Rebirth in Japan: The Heiress Who Conquered the World

December 28, 1988.

There were still three months until the spring when the consumption tax bill would take effect, but the winter winds had already given Tokyoites a premature sense of urgent chill.

Setagaya Ward, a FamilyMart convenience store.

The chime of the automatic doors hadn’t stopped since morning. The ding-dong, ding-dong of customers entering had blurred into a continuous line that sounded piercing in the noisy shop.

The store wasn’t playing its usual light background music. Instead, it was filled with the dense zzzt-zzzt of cash registers printing receipts and the sound of customers’ soles scuffing against the floor.

The interior felt stuffy. The smell of boiling oden radish, the grease of fried chicken, and the heat radiating from the crowd made the space of less than a hundred square meters exceptionally oppressive.

The aisles in front of the shelves were hopelessly crowded.

”Make way! Excuse me, coming through!” Store manager Tanaka, drenched in sweat, pushed a trolley full of goods as he tried to squeeze a path through the crowd. The back of his uniform was soaked with sweat, and his glasses were clouded with white mist, forcing him to wipe them with his fingers from time to time.

The trolley was piled high with corrugated cardboard boxes printed with the ’S-Food’ logo.

”Manager! We’re out of curry over here!”

”Manager! Is there any more toilet paper in stock?”

”Hey! That one might be discounted because it’s near its expiry, but I grabbed it first!”

Shouts rose and fell one after another.

Tanaka had just stopped the trolley in front of the third aisle and hadn’t even had time to open the boxes before two hands reached out.

A housewife wearing a dark brown wool coat clutched this week’s supermarket flyer tightly, her nails digging deep into the paper.

”Is this that ’Family Disaster Prevention Pack’ from S-Food?” she asked, pointing at the red label printed on the box: .

”Yes, it just arrived. It’s not even on the shelves yet,” Tanaka began.

”Give me two boxes,” the housewife interrupted, her voice urgent.

”Eh? Two boxes?” Tanaka froze for a moment. ”Ma’am, one box weighs ten kilograms, and although the shelf life is a year, if one family is eating it...”

”I told you to give them to me, so just do it!” the housewife snapped, waving her hand impatiently. A feverish light appeared in her eyes, the same one people got when fighting for sale items at a department store.

”The news on TV said it all. They’re going to start collecting tax on April 1st next year. Three thousand yen now is still three thousand yen, but by next year it’ll only be worth two thousand nine hundred! And this curry has meat in it. I read the papers. Beef prices are going up next year too!”

As she spoke, she reached out directly. Without waiting for Tanaka’s help, she used both arms to heave the heavy cardboard box into her shopping cart.

The shopping cart let out an overburdened creak.

What a robust lady, Tanaka thought as he watched her vigorous retreating figure. He opened his mouth but ultimately swallowed his words.

That was a total of sixty packs of curry. Even if this family ate curry every single meal, they’d be eating it until next summer. To save a few hundred yen in tax, she had prepaid for half a year’s worth of meals.

Was this calculation really worth it?

But at this moment in the convenience store, no one was doing that math.

Thanks to the terrifying influence of the Saionji Family, within a few days the citizens of Tokyo had been saturated with news of the consumption tax. The panic over the tax hike was amplified layer by layer by ubiquitous psychological suggestions.

When an entire society begins to panic, the already limited space for independent thinking in the minds of the masses gets crowded out.

Red promotional labels were plastered on every shelf. The words printed on them — ’3%’, ’Price Hike Warning’, ’Final Deadline’ — were all forms of psychological suggestion, constantly stimulating people’s optic nerves.

In front of the instant noodle shelf, a salaryman in a suit was sweeping rows of cup noodles into his basket.

In the daily necessities section, an elderly woman was stuffing dozens of alkaline batteries and light bulbs into her grandson’s schoolbag, muttering, ”Buy more while the price hasn’t gone up. They won’t go bad anyway.”

People had equated ’buying things that don’t go bad’ with ’making a profit.’ Everyone had a reason to put their mind at ease, because after all, it wouldn’t go bad if they bought it.

A long queue had formed in front of the checkout counter.

