Reborn in Tokyo: From Heiress to Global Tycoon

Chapter 119 The "Poet" of Ikebukuro

October 3, 1988, 2 PM.

Ikebukuro, Toshima Ward, Tokyo.

Unlike the affluent elites of Akasaka or the extravagant old money of Ginza, the air in Ikebukuro is filled with a more chaotic and vibrant atmosphere of ordinary people. The Yamanote Line trains roar overhead, and the crowds in front of the station flow like tireless worker ants between the huge underground passages and department stores.

Under a greyish-white sky, Seibu Department Store's Ikebukuro Main Store stands like a colossal, modern temple beside the bustling train station. A huge banner hangs on its exterior wall, bearing the famous quote by copywriting master Shigesato Itoi—a quote worthy of being recorded in the history of Japanese copywriting:

"おいしい生活" (delicious life).

Woody Allen is seen holding up the slogan somewhat comically on the poster, as if mocking this age of overconsumption.

Twelfth floor, Seibu Art Museum.

The exhibition hall was very quiet, with only a slight humming sound from the air conditioning vents.

A retrospective of Marshall Duchamp is being held here. Urinals and bicycle wheels that should have been in a garbage dump are now displayed in exquisite glass cases, radiating an absurd and expensive artistic aura under spotlights.

A middle-aged man wearing a dark gray stand-up collar shirt is standing in front of the famous "Fountain" (that is, the inverted urinal).

He was thin, wore black-rimmed glasses, and had long hair that was casually combed back. His eyes held a melancholy and sensitivity that was more characteristic of a scholar than a businessman.

Diqing 2.

The head of the Seibu Distribution Group, Yoshiaki Tsutsumi's half-brother, and also a well-known poet and writer under the pen name "Tsujii Takashi".

He looked at the urinal as if he were contemplating the most profound philosophy in the world.

"If you sign this, it becomes a work of art."

Tsutsumi Seiji muttered to himself, his voice so soft that only he could hear it.

"If you sign that, it's a contract of servitude."

He wasn't holding an exhibition catalog in his hand, but rather clutching a thin sheet of fax paper tightly. The paper was wrinkled from being soaked in sweat.

The paper's heading bore the logo of "National Land Planning Co., Ltd."

That was a "memorandum" sent by his half-brother, "Emperor Seibu" Yoshiaki Tsutsumi.

The content is very simple, even blunt:

[Given the group's overall financial health and brand image considerations, it is recommended that FamilyMart immediately initiate supply chain reforms. Recommended partner: SA Food. Attached: Cost reduction forecast.]

This is not advice at all.

This is an order.

This was an edict issued by the "emperor" who held the land, the legitimacy of his family, and the lifeline of bank guarantees to this "exiled poet."

"Click".

The sound of high heels clicking on the wooden floor came from behind me.

The pace was steady, neither too fast nor too slow.

Seiji Tsutsumi didn't turn back. At this time, there were very few people in all of Tokyo who could manage to sneak into an exhibition hall that was closed for maintenance.

"When this work was auctioned in New York, it was estimated to be worth three million US dollars."

A cool, clear female voice sounded behind him.

"But in a hardware store, it's only worth thirty dollars."

Tsutsumi Seiji turned around.

Standing before him was a young woman dressed in a beige Chanel suit. She wasn't carrying a designer handbag, but rather a free guidebook given out at the entrance of the exhibition hall.

"Miss Saionji".

Seiji Tsutsumi pushed up his glasses, a gentle but tired smile appearing on his face.

"I heard you just visited my younger brother in Akasaka this morning. What, did the wine there not suit your taste, so you came to my humble abode for a change?"

"The coffee in Akasaka is too bitter."

Satsuki closed the guidebook, her gaze sweeping over the avant-garde artworks in the exhibition hall.

"And there, all you smell there is the stench of money. Unlike here, the air is filled with the fragrance of 'culture'."

She walked to the urinal, stretched out her white-gloved fingers, and traced the signature in the air through the glass cover.

"R. Mutt".

"Duchamp used this pseudonym to mock the entire art world. What he meant was: value is determined by 'ideas,' not by the material itself."

Satsuki turned her head and looked at Tsutsumi Seiji.

"Mr. Tsutsumi, do you think the value of the Saison Group is determined by your 'ideology' or by the 'balance' in your bank account?"

Tsutsumi Seiji's expression darkened slightly.

