Chapter 127 Yasuko Sawaguchi, Akina Nakamori and Izumi Sakai
As the release entered its second week.
Amidst a suffocating wave of "great aphasia" sweeping across Japan, the sales curve of "Journey Under the Midnight Sun" completely defied the common-sense pull of the publishing industry.
It smashed through the epic barrier of two million copies with an almost overbearing attitude.
This is a number that could drive any of its peers to despair.
Prior to this, the book that consistently topped the bestseller list in 1990 was "Reasons to Be Loved," a collection of essays by actress Yuriko Futani, published in March.
Thanks to the overwhelming celebrity effect and national popularity, it took this book more than two months to barely reach the threshold of 500,000 copies sold.
Kitahara Iwak spent less than fourteen days to leave the former best-selling book champion with a terrifying gap of 1.5 million copies.
This is a drastic, merciless attack.
This kind of catastrophic crushing, placed in the current era, appears particularly shocking.
In this early summer, with the myth of land ownership just collapsing and an economic winter already upon us, the wallets of the Japanese people are visibly emptying.
Amid anxieties about their future livelihoods, the public has become unprecedentedly discerning and shrewd when it comes to spiritual consumption.
Those mediocre, pretentious books for entertainment might only earn you a few glances in a bookstore, but they won't make you open your empty wallet.
"White Night" is an outlier among them.
In such a sluggish economic environment, two million citizens willingly spent real money, queuing up to buy such a heavy, oppressive, and despairing book.
This can no longer be simply summarized as "conquering the reader".
Even earlier than these terrifying sales figures, the film and television capital, with its keenest sense of opportunity, went into a frenzy.
Toho Pictures, Fuji Television, TBS, Kadokawa Shoten... These industry giants, who usually fight tooth and nail for ratings and treat their projects as top secrets, are now like sharks that have smelled blood.
At the same time, they set their sights on the full film and television rights to "White Night".
Top producers from major film studios and television networks flocked out, each carrying a top-tier licensing agreement in their leather briefcase.
The amount columns on these forms are all empty without exception. This is not an oversight, but rather a demonstration of their sincerity to Kitahara Iwa!
For the first time, the reception area of this long-established publishing house was in such dire straits that there weren't even enough sofas to sit on.
Outside editor-in-chief Kenichi Sato's office, from morning till night, there are always two or three groups of top producers sitting on the reception chairs in the corridor.
They carried the most expensive souvenirs from Ginza, drank sencha that was refilled again and again, and expressed their unwavering determination to stand firm with the most impeccable workplace etiquette.
Everyone greeted each other politely, but their eyes were all fixed on the door of Editor-in-Chief Sato's office.
Meanwhile, Sato's secretary received dozens of calls inquiring about film and television copyrights in just one day.
By 3 p.m., she had exhausted all her strength to keep bowing and repeating "I'm so sorry, Editor-in-Chief Sato is out." Her throat was so dry that even swallowing hurt.
The usually quiet publishing building was now packed with people from various television stations, their undercurrents of competition palpable beneath the surface of polite conversation.
In this fiercely competitive battle for copyrights, what capital ultimately pursues is merely quantifiable commercial returns.
But for the top actresses at the very top of Japan's pyramid, when they finally finish reading the last page with bloodshot eyes, what burns in their hearts is a different kind of ambition that is even more deadly.
Something that could make them immortal in the history of Japanese cinema, something they would even be willing to sacrifice everything for—Karasawa Yukiho.
All the discerning leading actresses know that this is by no means a "femme fatale" in the traditional sense.
She is a perfect empty shell pieced together from lies, sins, and extreme beauty; a despairing creation that climbs upwards by stepping on the blood and bones of everyone around her, yet can show the world the purest smile.
The depth of this character is enough to tear apart all existing female archetypes in Japanese film and television history.
Whoever can wear this perfect shell will transcend those vulgar box office awards and achieve ultimate godhood in film history.
This fanatical belief directly triggered a fierce behind-the-scenes battle in the entertainment industry.
The top 20 actresses in Japan all instructed their agencies to cancel all their subsequent schedules within the same week.
Instead of resorting to the crude and inefficient method of sending resumes to Kitahara Iwa, they utilized their most crucial network of contacts: personal visits from presidents of various firms, introductions through private dinners with high-ranking executives of conglomerates, and even having long handwritten letters, imbued with the scent of sandalwood, delivered directly to the desks of Shinchosha's top executives.
All the women at the top of the pyramid are working incredibly hard, just to show their most perfect side to Kitahara Iwa and leave an impression on him.
late at night.
Shibuya Ward, Matsushita.
This is Tokyo's most tranquil and exclusive upscale neighborhood.
