Reborn in Tokyo: From Heiress to Global Tycoon

Chapter 24 The Envoy Heading South

February 1986, Narita Airport, Chiba Prefecture.

The sky was a murky, leaden gray, like a soiled rag. Fine sleet pelted the huge floor-to-ceiling windows of the waiting hall, leaving winding streaks of water that blurred the outlines of the massive iron birds on the tarmac.

The lobby was blasting heat, and the sounds of announcements, luggage wheels rolling, and friends and relatives saying goodbye mingled together, creating a wave of noise known as the "going abroad craze."

In this winter of rapid yen appreciation, overseas travel has suddenly become affordable and attractive for ordinary Japanese middle-class people. Going to Hawaii to play golf and going to Paris to buy LV bags have become the most fashionable topics of conversation this year.

But in an inconspicuous corner of the North Wing terminal, three men in dark suits seemed out of place with the relaxed vacation atmosphere around them.

Hiroshi Takahashi sat on a cold metal chair, clutching a black briefcase tightly in his hand. His knuckles were white from the force, and the veins on the back of his hand were slightly bulging.

He was very nervous.

This tension stemmed not only from the fact that it was his first time traveling to that unfamiliar country, but also from the heavy sense of mission he carried in his briefcase.

"Factory manager, would you like some water?"

The young translator sitting next to me, Kobayashi, handed me a bottle of mineral water. Kobayashi was a recent graduate from Tokyo University of Foreign Studies, still carrying the air of a student, and was curiously observing the fashionable travelers around him.

"No, no need."

Takahashi shook his head, his Adam's apple bobbing. He felt as if his stomach was filled with lead, heavy and he couldn't drink anything.

He raised his wrist and glanced at the slightly worn Seiko watch.

There are still forty minutes until boarding.

Destination: Shanghai.

For the vast majority of Japanese people, it is a distant name that exists only in black-and-white news documentaries and their parents' memories. It is a name associated with isolation, backwardness, and unknown political undertones.

"Takahashi-kun, relax."

Sitting on the other side, the elderly accountant, Sato, slowly wiped his glasses, his tone calm, "We're going on an inspection tour, not to fight a war. I've heard the food there is quite good."

Sato was the financial supervisor appointed by the Saionji family. His eyes were always half-closed, as if he was never fully awake, but Takahashi knew that this old man was as shrewd as a devil when it came to accounting.

"Sato-san, you don't know..."

Takahashi sighed and lowered his voice, as if afraid of being overheard by the tourists around him who were going to Hawaii.

"The targets set by the president are terrifying."

He subconsciously touched the clasp of his briefcase.

There are two things there.

It was the same white T-shirt sketch drawn by the young lady herself, with its childlike lines.

The other item was a letter of appointment with absolute authorization, personally signed by Shuichi Saionji, and a huge letter of credit.

But what followed was a death order.

"We don't want clothes that will last ten years without breaking. We want clothes that we won't feel bad about throwing away even if we only wear them for one season."

"I don't need the best cotton, just the cheapest. I don't need the most advanced machinery, just the most obedient people."

"Cost, Takahashi. I want you to reduce costs to a level that even the beggars in Nagoya would find cheap."

These words echoed in Takahashi's mind like a spell.

As a technician raised with a strong "craftsman spirit," this demand is tantamount to trampling on his professional dignity. Manufacturing garbage? Manufacturing garbage abroad?

But whenever he wanted to argue back, he would recall that snowy afternoon when Shuichi stood on the high platform and smashed the old system with money.

If we don't produce waste, the factory will die.

"Passengers traveling to Shanghai, please proceed to Gate 12 for check-in..."

A somewhat broken Chinese announcement came over the loudspeaker, followed by Japanese.

Takahashi suddenly stood up and straightened the slightly wrinkled hem of his suit.

"Let's go."

He took a deep breath, picked up his briefcase as if it were a machine gun.

Whether it was a minefield or a bottomless abyss ahead, he had no way out. Hundreds of people at Saionji Textile were waiting for this opportunity to make a living.

……

The plane pierced through thick clouds, its fuselage shaking violently several times.

Takahashi sat by the window, gazing at the vast East China Sea below. The sea was a deep black, its waves surging, receding further and further from the bustling and sophisticated Tokyo.

The cabin was quiet.

There were almost no tourists on this flight. Most of them were business delegations like his, or elderly overseas Chinese returning to China to visit relatives.

The air was filled with a unique aroma that blended the smell of stale tobacco with the scent of some cheap airline food.

Three hours later.

The plane began its descent.