"Ms. Saionji, if you're here to discuss philosophy, you're welcome anytime. But if you're here as a persuader..."

He waved the fax paper in his hand.

"Then you can go back. FamilyMart is the core asset of the distribution group, and I won't hand it over to an outsider who makes clothes."

"Even if this layman can save you 20% of the cost?"

Satsuki countered with a question.

“Cost isn’t everything.” Seiji Tsutsumi’s voice rose a few decibels, carrying the stubbornness of an idealist. “What we want to create is a ‘lifestyle.’ FamilyMart is not just a place to sell rice balls; it’s a supply station for urbanites, part of Saison culture. Once we hand over the supply chain, we lose control over quality.”

"quality?"

Satsuki chuckled softly.

She walked over to a nearby bench and sat down, her posture as elegant as if she were in her own backyard.

"Mr. Tsutsumi, have you visited any of your convenience stores recently?"

"Do you know what bento boxes taste like these days? The rice is hard, and the fried chicken is soft. Because logistics can't keep up, the contract manufacturers have to add as many preservatives as possible to prevent spoilage."

"Is this what you call 'Saison culture'?"

"Are you suggesting that city dwellers be forced to eat a terrible, cold meal late at night and then lament the hardships of life?"

Seiji Tsutsumi was speechless. He was a macro strategist, a poet; he was concerned with how to buy the InterContinental Hotel and how to bring in Ralph Lauren, not with whether the rice in the rice ball was hard or not.

"That's none of S-Food's business," he said firmly. "We'll build our own factory."

"What should we use to build it?"

Satsuki took a document out of her handbag and gently placed it on the bench.

"Using the $2.1 billion debt you incurred from buying InterContinental Hotels?"

When someone pointed out his weakness, Tsutsumi Seiji suddenly felt a little short of breath.

Just last month, the Saison Group acquired InterContinental Hotels Group in the UK for a record-breaking $2.15 billion. This was one of the largest overseas acquisitions by a Japanese company, shocking the world.

But it also drained Saison dry.

"I've looked at your financing structure."

Satsuki's voice was flat.

"Most of them are short-term bridge loans. The interest rates are outrageously high. The reason the banks are willing to lend money is because they believe that the Saison Group still has two cash cows: FamilyMart and Seibu Department Store."

"But what if the cow gets sick?"

Satsuki pointed to the fax paper in Tsutsumi Kiyoshi's hand.

"If your brother, the president of the National Land Planning Association, suddenly said to the bank, 'I think Saison has some financial problems, and I'm not going to guarantee their debt rollover for next year.'"

"What do you think those bankers will do?"

Seiji Tsutsumi's fingers tightened suddenly, crumpling the fax paper into a ball of waste paper.

he knows.

Of course he knew.

Those bankers would not hesitate to snatch his umbrella, demand early repayment, and drain Saison's last remaining cash flow.

He had always tried to escape his brother's shadow and to prove that "culture" could triumph over "land." But in the end, he found himself still locked in the cage known as the "Tsutsumi Yasujiro Legacy."

A rope was around his neck. The other end of the rope was held in Yoshiaki Tsutsumi's hand.

Right now, Saionji Satsuki is helping Tsutsumi Yoshiaki tighten the rope.

"Are you here to threaten me?" Tsutsumi Seiji's voice was a little hoarse.

"No."

Satsuki shook her head.

"I've come to save you."

She stood up and walked to Tsutsumi Seiji. The two were very close, close enough that Tsutsumi Seiji could smell the faint fragrance emanating from her, similar to the scent of old book pages.

"Mr. Tsutsumi, you are a poet. A poet should stand on the clouds and think about how to turn Seibu Department Store into an art museum, and how to turn Muji into a philosophy."

"As for the dirty and tiring work like making rice balls, transporting potatoes, and doing accounts..."

Satsuki reached out and slowly pulled the crumpled fax paper from between Tsutsumi Seiji's stiff fingers.

"Leave it to a commoner like me."

"S-Food isn't here to seize control. We're here to provide a lifeline."

"A 20% cost reduction means FamilyMart's net profit could double. This translates to better financial results, a higher stock price, and..."

Satsuki unfolded the crumpled paper and smoothed it out.

"And the bank's confidence in you."

"With this confidence, you can continue to buy your hotels and pursue your art. You can also maintain the dignity befitting the eldest son in front of your younger brother."