Everyone’s basket was stuffed full. The cashier’s fingers jumped rapidly across the keyboard, making a da-da-da sound.

”That will be twelve thousand eight hundred yen in total.”

”Card,” the housewife from earlier said as she handed over a credit card. Her face wore the satisfied expression of someone who had gotten a bargain.

Tanaka retreated to the warehouse and leaned against the door to catch his breath.

In the corner of the warehouse, the black data terminal connected to S-Food headquarters was flickering.

Lines of green characters jumped across the screen:

Tanaka looked at the screen.

He suddenly felt that these customers in a panic-buying frenzy were like individual data points on this machine.

They thought they were saving money. They thought they were fighting inflation.

But in the eyes of that invisible operator, they were just following a written program, obediently emptying their wallets.

December 29th.

Saitama Prefecture, beside National Route 16.

This was a major logistics artery with rolling traffic, and also an outpost of the Saionji Family’s retail empire.

Under a grey-white sky, a massive white box-like building stood by the roadside. The red square logo — Uniqlo — looked exceptionally striking in the cold winter wind.

The parking lot was already full. Temporarily parked vehicles even occupied one traffic lane, causing local congestion on the national highway. Security guards in fluorescent vests blew whistles and waved red batons, trying to direct this flow of steel, but to little effect.

Inside the store, the noisy voices and the clatter of clothes hangers hitting each other drowned out the background music.

White shelves reached straight to the ceiling, and the fluorescent lights were bright enough to make one dizzy.

Red, yellow, blue, green — tens of thousands of colored T-shirts and sweatshirts were folded into neat squares, filling every cubby and forming vibrant walls of color.

”1,900 yen! For 3 items!” the extremely simple slogan played on a loop over the broadcast.

In the aisles, customers pushed their carts with rough and direct movements.

”Over here! There’s still black thermal underwear in size L over here!” a father called out as he tossed a whole dozen black packages into his shopping cart. He wore a somewhat worn jacket with a few paint stains on the cuffs.

He didn’t even need to try them on, nor did he need to ask about the fabric composition.

For him, the department stores in Ginza were too far, and the clothes there were too expensive. But here, in this bright, clean, yet extremely cheap white box, he had actually found a kind of freedom where he didn’t need to look at the price tags.

”Honey, how about this one?” the wife beside him asked, holding up a pink fleece jacket.

”Buy it,” the man said without even looking, just nodding. ”Get some for the kids, for our parents, buy it all. They’ll have to wear them next year anyway. While there’s no tax, let’s buy next year’s share too.”

”But the wardrobe at home can’t fit any more...”

”Then throw the old ones away!” the man said. He seemed somewhat irritable, and his anxiety about the uncertainty of the future had all been converted into a desire to purchase.

Their family was originally ordinary working class. The skyrocketing prices of this era were already enough to give him a headache, and now this consumption tax had appeared. The already unclear future suddenly became even darker.

”Listen, if we don’t spend this money now, it’ll depreciate by 3% next year. This is helping us save money,” he insisted.

”I suppose...” the wife muttered in response and put the clothes into the basket.

At the checkout counter, over a dozen machines were operating simultaneously.

Beep, beep, beep.

The sound of the scanners merged together like some kind of rapid electronic music.

Tadashi Yanai stood in his second-floor office, looking down at the moving sea of colors below through the floor-to-ceiling glass.

He held a cup of coffee that had already gone cold. The surging heads of the crowd below were reflected in his glasses.

The hundreds of thousands of items of backstock in the warehouse were disappearing at a rate visible to the naked eye. Those slow-selling products that had once kept him awake at night, worrying they would rot in his hands because he couldn’t sell them as fast as the Shanghai Factory produced them, had now become hard currency that people were fighting over.

He picked up the walkie-talkie and pressed the talk button.

”Warehouse department, pull out all the goods from Zone D,” he ordered. ”Don’t worry about making the displays look good. Just stack the boxes directly in the aisles.”

”Open the boxes and let them take the items themselves.”

Putting down the walkie-talkie, Tadashi Yanai watched the customers downstairs who were even starting to snatch clothes directly from the cardboard boxes, and his mouth twitched slightly.

December 30th, evening.

Shinjuku, Yasukuni-dori.