Takahashi pressed himself against the porthole, greedily gazing at the land below.

That was the first time he had ever seen this land.

It lacks the dense, circuit board-like orderly streets of Tokyo. Nor does it have the Ginza-style buildings that gleam with glass reflections even during the day.

What came into view was a gray and gloomy color.

The low-rise buildings resemble gray building blocks, scattered haphazardly along the banks of the turbid Huangpu River. Vast expanses of farmland, a withered yellow in winter, stretch to the horizon.

desolate.

This was Takahashi's first impression.

"This is... Shanghai?" the translator, Kobayashi, muttered under his breath, his disappointment barely concealed.

Takahashi remained silent.

In that gloom, he saw something different.

That's a chimney.

Countless towering chimneys were spewing thick smoke into the gray-white sky. Black, white, and yellow smoke mingled together, creating a choking fumes—the very breath of industry.

That was a scene from Japan in the 1930s (Showa 30s).

Primitive, rugged, but that also means... extremely cheap labor.

"Thump."

The landing gear slammed heavily onto the runway.

The plane taxied on the somewhat bumpy concrete runway of Hongqiao Airport. Through the window, I could see huge red banners hanging on the airport building. Although I couldn't understand the Chinese, the bright red stood out starkly against the hazy background.

The hatch opened.

A damp, cold air, carrying the smell of coal smoke, rushed in.

That's the smell of winter in Shanghai.

"Welcome! Welcome, Japanese friends!"

As soon as we stepped off the covered bridge, several middle-aged men dressed in dark blue Zhongshan suits warmly greeted us. They were all smiles and held up signs that read "Warmly welcome the Saionji Textile Inspection Team".

The man in the lead grabbed Takahashi's hand and shook it violently, so violently that Takahashi was somewhat at a loss.

"I'm Old Chen from the Shanghai Textile Bureau! Thank you for your hard work! Thank you for your hard work!"

Translator Kobayashi quickly began translating from the side.

Takahashi was somewhat uncomfortable with this excessive enthusiasm. In Japan, business receptions are usually reserved and distant.

But he soon understood the source of this enthusiasm.

That was the look in his eyes when he looked at the "God of Wealth".

In China in 1986, foreign exchange was more precious than gold. Every foreigner who arrived with Japanese yen or US dollars was like a walking panda.

"Director Chen, please take good care of me." Takahashi bowed in the Japanese manner.

"Let's go! The car's all ready! Let's head to the restaurant first!"

Old Chen warmly put his arm around Gao Qiao's shoulder, like an old friend.

The moment Takahashi stepped out of the airport terminal, he was stunned by the sight before him.

It's not because of prosperity.

It was because of... the bicycle.

Thousands upon thousands of bicycles, like a black river of steel, flowed ceaselessly along the narrow road. The ringing of bells rose and fell, creating a grand, noisy symphony.

The cyclists were all dressed in blue or gray cotton-padded jackets, their faces flushed from the cold wind. Their expressions were mostly numb, but when they saw the black Shanghai-brand sedan that had come to pick up the inspection team, their eyes revealed an undisguised envy and curiosity.

It is a primal desire for material things and wealth.

Takahashi rarely saw that look in Tokyo. The young people there only had weariness and emptiness in their eyes.

The car struggled to weave through the flow of bicycles.

"Mr. Takahashi, don't be fooled by the traffic jam." Old Chen, sitting in the passenger seat, turned his head and proudly pointed out the window, "That's our No. 1 Textile Factory, that's the dyeing and printing factory... Shanghai is the textile center of all of China! There's no fabric we can't make!"

Through the car window, Takahashi looked at the huge factory buildings with their red brick walls. Slogans like "Learn from Daqing in Industry" were painted on the walls, and workers were pushing carts loaded with cotton yarn in and out.

This place is like a giant, awakening monster.

Although its movements were still clumsy and its skin was still rough, its enormous size gave Takahashi, who came from an island nation, an instinctive sense of oppression.

"Labor costs..." Takahashi suddenly spoke, asking the question that concerned him most, "How much do the workers here earn per month?"

Kobayashi translated it.

Old Chen was taken aback, seemingly not expecting the Japanese guest to be so direct.

He held up one finger and then made a circle.

"One hundred?" Takahashi guessed. "One hundred dollars?"

One hundred US dollars is approximately twenty thousand yen. This is already one-tenth of a Japanese worker's salary, which is very cheap.

Old Chen shook his head, his smile somewhat simple and honest.

"One hundred yuan."

The translator, Kobayashi, was stunned. He quickly calculated the exchange rate in his mind, then said to Takahashi with a strange expression:

"The factory manager...he said it was one hundred RMB."

