
"It is sour."
"Soviet pickles are just sour." Chizuru placed the miso soup in front of her. "Drink the soup to wash it down."
Shuichi sat at the head of the table, slowly eating the smoked fish in front of him.
His state today was much better than the previous few days; the fatigue on his face had faded a little, probably because he had not been scheduled to sit at the conference table to entertain Soviet officials for several consecutive days.
After the meal, Fujita cleared away the tableware.
Chizuru brewed a pot of black tea brought from Tokyo; this was Satsuki's habit—no matter where she went, she always brought enough black tea.