Chapter 111 The Award Ceremony of the Akutagawa Prize and the Naoki Prize

Mid-February.

Tokyo, Imperial Hotel.

Tonight is the most solemn and grand night of the year for the Japanese publishing industry—the joint award ceremony of the Akutagawa Prize and the Naoki Prize, which has always been regarded as the supreme "coronation ceremony" in the Japanese literary world.

This year, thanks to an unprecedented name, the scale of the ceremony was elevated to a terrifying level that even the organizer, the Japan Literature Promotion Association, could not have anticipated.

Inside the main banquet hall, the Peacock Hall, several enormous vintage crystal chandeliers illuminated the entire space with crystal clarity.

The stage was piled high with extremely precious white magnolias on both sides, and a string quartet in the corner was playing under the high ceiling, laying a heavy and oppressive foundation for the entire space.

however.

Just forty minutes before this historic awards ceremony was to begin.

Outside the Peacock Hall, separated by a wall, the corridor covered with a thick, dark red wool carpet presents a completely different scene.

The walls on both sides are adorned with exquisitely framed Japanese paintings, and brass wall lamps emit an extremely dim and soft warm light.

Through the tightly closed, ornate door, one could vaguely hear the boisterous sounds of clinking glasses in the banquet hall, as well as the scattered notes of strings from a small symphony orchestra tuning.

Kitahara Iwa stood alone in the middle of the corridor, near the window.

With one hand in his suit trouser pocket and the other holding a glass of ice water that had just been poured from the lounge, he turned slightly to the side and calmly gazed at the courtyard in the night outside the window.

The air in the Peacock Hall was too stuffy.

Hundreds of people at the top of Japan's power pyramid were crammed together, their perfumes, cigars, and the fake laughter typical of the world of fame and fortune mingling together, making him feel he needed to get some fresh air for a few minutes.

Just then, a series of extremely abrupt footsteps came from the corner at the end of the corridor.

The footsteps had a contradictory quality; the pace was extremely fast, but the force of each step was suppressed.

They were like a group of panicked people who were desperately trying to escape, yet were also terrified of disturbing the important figures around them.

Kitahara Iwa turned his head slightly.

Several middle-aged men in dark suits were seen walking briskly from around the corner.

The leader was about fifty years old, of medium build, and his hair, which should have been neatly combed, now had a few strands scattered messily across his forehead.

On the left breast of his suit was a very ordinary paulownia-patterned badge.

This is the standard insignia of bureaucrats in the central government departments of Kasumigaseki.

Two young men, clearly accompanying clerks, followed closely behind him, clutching black document folders tightly in their hands, their facial muscles taut like fully drawn bowstrings.

The moment the leading official caught sight of Kitahara Iwa's silhouette, his pace quickened, and he practically sprinted across the last wool carpet.

Then he abruptly stopped in front of Kitahara Iwa and bowed deeply at almost a 90-degree angle with extreme humility.

"Teacher Kitahara!"

As he straightened up, a fine layer of cold sweat appeared on his forehead. He said, "I'm so sorry to bother you! This is my business card—"

In a great panic, he pulled a business card from the inside pocket of his suit, held it high with both hands, and handed it to Kitahara Iwa.

Kitahara Iwa took it and glanced at it.

[Ministry of Finance, Ministerial Secretariat, Section Chief Assistant]

In Japan's bureaucratic system, a section chief in the Ministry of Finance may not be considered a high-ranking tycoon who can wield great power, but as an elite middle-level manager in the core department of Kasumigaseki, he is used to being flattered on a daily basis.

When small and medium-sized enterprise owners who came to the provincial department to inquire about policy developments or request approvals met him, they all had to politely hand him their business cards and put on a smiling face.

But at this moment, this elite bureaucrat, who was used to being high and mighty, stood in front of Kitahara Iwa with a posture so humble that he was practically dust.

"Teacher Kitahara, please forgive my abruptness."

At this moment, the section chief lowered his voice but spoke very quickly, as if afraid that this window of communication would be closed at any moment.

"First of all, please allow me, on behalf of my colleagues in the Ministry of Finance, to extend my highest respect to you."

"Many of us have read your works, including *The Last Cry*, *Love Letter*, and *Railway Man*. Your insight into this era has deeply impressed us all."

The opening remarks were delivered extremely fluently, clearly rehearsed beforehand.

But Kitahara Iwa could tell that these words of praise were not the goal, but merely a prelude.

Sure enough, the section chief paused for a second, licked his lips which were dry from nervousness, and then changed the subject, saying, "Teacher Kitahara, your status in the hearts of the Japanese people has far surpassed that of an ordinary writer."

At this point, his tone became more earnest, even bordering on pleading.

"Every word you say, every statement you make in public, directly affects the sentiments of tens of millions of people."

"I believe you yourself are well aware of this."

Kitahara Iwa nodded, but did not speak.

Seeing Kitahara Iwa's response, the section chief took a deep breath and continued, "Teacher Kitahara, the stock market is currently experiencing continuous fluctuations, and public confidence is at an extremely fragile critical point."