Inside a heavily guarded private residence, the main living room light was off, and a faint glow from the courtyard lamps shone through the gaps in the heavy curtains that weren't fully drawn.
At this moment, Yasuko Sawaguchi was curled up in the shadow of the sofa, with the creased copy of "Journey Under the Midnight Sun" lying on her lap, her whole body trembling slightly.
She played Yuko Moriguchi in "Confessions," and she understands better than anyone what it means to "use extreme calm to wrap up extreme evil."
With this role, she won the Best Actress award at the Japan Academy Film Prize and was hailed by the media as "the most desperate vengeful mother in film history".
But at that moment, when she shifted her gaze from the last line of "Journey Under the Midnight Sun," an emotion mixed with trembling and ecstasy instantly overwhelmed her.
Yasuko Sawaguchi was keenly aware that there was an insurmountable abyss between Yuko Moriguchi and Yukiho Karasawa.
Yuko Moriguchi's coldness has its origins.
She lost her beloved daughter, and her revenge has a clear beginning and end.
Despite their fear, the audience was still able to empathize with and understand her.
But Xuehui did not.
Inside Xuehui, there was a deathly silence that didn't even echo.
She was stripped of her soul at the age of eleven, and then spent twenty years polishing her empty shell into a work of art that made the whole world willingly deceive her.
This kind of nihilism, "rotten to the core yet outwardly beautiful," is far more despairing than the "reasonably cold" of Yuko Moriguchi.
With that thought in mind, Yasuko Sawaguchi walked barefoot to the mirror in the bathroom.
She stared at the face in the mirror, a face hailed by the entire Japanese media as "the last beauty of the Showa era."
With perfect features, flawless skin, and an innate air of untouchable, aloof nobility between her brows and eyes.
In Yasuko Sawaguchi's view, her own face was the best disguise for Yukiho Karasawa.
No special effects makeup or styling is needed at all; this face itself possesses Xuehui's most lethal weapon: an astonishing beauty that makes people willingly let down their guard.
Yasuko Sawaguchi gazed quietly at herself in the mirror; beneath her usual signature gentleness, she now exuded only a sense of certainty.
She reached out and gently touched the cool mirror surface with her fingertips, as if she were caressing a novel from afar.
She knew better than anyone that if she wanted to leave a truly indelible mark on Japanese film history, she had to get the role of Yukiho!
With this thought in mind, Yasuko Sawaguchi slowly lowered her hand, slightly raised her chin, and gave herself a flawless smile in the mirror.
Faced with this role that is destined to be legendary, she doesn't need to compete with other actresses like shrewish women.
This is the self-control and confidence that comes from the core of a top actress.
The following morning, Yasuko Sawaguchi instructed the president of her agency to dial the internal hotline of Shinchosha.
However, upon learning that Shinchosha currently had no plans for public auditions, Yasuko Sawaguchi realized that those cumbersome business procedures had become meaningless.
If he wants to win the role of Yukiho, he must personally go to Kitahara Iwao.
A few days later, at three o'clock in the afternoon.
The apartment in Kitahara-iwa, Minato Ward.
The doorbell rang, interrupting the conversation in the living room.
Kitahara Iwa walked to the entrance hall wearing slippers, and pushed open the door to take a look.
Yasuko Sawaguchi stood quietly outside the door.
Today, her attire was impeccable, without a single flaw.
She wore a pure white haute couture dress with a cool and precise cut, and the draping fabric perfectly outlined her marble-sculpted figure.
Her hair was tied in a low bun, and her makeup was simple yet exuded an indescribable air of nobility. She radiated an aura of purity like ice and snow, yet kept people at a distance.
"Teacher Kitahara, I apologize for disturbing you."
Yasuko Sawaguchi smiled slightly and greeted him softly.
Yasuko Sawaguchi's smile was so precise it was almost millimeter-thick, possessing a magical power that could instantly disarm anyone, much like the gentle yet unfathomable smile of Yukiho in the book.
"I have some thoughts about Xuehui, and I would like to humbly ask you for your advice in person."
Upon hearing this, Kitahara Iwa stepped aside to make way and said softly, "Please come in."
Upon hearing this, Yasuko Sawaguchi's smile widened even more. She went into the room, changed into slippers, and followed Kitahara Iwa through the corridor.
However, the moment she stepped into the living room, her steps involuntarily faltered for a second.
An uninvited guest was already sitting on the sofa.
And this person is none other than Akina Nakamori!
At this moment, Nakamori was only wearing a loose, dark gray home knit sweater, her long black hair was casually draped over her shoulders, and she was almost without makeup.
She was curled up in a corner of the sofa, holding a steaming cup of black tea, intently reading the book in her hand.
The next second, noticing Yasuko Sawaguchi's arrival, Akina Nakamori simply raised her eyelids lazily and nodded slightly in her direction as a greeting.
