Rebirth in Japan: The Heiress Who Conquered the World

Early December, 1990.

The Leningrad Moscow Station at 5:40 AM.

The lights on the platform were not yet fully on, and cold air crept in from the seams of the carriages; it felt noticeably wetter than the wind in Moscow.

It was close to the sea here.

Even if the sea was not in sight, that scent was already mixed into the wind, blowing from the direction of the Neva River, passing through the station’s high vaulted ceiling, and landing on the shoulders of everyone who had just arrived.

The motorcade waiting on the platform had two fewer vehicles than the one in Moscow: two Volgas and one van.

The drivers all wore dark coats, and when they saw the foreign guests come out, they stood very straight, but they lacked the rehearsed smiles of Kozlov.

The receptionist from the Leningrad Friendship Association was a young woman wearing a grey beret with a small badge pinned to her collar.

She greeted Shuichi in Russian, then quickly switched to slightly stiff English, saying that the motorcade was ready and the residence on Kamenny Island had been cleaned.

As the motorcade pulled out of the station, the sky was still dark.

The first impression this city gave was completely different from Moscow.

After leaving the station, the motorcade drove along Nevsky Prospect.

The streets were not yet bustling in the early morning, but trams were already moving slowly along the tracks, with people in dark coats squeezed inside the windows.

The buildings along the road still retained the scale of the Imperial era; pale yellow, light green, and grey-white facades stretched out in a line, and the window frames and cornices had more detailed decorations than in Moscow.

It was just that those decorations were already draped with icicles, the peeling walls revealed dark underlayers, the iron railings had rust, and piles of snow that had not been cleared in time remained under several porches.

It was more European and more refined.

But this refinement did not make one feel affluent; instead, it revealed a strange exhaustion due to the decay, like someone who used to be very particular, who would keep their collar neat and tidy even if their cuffs were frayed.

Satsuki watched for a long time through the window.

Shuichi sat beside her, holding a temporary city map provided by the Leningrad side, and after looking at it for a while, he folded the map and placed it on his lap.

”It is not quite the same as Moscow,” he said.

Satsuki responded softly.

”Moscow is like the center,” Shuichi gazed out the window. ”This place is more like a window.”

This sentence was very light, but it made Satsuki turn her head slightly.

She knew her father was not necessarily making a political judgment; perhaps it was just a businessman’s intuition about the city’s temperament, but that intuition was not bad.

Moscow was still trying hard to prove it was the brain of the empire, while Leningrad had long been accustomed to another identity—looking outward, looking toward the sea, looking toward Europe.

The motorcade did not drive into the city center.

After passing the end of Nevsky Prospect, the Volgas turned north, driving along a snow-covered tree-lined avenue into the river fork area.

Satsuki looked out the window and could see the Neva River branching out here, cutting the land into several irregular islands.

The accompanying liaison turned around from the passenger seat and explained in Japanese: ”We are now heading to Kamenny Island, which means ’Stone Island’ in Russian.”

He pointed to the bridge ahead.

”In the 18th century, this was where the Petersburg nobility built their summer villas. After the revolution, all buildings were nationalized, and it is currently managed by the Leningrad City Soviet, specifically for receiving important foreign guests.”

Kozlov had written ”Leningrad State Guest House” in the arrangement letter from the Moscow side, but in reality, this was a standalone villa—or, to use the old-fashioned term, an ”estate.”

After crossing the bridge, the road suddenly became quiet.

On both sides were tall, old trees with no leaves on their branches, covered in white snow.

Behind the trees, one could vaguely see walls and iron gates; it was only after a long interval that a building would appear—each one was independent, with different styles, some were wooden dachas, some were small stone buildings, still bearing 19th-century porches and carved capitals.

These mansions, which once belonged to the counts, generals, and bankers of the Imperial Russian era, now only had a number on their doorplates.

The motorcade stopped in front of a two-and-a-half-story stone villa with a neoclassical facade and a porch supported by four Ionic columns.

There were fine cracks on the columns, but the overall condition was well-preserved.

The garden was covered in snow, and several plaster sculptures stood in the snow, their shoulders and tops white, like people slowly being buried by something.

After getting out of the car, the liaison walked to Shuichi’s side and explained softly.

”This villa originally belonged to the Prince Dolgorukov family of the 19th century. It was nationalized after 1918 and is currently used for Leningrad city foreign affairs receptions, usually only for foreign guests at the ministerial level or above.”

He paused, as if confirming whether the wording was appropriate.

”The Friendship Association believes that given Saionji-kakka’s status, arranging for him to stay here is most appropriate.”

After getting out of the car, Shuichi stood in front of the porch steps and exhaled a puff of white air, looking around.

”This is much more comfortable than that hotel in Moscow.”

Satsuki looked up at the second-floor windows; the curtains were still drawn, and light leaked through the gaps, indicating the heating was already on.

”At least there is no floor attendant,” she said.

Shuichi smiled. ”Indeed. Every time I went out and had to hand over the key, I always felt like I was living in a dormitory.”