"At the awards ceremony later, all the media in Japan will be present, and your acceptance speech will be reprinted in full by all major newspapers and television stations."

At this point, his gaze fixed intently on Kitahara Iwa's eyes, completely tearing away the last veil of pretense.

"So, Kitahara-sensei...could you perhaps send out some...optimistic signals in your remarks?"

"For example, could you express your confidence in the resilience of the Japanese economic fundamentals? Or point out that the current pain is only temporary and prosperity will eventually return?"

"With your current influence, even just a few words like this can play a crucial role in stabilizing public sentiment."

After saying this, the section chief bowed deeply again and remained bent over for a long time.

The corridor was quiet for a few seconds.

Kitahara Iwa looked at the hunched-over bureaucrat in front of him, and then at the pale-faced entourage behind him.

Then his gaze passed over the shoulders of these people and landed on the tightly closed door of the Peacock Hall at the end of the corridor.

Light and laughter could be faintly heard through the crack in the door.

Those laughs belong to those who made a fortune during the bubble era.

They belong to those who feasted on the bounty of economic expansion and now try to leave the mess for others to clean up.

What this bureaucrat wanted him to do, to put it bluntly, was...

When the nation's giant ship has already hit an iceberg, and the water in the cabin is almost knee-deep, the helmsman doesn't try to plug the leaks. Instead, he sends a novelist to play some cheerful music on the deck so the passengers can continue dancing in peace.

At that moment, Kitahara Iwa's lips slowly curled into an arc.

But this curve is definitely not a smile.

Kitahara Iwa put down his glass of ice water, leaned forward slightly, and was just about to speak.

Kitahara Iwa was ready to tear open the self-deception of this group of bureaucrats.

I want to tell them that the Nikkei index is far from bottoming out.

In the next ten or even twenty years, this country will experience a recession that is ten times more terrifying than it is now.

What they call "temporary growing pains" to appease the public will become a chronic incurable disease for an entire generation of Japanese.

However, just as Kitahara Iwa was about to speak...

"Teacher Kitahara, so you've been here all along."

A voice came from deep within the corridor behind the bureaucrats.

The voice was extremely calm, even languid, to an almost inappropriate degree.

It was as if they were completely oblivious to the extremely tense atmosphere in the corridor.

Upon hearing this, the section chief of the Ministry of Finance and his entourage turned around in astonishment.

Haruki Murakami walked over unhurriedly, carrying a half-full glass of whiskey with ice.

He was wearing a dark gray turtleneck sweater, and his gait was extremely casual, his demeanor as relaxed as if he were taking a stroll in his own study.

His gaze swept lightly over the few bureaucrats who looked like they were facing a formidable enemy, without lingering for even half a second.

In Haruki Murakami's world, these power machines, dressed in dark suits and wearing provincial chrysanthemum badges on their chests, are just meaningless, lifeless background objects, like the wall lamps in the corridors and the landscape paintings on the walls.

Haruki Murakami walked straight to Kitahara Iwa and said in a casual tone, the kind only used when old friends chat, "Editor-in-Chief Otani and Editor-in-Chief Sato are looking for you inside."

"The awards ceremony is about to begin, it's time to go inside."

Kitahara Iwa glanced at Murakami Haruki.

Their eyes met in mid-air for less than half a second.

In that extremely small moment, Kitahara Iwa perfectly understood the subtext in Murakami Haruki's eyes.

It's not a call to "go in now".

Instead, it's a reminder to myself: "Don't waste any words on this kind of person."

Kitahara Iwao then withdrew his words, turned around, looked at the section chief and the people behind him, and nodded slightly, saying, "I understand why you've come."

It only takes these ten words.

There were no promises, no denials, and no clear statements that the Ministry of Finance could use to make a fuss.

This statement, however, made the section chief's heart sink heavily.

As a seasoned bureaucrat who had spent years observing people's expressions and exchanging favors in Xiaguan, he understood all too well the meaning behind those glances.

He knew perfectly well that when this young man stood in front of the microphone in the Peacock Hall, the Ministry of Finance's idea of ​​using him to whitewash the situation would be completely shattered.

Then Kitahara Iwa turned around and walked side by side with Murakami Haruki toward the Peacock Hall door at the end of the corridor.

The two writers walked in perfect sync, neither hurried nor slow, and in the end, neither of them looked back even once.

In the corridor, the section chief stared intently at the two receding figures, the cold sweat on the back of his shirt turning from a thin mist into a solid, soaking wet patch.

At that moment, a staff member accompanying him leaned forward and asked in a low, tense voice, "Sir, what if... he says something on stage later that could be detrimental to social stability?"

The section chief did not answer, but watched the two figures disappear completely behind the heavy doors of the Peacock Hall, his Adam's apple bobbing with great difficulty.

He was absolutely certain.

Something big is going to happen tonight.

Forty minutes later.

As the heavy doors of the banquet hall were slowly pushed open by the ceremonial staff.

Inside the Peacock Hall at this moment, the dazzling crystal chandelier casts an oppressive light.

As the joint award ceremony officially began, the audience was already packed.