Akina Nakamori's movements were extremely casual, even carrying a touch of nonchalance and unadorned authenticity.
He neither stood up to exchange pleasantries nor showed the slightest sign of unease.
But this seemingly indifferent casualness was like an invisible soft thorn, precisely piercing into Yasuko Sawaguchi's flawless smile.
The way Nakamori Akina sat here didn't look like a distinguished guest at all.
The unspoken understanding between her and Kitahara Iwao, which required no script or performance, was like an intimacy and trust honed over a long period of time.
This aura acted like an invisible barrier, isolating the "Yukiho" aura that Yasuko Sawaguchi had carefully constructed from the two of them.
Even so, Yasuko Sawaguchi's smile remained unchanged as she gracefully sat down on the single sofa opposite Akina Nakamori with an elegance that could be described as a work of art.
With her legs together and slightly tilted to the side, she resembled a meticulously calculated classical oil painting.
"I didn't expect Akina-san to be here too."
Yasuko Sawaguchi's tone was gentle and appropriate, like a spring breeze.
"Yes, come and sit down."
Akina Nakamori's reply consisted of only five words; she didn't even lift her eyelids, and blew on the black tea in her cup.
At that moment, Kitahara Iwao brought over a cup of tea and placed it on the coffee table next to Sawaguchi Yasuko, saying, "What would you like to talk about today?"
Yasuko Sawaguchi took the teacup, thanked her softly, and then gently put the cup down, placing her hands on her knees.
Then she leaned forward slightly and spoke in a tone that combined the enthusiasm of a reader and the professionalism of an actress: "I stayed up all night the day before yesterday to finish reading Kitahara-sensei's 'Journey Under the Midnight Sun'."
"When I read those last seven words, I sat on the sofa for almost an hour before I recovered. To be honest, no novel in my life has ever given me this kind of soul-stirring experience."
At this point, Yasuko Sawaguchi paused for a moment.
"These past few days, I've been repeatedly recreating the character of Xuehui in my mind."
Yasuko Sawaguchi's gaze was fixed on Iwao Kitahara, but her womanly intuition kept her eyes glued to Akina Nakamori across from her.
"She possesses an inviolable beauty, like flawless white porcelain."
"For twenty years, she had to perfectly portray a warm, noble, and kind woman in front of everyone who came near her, without revealing a single crack."
"This kind of precise control, which ingrains the disguise into one's very bones, places extremely high demands on the actor's physical appearance and self-control."
At this point, Yasuko Sawaguchi naturally turned her gaze to Akina Nakamori, a textbook-perfect gentle smile playing on her lips as she asked, "What do you think, Ms. Akina? What kind of person is Yukiho in your eyes?"
Akina Nakamori gently blew on the steam rising from the rim of her cup and replied, "I think she's just a ghost who died when she was eleven."
Her voice was slightly languid and husky.
"All the glamour of the next twenty years was nothing more than her instinct to survive in the darkness."
Upon hearing this answer, Yasuko Sawaguchi's smile deepened.
Then, following Nakamori's words, Yasuko Sawaguchi continued, "It seems that Ms. Akina really resonates with this character."
"Could it be... that you're sitting here today because you're interested in personally playing the role of Karasawa Yukiho?"
Akina Nakamori lowered her eyes, watching the ripples in her teacup, her tone still casual and nonchalant: "Kitahara-sensei wrote such a good character, I really... want to give it a try."
Having received this definite answer, Yasuko Sawaguchi nodded.
"It's certainly good to have this willingness to try."
Then Yasuko Sawaguchi tilted her head slightly, her tone carrying a carefully crafted layer of "well-meaning concern," and said, "Your understanding is indeed very much in line with your own artistic style."
"Your infectious power of releasing sadness on stage, and your singing style that lays your heart bare for the audience, is universally acknowledged to be unmatched throughout Japan."
"But the problem is precisely that Xuehui is a black hole that absolutely cannot reveal even a trace of real emotion. This extreme sense of 'completely living as an exquisite mannequin' is too different from your tragic style full of vitality and explosive energy... the gap is just too big."
"You are used to showing your flaws on stage, but what Xuehui needs is flawless nobility."
At this moment, every word Yasuko Sawaguchi spoke was incredibly gentle and considerate, without the slightest hint of rudeness.
But all three people present knew perfectly well what those words meant.
Upon hearing this, Akina Nakamori didn't react much. She simply placed the teacup back on the wooden coffee table and slowly raised her head to look at Yasuko Sawaguchi.
Upon hearing this, Akina Nakamori didn't react much. She simply placed the teacup back on the wooden coffee table and slowly raised her head to look at Yasuko Sawaguchi.
I looked at it for about three seconds.
Then Akina Nakamori smiled.