The neon lights had just come on, dyeing the damp ground in a blur of colors.

In front of a newly opened Live House, several young people carrying instruments were walking out of the basement.

The girl walking in the middle stopped and adjusted the guitar bag on her back.

Okura Masami took a deep breath. The cold air mixed with the aroma of street barbecue and flooded into her lungs. She wore a black leather jacket, a simple white crew-neck Uniqlo T-shirt underneath, and slim-fit jeans and Dr. Martens on her lower half.

Her hair was cut short and dyed flaxen, making her look capable and energetic. There was no heavy makeup on her face, only a light layer of lip balm, and her complexion looked rosy and healthy.

”Today’s rehearsal went really well!” the bassist next to her said with a smile. ”Masami, your high notes are getting more and more stable. Next week’s performance will definitely be no problem.”

”Yeah,” Masami said with a smile. She took a crumpled music sheet from her pocket, carefully folded it, and put it into the inner pocket of her jacket. ”That’s thanks to not having to run to the hospital all the time lately. I have time to practice.”

Her father’s condition had stabilized and he was discharged last week, now undergoing rehabilitation in a nursing home. The band’s few underground performances had received a good response, and the money they shared was enough to pay for the nursing fees and rent, even allowing her to save a little.

That feeling of suffocation, of being strangled by life, had finally disappeared.

”Eh? That’s...” the bassist said, pointing across the road.

There was a Uniqlo roadside store with a long queue at the door and ”Year-End Mega Sale” posters stuck on the glass windows.

”So many people. I heard they’re having some kind of ’Tax-Avoidance Mega Sale.’”

Masami looked in the direction he was pointing.

Looking at the crowds queuing in the cold wind to save a few hundred yen, she didn’t feel disdain as she had before, nor did she feel heartache.

She just watched calmly.

”Just as well,” Masami said, patting her guitar bag. ”My socks are worn out. I’ll go buy a few more pairs. Those thick cotton socks are quite comfortable to wear, and it’s not cold on stage in winter.”

”I’ll go too! I heard their fleece jackets are very warm. It’ll be good to buy one as a performance outfit.”

The two crossed the road and blended into the queuing crowd.

Standing in line, Masami listened to the housewives around her discussing next year’s prices and office workers complaining about shrinking bonuses.

She took her wallet out of her pocket, inside of which were several neatly folded bills that, while not thick, belonged to her.

It was her turn.

She walked into the store, habitually took two packs of black cotton socks from the shelf, and picked out a dark gray hooded sweatshirt.

Checkout.

”That will be 2,900 yen in total.”

Masami handed over three thousand-yen bills and took the change and the paper bag with the red logo.

As she walked out of the store, a gust of evening wind blew past.

She tightened her leather jacket, carrying the cheap paper bag in her hand, and walked briskly toward the subway station.

Her reflection appeared in the glass of a roadside shop window.

The girl who once cried because she couldn’t afford a designer trench coat was gone.

Now, she wore the most ordinary clothes, carried a guitar, and had the performance fee she had just earned in her pocket.

She was very grounded.

Late night, 11:00 PM.

Ginza, 7-chome.

The heavy double-layered vacuum glass doors slowly closed, completely cutting off the boisterous clamor of Central Link.

Inside the S-Collection flagship store, the air seemed frozen in the tranquility of a constant twenty-four degrees Celsius. A cold fragrance, a blend of faint bergamot and top-tier leather, floated slowly through the soft beams of the spotlights.

In front of the floor-to-ceiling window, a woman wearing a chestnut-colored mink coat was sunk into a deep purple velvet sofa.

She held a tulip-shaped crystal glass in her hand. The champagne bubbles within were rising and bursting extremely slowly.

A senior shopping guide in a tuxedo, wearing pristine white cotton gloves, carefully brought out a black patent leather box.

The lid was opened.

A Himalayan crocodile skin handbag lay quietly on the silk padding. The gray-and-white gradient color flowed under the lights, like the perennial snow on the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro.