"This is called 'each taking what they need'."

The exhibition hall fell into dead silence.

Only Duchamp's urinal remains upside down, as if mocking this world filled with the stench of money.

Seiji Tsutsumi looked at the girl in front of him.

She was only a teenager, but her insight into people's hearts and her mastery of capital were as sophisticated as a monster who had lived for hundreds of years.

He suddenly felt a deep sense of powerlessness.

Is this what capitalists of the new era are like? No sentiment, no passion, naked efficiency and calculation have replaced everything.

Compared to his younger brother who only knew how to oppress people with land and violence, the girl in front of him, who was smiling and handing him a knife, seemed more terrifying.

She's a born capitalist.

"What if I don't sign?" Tsutsumi Seiji asked the last question.

"Then I'll have no choice but to invest in 7-Eleven."

Satsuki shrugged, her tone relaxed.

"Mr. Toshifumi Suzuki is very interested in my logistics system. If S-Food's supply chain were combined with 7-Eleven's management..."

She didn't continue.

But the meaning is very clear.

If FamilyMart doesn't accept this "gift," then it will become a bullet aimed at it. At that point, under 7-Eleven's onslaught, FamilyMart will suffer a terrible defeat.

Seiji Tsutsumi closed his eyes.

He recalled the look in his father Tsutsumi Yasujiro's eyes before his death, the arrogant face of his younger brother Tsutsumi Yoshiaki, and his own lofty ambition when he signed the contract to buy the InterContinental Hotel in London.

"Art needs bread to sustain it."

He let out a long sigh, looking as if he had aged ten years.

"All right."

Tsutsumi Seiji opened his eyes and took a pen out of his shirt pocket.

"Miss Saionji, you win."

"But I hope you remember the promise you made today. You can make money, but you can't ruin the FamilyMart brand."

"certainly."

Satsuki smiled, her smile impeccably elegant.

I will take it away.

She waved, and Fujita Takeshi, who had been standing at the entrance of the exhibition hall like an invisible man, quickly stepped forward and handed over a contract that had been prepared in advance.

Strategic Cooperation Agreement between S-Food and Saison Group on Fresh Food Supply Chain.

Tsutsumi Seiji didn't read the terms carefully. He knew it wouldn't make a difference. This was a treaty of surrender.

He signed his name at the end of the document. The pen tip scratched across the paper, making a soft, rustling sound that, in the empty art museum, sounded like a mournful cry.

"It's a pleasure working with you, Mr. Tsutsumi."

Satsuki put away the contract, her face still displaying a polite smile.

"Believe me, this step is the beginning of Saison Group's rise to glory."

It is also a countdown to destruction.

"I want to be alone." Seiji Tsutsumi turned around and faced the urinal again.

"Then I won't disturb your enjoyment any longer."

Satsuki bowed slightly in greeting.

She took Fujita Tsuyoshi with her and turned to walk towards the exit.

The sound of high heels clicking on the wooden floor gradually faded away.

Satsuki stopped when she reached the entrance of the exhibition hall.

She turned around and glanced at the slightly hunched figure standing under the spotlight.

Around him hung Picasso paintings and displayed Giacometti sculptures. These priceless works of art surrounded him, like a magnificent mausoleum.

"Fujita."

Satsuki said softly.

"You see, this is the poet's end."

"In order to save that castle in the air, he had to sell the foundation stone on the ground."

"When the bubble bursts, these are the people who suffer the most."

"Because he didn't even know how he died."

Fujita Tsuyoshi lowered his head, not daring to reply.

"Let's go."

Satsuki pushed open the heavy doors of the art museum.

Outside the door, the clamor of Ikebukuro rushed in.

The steel wheels of the Yamanote Line screeched against the rails, their shrill cries instantly swallowed by the tsunami of voices in front of the station. Young women in wide-shouldered suits and brightly colored lipstick crossed the zebra crossing like a flock of proud peacocks. The speakers of a roadside record store blasted Akina Nakamori's "Tattoo," the bass vibrating so loudly it rattled the glass windows. Several office workers, reeking of alcohol, stood by the roadside, holding up large sums of yen, trying to flag down a taxi with its "For Hire" light on but refusing to slow down.

This is Tokyo during the bubble economy era, a glittering and extravagant world built on gold and desire.

A dazzling, yet fragile, illusion.