For the entire rest of the day, the second floor of the county government building was in complete chaos.
A copy of Thomas's planning map had originally been kept by the county, placed on top of a filing cabinet in the planning department, and it was said to have already gathered a layer of dust.
Now, it was carefully taken down and spread out on the conference table, its four corners weighed down with an ashtray and a stapler.
For the first time, Ray looked through it carefully from beginning to end.
After finishing it, he remained silent for a long time.
The blueprint was drawn much more detailed than he had imagined.
Roads, pipelines, drainage, phasing boundaries, and even the greening ratio of each phase were all clearly marked. Some places had been erased and rewritten several times, causing the paper's surface to fuzz up.
Over the past half year, he had seen this map many times at committee meetings.
But he had never looked at it seriously.
"Ray," the person in charge of water affairs poked his head in, "the data on the water supply is only from 1987. Should we re-estimate it based on the current population?"
"Yeah, go ahead."
"What about the roads? The State Department of Transportation said that the modification plan for the Route 101 exit won't be scheduled until 1995 at the earliest."
"Bring the schedule over. List out everything that our county can pay for in advance to fix ourselves."
"As for the land—"
"Check the ones where Thomas signed a right of first refusal plot by plot. Separate which ones were actually signed and which ones were only verbally promised."
As Ray spoke, he was flipping through the draft of the preferential policy proposal in his hand.
This document had been discussed in the committee for over three months and revised through seven or eight drafts, yet it was still a pile of "supports in principle" and "studies depending on specific circumstances."
Previously, he felt there was nothing wrong with writing it this way.
Anyway, no one ever came to negotiate.
But now...
He picked up the phone and called the chairman of the county board of supervisors.
County Board of Supervisors Chairman Harold Winslow's home was inland, where he owned a vineyard spanning hundreds of acres.
Late September was precisely the harvest season, and the phone rang for a long time before someone picked up.
"Winslow."
The other end of the receiver was very noisy, with the roar of tractors and people shouting loudly in Spanish in the distance.
"Harold, it's me, Ray."
"Ray?" Winslow's voice raised a bit, "Hold on a second."
A burst of footsteps came from the other side, followed by the sound of a door closing, and the noise suddenly quieted down a lot.
"Alright, go ahead. Aren't you having a meeting for the reuse committee today? What happened again? Did the Army advance the schedule again?"
"No."
Ray told him the whole story from beginning to end.
Thomas's phone call, Carlyle's introduction, the meeting at the Waldorf, and the guest who would arrive tomorrow evening.
After he finished speaking, there was not a sound from the other end of the phone.
Ray even thought the line had disconnected.
"Harold?"
"...I'm listening."
Winslow paused for several more seconds before slowly speaking.
"Ray, you aren't joking, are you?"
He had already heard Bud ask that exact same question this morning.
"No, I personally called and confirmed it with Carlyle."
"Saionji," Winslow repeated, as if chewing the words to pieces before swallowing them, "That Saionji from Salomon? That Japanese girl on TV?"
"That's her."
"She's coming in person?"
"She's coming in person."
"...Invited by Thomas Eden?"
"Invited by Thomas Eden."
A long sigh came from the other end of the phone.
Ray could almost picture what the old man looked like right now: standing in his winery's warehouse, one hand on his hip, the other holding the receiver, his brow tightly furrowed.
"Fine," Winslow finally said, "you called not just to tell me this, right?"
"I need to know how much I can actually offer on my end."
Ray looked down at the draft on the table.
"The committee's preferential policy proposal currently says 'supports in principle' everywhere. If she asks, I surely can't tell her 'in principle,' right?"
"Thomas said she asks questions in even more detail than a bank. She can tell at a glance what is real and what is just lip service."
This time, the other end of the phone was silent for a very long time.
Ray didn't rush him either.
He knew what the old man was thinking.
It wasn't that the county had no money, but that was the county's money.
The roads by the vineyards needed repairs, the police force in the northern college town needed bolstering, and the southern beaches had to be cleaned every summer.
A few months ago, right there at the board of supervisors meeting, supervisors from other districts had made it crystal clear: the county could give that town a hand, but it couldn't use the county's funds to fill a bottomless pit.
And Winslow himself had voted that way too.
"Within the scope of your authorization, you call the shots," Winslow finally spoke, "County fee waivers, approval windows, the scheduling of those county roads, and those plots of land the redevelopment agency can move—handle them yourself, no need to ask me again."
"What about beyond the scope?"
"For anything beyond the scope, note it down first."
Winslow's tone became solemn.
"Don't agree on the spot, and don't refuse on the spot either. Whatever she brings up, you just write it down, and come back and tell me word for word."
"Next Tuesday is the board of supervisors meeting. I'll call the others together to specifically discuss this matter."