”Madam, this is fresh stock from the Paris workshop. There are only three in all of Asia,” the guide said. His voice was low and steady, exuding a reassuring sense of professionalism. He didn’t push the sale directly, but simply extended a gloved finger to lightly stroke the grain of the leather. ”Next year’s import quotas will be reduced, plus the tax reform in April and exchange rate fluctuations. Headquarters’ view is that the pricing for this type of rare leather goods may be adjusted upward by 15%.”

The noblewoman didn’t look down at the handbag.

She turned her head and looked out the window.

Across the street, the giant clock on the Wako Department Store clock tower pointed to 11:15. In the display window below, red and white ”First Sale” preview banners had already been hung. Although it was still a full twenty-five hours away from that crazy year of 1989, the flow of traffic on the street still converged into a river of light, rushing forward impatiently.

”Wrap it up,” she said, withdrawing her gaze and taking a sip of champagne. Her tone was as casual as if she were buying a bouquet of flowers. ”Also, the cashmere coat on the window mannequin and that silk scarf in the same color scheme. Wrap them up together.”

”Certainly, I’ll process that for you right away,” the guide said with a slight bow, then briskly put the handbag back into the box.

The noblewoman pulled a black American Express Centurion Card from her purse and handed it over.

Beep.

The card machine spat out a long receipt.

She signed her name on the signature line. The tip of the pen glided across the thermal paper with a faint shasha sound. The handwriting was scribbled, yet it exuded a sense of nonchalant composure.

For her, this was merely exchanging those soon-to-be-devalued numbers in her bank account for some harder, more beautiful substances that were more resistant to the erosion of time.

The guide handed back the card and the beautifully packaged paper bag with both hands.

”May S-Collection accompany you through a warm winter.”

The noblewoman took the paper bag and stood up.

She walked to the floor-to-ceiling window and looked at her reflection in the glass. Her face had exquisite makeup, yet there was an unmistakable exhaustion at the corners of her eyes.

Outside, the red lights of a police car flashed in the rainy night, piercing the Ginza sky.

She turned and walked toward the door.

Her high heels stepped on the thick wool carpet, silent.

December 30th, midnight.

Bunkyo Ward, Saionji Main Family Residence.

The light in the study was still on.

Senior Managing Director Endo stood before the desk and gently placed the final summary report on the tabletop.

”Young Lady, Head of House. As of 10:00 PM tonight,” Endo said. His voice suppressed a trembling excitement. ”Across thirty Uniqlo stores in the Kanto region, the inventory clearance rate has reached 75%. Cash recovered: 2.8 billion yen.”

”For the S-Food convenience store channel, the sell-through rate for disaster prevention stockpiling kits is 90%. Cash recovered: 4.2 billion yen.”

Shuichi sat in a large leather chair, twirling a fountain pen in his hand.

He looked at those numbers and didn’t speak for a long time.

”Seven billion,” he said quietly.

In just a few days, from the pockets of ordinary people trying to save a few hundred yen in taxes, such a golden river had converged.

”The power of panic is truly astonishing,” Shuichi lamented in a low voice.

Satsuki stood by the window, her back to the room.

She looked at the night outside. The snow had stopped, and the moonlight spilled onto the accumulated snow in the courtyard, reflecting a cold radiance.

”That’s right, Father,” Satsuki said as she turned around. She walked to the desk and reached out to press her hand on the thick stack of reports.

Her fingertips felt the warmth of the paper.

”Collective panic is irrational,” she said. She picked up the report and casually flipped through a few pages, her eyes scanning the dense transaction data. ”The cheap cotton socks bought by those working girls in the roadside stores, the haute couture handbags swiped by the noblewomen of Ginza, and the curry brought home by the housewives.”

”These things can give them a sense of security when facing the unknown next year.”

”We have simply placed that sense of security on the shelves.”

The sound of a car passing by came from the distance, its wheels crushing the thin ice on the road.

Satsuki closed the folder with a soft snap.

”Deposit the money well,” she said. ”This sum of money is our introductory gift for welcoming 1989.”

She walked to the floor-to-ceiling window and looked at the orange-red lights of the Tokyo Tower in the distance.

The wall clock pointed to twelve o’clock.

The second hand jumped over the last notch.

December 31st has arrived.

Outside, the last snowflake landed on the glass, instantly melting into a water mark and slowly sliding down.