"How many yen is that?"

"According to the black market... no, according to the official exchange rate, it's roughly... around five thousand yen."

Five thousand yen.

Takahashi gripped the back of the seat in front of him tightly, his knuckles turning white from the force.

In Japan, this amount of money wouldn't even be enough for a decent dinner in Tokyo. But here, it's equivalent to a skilled textile worker's monthly wage?

One-twentieth? No, it's one-fortieth!

"And," Old Chen added, "that includes bonuses. For apprentices, it's even less."

Takahashi leaned back in his chair and let out a long breath.

Looking out the window at the crowds of people riding bicycles, he suddenly felt that they were no longer a gray backdrop, but rather a walking gold mine.

The white T-shirt that Satsuki-sama drew for 300 yen...

You can actually do it here.

It can even be cheaper.

……

In the evening, the convoy arrived at the Bund.

The delegation was accommodated at the famous Peace Hotel. This Gothic building with its green copper roof was once the tallest building in the Far East and a testament to the prosperity of old Shanghai.

The room was carpeted with thick carpets and furnished with old-fashioned mahogany furniture. Although the furnishings were somewhat outdated, they still exuded an elegance reminiscent of a fallen aristocrat, which made Takahashi feel a sense of familiarity.

The banquet was held in the Dragon and Phoenix Hall on the eighth floor of the hotel.

The dishes were plentiful, including braised pork, squirrel-shaped mandarin fish, steamed buns... and Moutai liquor with a very high alcohol content.

The Chinese delegation took turns toasting, offering words of encouragement for "Sino-Japanese friendship" and "win-win cooperation." Although Takahashi was not a heavy drinker, he forced himself to drink a few glasses.

Alcohol made the atmosphere lively.

"Mr. Takahashi," Old Chen asked, his face flushed and emboldened by the alcohol, "how much money do you plan to invest this time? How big of a factory are you going to build?"

Takahashi put down his glass. His face was flushed, but his eyes were unusually clear.

He remembered Shuichi's instructions. Here, he couldn't show weakness, nor could he appear too eager. He had to be the one who took the initiative and gave.

Money is not a problem.

Takahashi spoke slowly in Japanese, waiting for Kobayashi to translate.

"The Saionji family has plenty of money. We can bring not only capital, but also Japan's most advanced management experience, and... orders to the American market."

Upon hearing the words "American order," the Chinese staff at the table's eyes lit up.

"However," Takahashi changed the subject, tapping his fingers lightly on the table, "we want absolute control. The factory must be managed according to our rules. The quality standards must be set according to our requirements."

"Furthermore, we need to see sincerity."

"Land, taxes, utilities... if these costs don't satisfy us, we can always go elsewhere. I've heard that Guangdong would also welcome us."

This is a game of strategy.

Old Chen's expression changed slightly, but he quickly put on a smile again: "No problem! Everything is negotiable! The conditions in Shanghai are absolutely the best!"

The dinner lasted until late at night.

When he returned to his room, Takahashi was already slightly tipsy.

He didn't turn on the light, but went straight to the window and pulled back the heavy velvet curtains.

Outside the window, the Huangpu River flows wide.

The river flowed quietly in the night, with a few barges occasionally passing by, emitting a muffled whistle.

On the opposite bank, Pudong was still a dark expanse of farmland and warehouses, with only a few scattered lights flickering in the cold wind.

There was neither the Oriental Pearl Tower nor the Jin Mao Tower; it was a vast, silent darkness.

But in Takahashi's eyes, that darkness seemed to have an infinite gravitational pull.

He took out the sketch of the white T-shirt from his briefcase and gazed at it for a long time in the moonlight streaming through the window.

"300 yen..."

He muttered to himself.

On this cold winter night, in this foreign hotel, he finally understood the 12-year-old girl's ambition.

This is more than just a piece of clothing.

This is an unprecedented arbitrage game that takes advantage of the huge gap between the two worlds.

Japanese capital, Chinese labor force, and American market.

What connects these three is the Saionji family.

"S-Style..."

Takahashi affixed the sketch to the cold glass, facing the dark opposite bank, as if declaring war on the future.

"Since you want cheap clothes, then I'll make you the cheapest clothes in the world."

He loosened his tie and felt a fire burning in his chest.

The cold winds of Nagoya extinguished the embers of the old era, but here, on the banks of the Huangpu River in Shanghai, new flames are being ignited.

Tomorrow, he will go to those factories to select those who will sew wedding dresses for the Saionji Empire.