The door was opened from the inside, and a middle-aged housekeeper in a dark uniform stood behind the door and bowed slightly, saying ”Please come in” in Russian.

The heating inside was very strong, much better than the Academy of Sciences, and even better than the foreign guest hotel in Moscow.

The floor was old wood, making a slight sound when stepped on.

The furniture frames were in the style of the Tsarist era—high-backed chairs, carved low cabinets, solid writing desks—but the upholstery had been changed later; the colors were dark, the weave was very regular, clearly a product of a Soviet factory from the seventies.

Emi dragged her silver-grey suitcase across the threshold.

”Wow,” she stood in the foyer, looking up at the plaster moldings on the ceiling. ”It is like living in a museum.”

”Let me help you,” Chizuru reached out from behind her and picked up the suitcase.

”Hey—I can do it myself—”

Chizuru had already moved the suitcase to the foot of the stairs.

Unlike the hotel, this villa was nominally for the use of the Saionji party during this period, so Fujita was able to disperse the security personnel he brought throughout the villa, bringing the entire villa under control.

Although there were still some figures everywhere on the perimeter, at least inside the villa, it could be considered a relatively private space.

By three o’clock in the afternoon, the villa was finally quiet.

Shuichi was drinking tea in the living room, and Emi said she wanted to go ”exploring,” running around the house.

Satsuki sat by the window, flipping through the city brochure sent by the Leningrad side.

The brochure was not printed exquisitely, but the content was well-chosen: Winter Palace, Mariinsky Theatre, university, Academy of Sciences, port, shipbuilding industry, food processing, cultural heritage.

Every word still maintained the decency of official Soviet documents, but Satsuki could already see another unwritten word behind those repeatedly emphasized nouns: Money.

At 3:15, the phone in the entrance hall rang.

Fujita answered the phone, said only a few words, and then walked into the living room.

”A call from the Leningrad Friendship Association branch,” he said, ”They said that Comrade Sobchak heard that Saionji-kakka had settled in and hopes to come and greet you on behalf of the Leningrad city side. Arriving in fifteen minutes.”

Shuichi looked up at Satsuki.

Satsuki closed the brochure in her hand.

He knew the phone number here, and knew when they arrived, and even calculated the time between settling in and formally resting.

It seems they are really short of money.

”Please invite them,” Satsuki said.

Fujita left in response.

Shuichi put down his teacup, the slight relaxation after the journey slowly fading from his face.

”Faster than in Moscow.”

”Because he is more anxious than the people in Moscow.”

Fifteen minutes later, the sound of a car came from the entrance of the estate.

A black Volga, older than the ones seen in Moscow, but wiped very clean.

The car door opened, and two people got out.

The first to get out was a man in his fifties, with a tall and straight figure, wearing a dark grey cashmere coat and a dark red scarf.

His movements did not have the rigidness of an officer, nor did he walk every step as part of a system like the Moscow officials; he was more like a university professor, or a lawyer accustomed to persuading others in court.

Anatoly Alexandrovich Sobchak.

He was not yet the mayor in the sense of later generations, but in Leningrad, no one could bypass him to talk about the future of this city.

Following him was a much younger man, around thirty-five, thin and tall, wearing glasses, his light brown hair combed neatly, his dark suit jacket slightly loose, as if it were formal clothes found temporarily between the cold and the rush.

After getting out of the car, he did not look around; his gaze fell directly on the villa entrance, then quickly retracted, standing half a step behind Sobchak.

Satsuki only took one look and recognized him: Anatoly Borisovich Chubais.

At this time, he was still far from the power that would change the fate of Russian assets later, but some people’s danger did not come from their current positions, but from the fact that they had already thought clearly about things others dared not think about.

The meeting was arranged in the living room.

Shuichi was already standing in the living room, and Satsuki was half a step behind him to his side.

Emi had been sent back to her room by Satsuki earlier—”Help me organize the floor plan of the exhibition halls in that Winter Palace art book.”

Fujita led the guests in.

When the man in front walked into the living room, his eyes swept over the layout of the entire room first, then fell on Shuichi’s face; he smiled, stepped forward, and extended his hand.

”Saionji-kakka. I am Anatoly Alexandrovich Sobchak. Chairman of the Leningrad City Soviet.”

His Russian was clear and calm, and after the liaison finished translating, Shuichi smiled and shook his hand.

”Chairman Sobchak, I have heard much about you.”

The two’s handshake stopped at that point; after he let go, he turned to Satsuki, his tone having an extra bit of deliberate gentleness compared to when he treated Shuichi.

”This must be Miss Saionji.”

Satsuki bowed slightly. ”Mr. Sobchak, hello.”

Sobchak nodded, then turned sideways, leading the young man behind him half a step forward.

”This is Anatoly Borisovich Chubais. Director of the City Economic Reform Committee.”

Chubais stepped forward and shook hands with Shuichi.

”Please, please sit,” Shuichi gestured towards the sofa, and the housekeeper had already served dark Soviet black tea.

The four of them sat down; Chizuru stood by the door, hands folded, and Fujita retreated to the hallway.