"Understood."
"Also, Ray."
"Hmm?"
"If this thing actually goes through..."
Winslow paused, a hint of self-mockery in his voice.
"When we hold the meeting next Tuesday, no one will call that town a bottomless pit anymore."
Ray didn't take up the thread, only giving a small smile.
"Do you need me to come over?" Winslow asked.
"No need, you go on harvesting your grapes."
Ray picked up his pen.
"Just have your votes ready by Tuesday."
A chuckle and a curse came from the other end of the receiver, followed by the sound of the line hanging up.
Ray put down the phone and looked down at the draft that had been revised seven or eight times.
He uncapped his pen and crossed out the words "supports in principle" on the first page.
...
Of course, not all discussions were so constructive.
"Where is she staying?"
A little past 3:00 PM, Doris was the first to think of this problem.
The people in the conference room looked at each other in dismay.
This truly was a problem.
The town's own few inns usually housed military dependents visiting relatives at the base and officers on business trips. They were clean, sure, but that was all—just clean.
The county did have a few decent hotels and resorts by the seaside, but those were all prepared for tourists and conference attendees.
Hosting a chaebol's eldest miss who had just stirred up storms on Wall Street?
No one was confident at all.
"Madonna Inn!" Bud slapped the table, "That's the most famous place in the entire county!"
The Madonna Inn was indeed famous.
That pink resort hotel had been open for over thirty years, with every room featuring a different theme, ranging from caves built of stone to Victorian boudoirs draped in lace, offering everything imaginable.
Many tourists passing along Route 101 would specifically detour to take a look.
The problem was that it was simply too full of character.
"You're going to let the Saionji Family's eldest miss stay at the Madonna Inn?" Glen glared at him, "Which room? The caveman room?"
"That room is the most popular!"
"That's for honeymooners!"
"The pink restaurant," Doris rubbed her temples, "and that men's restroom with a fountain... Bud, do you want her to go back to Japan and tell everyone there's a pink castle in central California?"
"That's called being unique!" Bud protested unconvinced, "How many tourists drive over specifically to see that restroom every year?"
"That's called embarrassing."
The two of them argued for a full ten minutes.
In the end, Ray interrupted them.
"The seaside resort and the Madonna Inn—book both places. Reserve all the best rooms."
"Let her choose herself."
...
Then there was the sign of the motel on the main street.
"OCEAN VIEW MOTEL," missing a V and also missing an E.
It had been missing for almost two years, and the owner kept saying he would fix it once business got better.
Bud suddenly remembered this matter when driving past in the afternoon, slammed on the brakes to park by the roadside, and rushed inside to drag the owner out from behind the counter.
By evening, that owner had already set up a ladder and was standing beneath the sign.
Bud held the ladder from below, cursing him while holding it for not fixing it for two whole years.
It was just that it didn't seem to matter much anymore.
The look of that sign missing two letters had already been photographed two days ago and placed on the coffee table at the Waldorf.
...
"Should we notify Sacramento?"
At 7:00 PM, the people in the conference room had already gone through another round of boxed lunches when someone brought this up.
"If the State Department of Commerce finds out, they will definitely send people over."
"Send people then, isn't it good to have extra people to help?"
"Are you an idiot," Glen said, "Once they come, the reception becomes their affair."
"By then, if negotiations succeed it's the state government's credit, and if they fail it's our poor hospitality."
"But if we don't notify them, and they find out later, saying we contacted a foreign consortium behind the superiors' backs..."
"And what about the members of Congress?"
Everyone chattered back and forth, arguing for quite a while.
Ray hadn't spoken the whole time, and only opened his mouth when they were almost done arguing:
"Report it according to procedure. Send faxes to the State Department of Commerce and the congressman's office tonight."
"Report only, do not seek instructions."
"The person was invited by Thomas, and what is being inspected is land in our county. Hospitality is our business."
The conference room quieted down for a moment.
No one objected anymore.
...
The voices of opposition appeared close to 9:00 PM.
Glen looked at the planning map spread out on the table, and as he looked, he suddenly frowned.
"Ray, I still think something is wrong with this."
"What's wrong with it?"
"She's Japanese," Glen said, "Last year, the Japanese just spent over 800 million to buy Pebble Beach up north."
"Now they're coming to buy our base?"
"In a few years, will we have to go to Tokyo to apply just to play golf on the beach right outside our doorstep?"
Several people in the conference room nodded.
Such talk was not uncommon in California over the past two years.
Especially in this town, many people had worked for the U.S. Army all their lives. The Cold War was fought for forty years, and in the end they won, yet their own rice bowls were gone.
Hearing now that a Japanese consortium was coming, it wasn't hard to imagine how they felt inside.