The first three rows were filled with high-ranking officials from the Literary Promotion Association, past judges of the two major awards, and all the well-known literary giants and venerable elders in the Japanese literary world…

The seats in the middle were divided up by major publishing giants. Haruki Kadokawa sat on the right side by the aisle, dressed in a sharp suit. Hideaki Otani sat next to him, with the evening's program manual on his lap.

On the left, in the Shincho Club seat, Kenichi Sato had his tie perfectly tied, but his hands, hidden under the tablecloth, were rubbing their palms together uncontrollably, revealing his extreme tension and excitement.

Further on, came the political and business tycoons who came after hearing the news.

Several senior staff members of conglomerates, two members of parliament from the opposition party, and even a few faces that had just appeared on the cover of the Ministry of Economy, Trade and Industry's annual report.

The vast majority of them have no interest in pure literature in their daily lives.

The reason I'm sitting here tonight is simple: in this harsh winter of bursting bubbles and the accelerated collapse of the old order, the inflammatory nature and social influence represented by the name "Kitahara Iwa" have swelled to a point that no politically astute leader can afford to ignore.

At this moment, the eyes of all two hundred-plus dignitaries and literary figures in the audience unconsciously turned in the same direction.

Kitahara Iwa sat quietly in the absolute head seat in the very center of the first row.

Today, Kitahara Iwa wore only an extremely fitted, dark black suit without any extra embellishments. His hair was neatly combed back, and he exuded a clean and efficient aura.

Among the old-fashioned intellectuals and business tycoons around him, who were often dressed in haute couture gowns, with family crests pinned to their chests, or even wearing elaborate kimonos, Kitahara Iwa's attire even seemed a bit too plain.

But no one in the entire room dared to ignore his presence because of this.

From the moment he sat down, the atmosphere of the space centered on him completely changed.

The fellow writers sitting in the back row stared intently at Kitahara Iwa's not-so-broad back, their expressions extremely complex and distorted.

There was awe in those gazes, because this young man, in less than half a year, with two absolute masterpieces of completely opposite styles, simultaneously won two of the highest trophies that most of them could never touch in their entire lives.

There was also jealousy and a deep sense of resentment among those in the same profession.

But more than anything, it was a deep sense of despair and powerlessness.

Because they clearly realized that from tonight onwards, the name "Kitahara Iwa" would become a ceiling hanging over the heads of all writers in Japan.

And this ceiling is likely to remain unsurpassed by anyone in their lifetime.

However, under the watchful eyes of all of Japan's top elites... Kitahara Iwa appeared extremely relaxed, even to the point of being somewhat nonchalant.

Kitahara Iwa was tilting his head slightly, casually turning the crystal water glass on the table with one hand, talking quietly with the person sitting to his right, a gentle smile on his lips.

On this night that will go down in history, the person who sat side by side with Kitahara Iwa in the very center of the first row, and with whom he had an extremely congenial conversation, was none other than Haruki Murakami.

The two top writers, who had just finished a peak exchange in "Winter of the Heisei Era," were now slightly turned to the side, whispering something, and then tacitly smiled.

From the perspective of the back row, the two seemed to form an absolute vacuum around them, isolating them from the hundreds of burning gazes and whispers of the world of fame and fortune.

Several young editors in the back row, unable to contain their curiosity, craned their necks, trying to glean some kind of divine revelation that would shake the literary world from the few words they uttered.

Since Kitahara Iwao and Murakami Haruki are having such a pleasant conversation...

They must be exploring the tragic core of "Railroad Man"?

Or are we debating the boundary between pure literature and the pathologies of our time?

Or perhaps they were exchanging concerns about the potential collapse of the Japanese economy?

However, neither of these are true.

Kitahara Iwao and Murakami Haruki are talking about whisky.

"What kind of whiskey does Kitahara-sensei usually drink?"

Kitahara Iwa shook his head slightly and said, "To be honest, I almost never touch whiskey."

"When I'm writing, I usually only have a cup of black coffee on hand to keep me awake."

"That really was a missed opportunity for a wonderful catalyst."

Haruki Murakami, resting his chin on his hand, said, "I've been drinking a Hakushu malt drink lately. It has a very light peaty flavor, and when diluted with ice water, it leaves an extremely clean and refreshing finish."

Haruki Murakami tilted his head slightly, his tone relaxed, as if he were talking about something he was truly interested in: "Next time you sit at your desk and haven't quite gotten into the flow yet, try pouring yourself a shallow glass."

"That slightly tipsy yet extremely cold feeling of falling can sometimes help people sink to the deepest part of the text more quickly."

Kitahara Iwao looked at this senior who had whiskey and jazz ingrained in his very being, nodded, and naturally accepted the suggestion: "It sounds like some kind of mysterious writing ritual. Since it's Murakami-sensei's exclusive recipe, I'll definitely try it next time I start a new book."

The two were so engrossed in their conversation that they were completely oblivious to the hundreds of eyes staring at the back of their heads behind them.

Then, it was exactly 8 p.m.

The dazzling crystal chandeliers in the banquet hall gradually dimmed.

Then a cold white spotlight suddenly lit up and shone precisely on the standing microphone in the center of the stage.

Then the emcee quickly walked onto the stage.