Newspapers were filled every day with news about Japanese people buying which building, which golf course, which movie studio, and there were even people smashing Japanese cars on the streets in Detroit.
When all was said and done, no one liked watching the things right at their doorstep turn into someone else's property one by one.
Ray put down the pen in his hand.
"Glen, I'll say three things."
"First, she is here to inspect, not to sign a contract. They only agreed to come take a look, and after looking, they might not invest a single penny."
"Second, the base belongs to the Army, not us, nor the county. Whether to sell, who to sell to, and when to sell is not up to us to speak, let alone her."
He paused.
"Third."
"At 8:00 AM this morning, right at this table, you suggested turning our town into a prison."
Glen opened his mouth.
Bud beside him couldn't hold it in and let out a chuckle.
Then Doris, then the others.
Even Glen himself finally shook his head with a bitter smile, raised both hands, and stopped talking.
Waiting for everyone to finish laughing, Ray picked up his pen again.
"There is one more thing I need to make clear."
"Tomorrow, nobody should think about writing any welcome speeches."
"She is not here to listen to us talk about how great this town is or how warm the people here are. She can hear these things a hundred times at any investment promotion conference in New York."
"Since she came in person, she will definitely ask what we can actually bring to the table."
"How much is the land, when will the roads be fixed, is there enough water, how much can taxes be reduced, how long will approvals take—"
"I don't want her to finish looking and find out that other than hospitality, we have nothing to offer."
He pushed the draft of the preferential policy proposal—scribbled all over by his own hand—to the middle of the table.
"Tonight, finish revising this."
...
September 28, 1991, Saturday, evening.
At the entrance of the seaside resort, a row of people was already standing.
Everyone was wearing their best suit.
Bud's suit was probably bought ten years ago, and the buttons were somewhat strained. Standing under the sun, sweat kept streaming down his forehead, yet he resolutely refused to take off his jacket.
Doris specially went to the best shop in town to get her hair done.
Glen tied his tie three times, and every single time it was disliked by Doris.
Thomas stood right at the front.
He had gotten off the plane at a little past 6:00 AM this morning, his eyes full of red bloodshot veins, yet he didn't look sleepy at all.
From the morning until now, he had explained his blueprint four times, memorized the condition of each piece of land three times, and repeatedly pulled Ray aside to confirm which parts of that preferential policy proposal could actually be written in.
"How many people is she bringing?" Bud asked for the fifth time.
"I don't know," Thomas answered for the fifth time.
"What kind of person is she?"
"...Didn't you see her on TV yesterday?"
Ray didn't speak, only watching the road leading to the seaside.
The image in his mind was actually pretty much the same as everyone else's.
The girl on TV standing on the podium, wearing a dark suit, with Buffett sitting beside her, and hundreds of suited Wall Street bigshots in the audience.
Calm, composed, her every gesture capable of influencing the entire venue.
That was the real Saionji Satsuki.
When the sun was about to sink into the sea, a few cars finally appeared at the intersection.
Three black sedans, one after another, driving slowly, slowly stopped at the resort's entrance.
Bud subconsciously straightened his back.
Doris reached out to tidy her hair.
Glen's hand touched his tie again.
Several people got out of the front and rear cars first, dressed in dark casual wear, with solid builds. They swept their gazes around the surroundings and stood on both sides of the cars.
Then, the back door of the middle car opened.
The first thing to be revealed was a wide-brimmed straw hat.
The brim was very large, with a light-colored ribbon tied around it, fluttering about in the sea breeze.
Then came a pair of black sunglasses.
Immediately following that was a floral shirt—large, blooming hibiscus flowers, red, yellow, and green, printed all over, lively as if she had just walked down from some beach in Hawaii.
Below the shirt was a pair of shorts, and further down, a pair of sneakers.
The young girl crawled out from the car and stood straight up.
In her arms, she was also holding a coconut.
An opening had been sliced open at the top of the coconut, with a straw inserted into it.
Lowering her head to take a sip, she raised a hand to push her sunglasses upward, revealing a pair of eyes filled with amusement as she looked at the resort and then at the group of people standing in a row at the entrance.
"Mr. Eden."
She waved at Thomas, her voice very brisk and light.
"The ocean here is really nice, except the wind is a bit strong. My hat almost got blown away twice."
Silence fell over the entrance.
Bud's sweat dripped down his chin.
Doris's half-extended hand paused mid-air.
Thomas's face flushed red at a speed visible to the naked eye.
Ray stood there, looking at the young girl in front of him holding a coconut and wearing a straw hat.
Then, he remembered that scene on TV yesterday morning.
The podium, Buffett, and hundreds of Wall Street bigshots standing up to applaud.
He opened his mouth.
Those opening remarks he had prepared for a whole day—he couldn't remember a single word.