"Ms. Sawaguchi's understanding of 'perfection' is indeed flawless."
Akina Nakamori's voice was soft and slow, and every word carried a slightly hoarse quality, as if she had experienced many hardships.
"However, how can you perfectly conceal the cracks in a piece of porcelain that has never been broken?"
Yasuko Sawaguchi's smile remained dignified, but the fingertips resting on her knees tightened in that instant.
Akina Nakamori didn't look at her actions.
She turned her head and looked at Kitahara Iwa beside her, her voice soothing: "Xuehui's 'perfection' is not the upbringing of a well-bred lady, but the skin she painstakingly sewed up bit by bit in order to survive after struggling in the mud for twenty years."
Then, she leaned slightly forward and fixed her gaze back on Yasuko Sawaguchi.
"A naturally gifted face can easily fool the audience, but it can't fool close-up shots."
"If you haven't experienced the despair of being pushed into an abyss by the person you trust most, crawling out through shattered glass, and then having to smile sweetly at the whole world—"
Akina Nakamori's voice softened slightly, but every word was piercing: "That acted perfection is nothing but an empty vase."
After she finished speaking, Akina Nakamori's smile remained as gentle as ever.
"Ms. Sawaguchi, your life and career are too dazzling and too smooth."
"You probably can't imagine how much effort it takes for someone to laugh when they're completely dead inside, just so others can't see through them."
As soon as he finished speaking, the living room became so quiet that only the fine steam rising from the black tea could be heard.
Yasuko Sawaguchi's smile was still on her face.
But this smile has degenerated from a "natural expression" into a stiff "muscle-maintained" one.
A long silence fell over the living room.
The two women maintained a proper smile, showing no sign of aggression or loss of composure, only an unyielding stance concealed beneath their dignified demeanor.
At this moment, Kitahara Iwa put down his water glass, rubbed his temples, and spoke up, breaking the silence that could have easily spiraled out of control.
"I'd like to say a few words about the film and television adaptation of 'White Night'."
Kitahara Iwa's tone was businesslike and unbiased.
"Copyright negotiations are still ongoing with Toho, Fuji TV, TBS, and Kadokawa Shoten."
"But even the most basic project framework hasn't been finalized yet—who the director is, how much the budget is, whether to make a movie or a TV series, all of these are unknown."
At this point, Kitahara Iwao looked at Sawaguchi Yasuko opposite him and said, "Ms. Sawaguchi's understanding of Yukiho's outward disguise is indeed impeccable."
"That flawless, porcelain-like luster is indeed the first layer that makes this character stand out."
Then, Kitahara Iwa turned his gaze to the corner of the sofa and said to Nakamori Akina, "Akina's perception of inner emptiness is also very accurate."
"Perfection forged from fragmentation cannot be sustained by appearance alone."
As he spoke, Kitahara Iwa pointed to the sample book on the coffee table.
"A perfect exterior, a broken core. Both are indispensable; without either, what emerges is not Xuehui."
At this point, Kitahara Iwa paused for a second before finally announcing, "Therefore, it's too early to discuss casting before the project officially launches. Once auditions are held, everything will be decided by our performances on screen."
These words were perfectly watertight.
Both sides gave affirmation, but neither side made any promises.
But this level water couldn't extinguish the fire in their eyes.
Yasuko Sawaguchi smiled and nodded, her posture remaining elegant.
But in the corner of her eye when she looked at Akina Nakamori, her determination to win was no longer concealed.
Akina Nakamori leaned back on the sofa, lightly tapping the side of her cup, a faint smile playing on her lips, conveying a sense of unwavering composure.
The tension in the living room did not rise despite Kitahara Iwa's mediation.
The tension between the two women, despite their perfect smiles, was even stronger than before.
Because "both sides are good" means "there is still a chance on both sides" to them.
For two top actresses determined to vie for the same role, this was not a consolation, but the starting gun for a full-blown battle.
Kitahara Iwa keenly sensed the escalating undercurrent in the air.
At this moment, he knew clearly that as the only original author with the right to judge, every minute he sat in this room would be over-interpreted by them into countless implications.
Staying here is just asking for trouble.
I need to evacuate immediately.
The next second, Kitahara Iwa stood up from the sofa with extreme decisiveness.
Kitahara Iwa didn't give the two any buffer time to transition.
He walked straight to the armchair, grabbed the thin jacket draped over the back of the chair, and draped it over his arm as he spoke in a natural tone, as if suddenly remembering something, "Sorry, I almost forgot I had an appointment with a producer from Kadokawa Shoten tonight, and it's almost time."
After saying that, Kitahara Iwa didn't give the two of them any chance to react and walked towards the entrance without looking back.
The next second, Kitahara Iwa changed his shoes in a manner that could almost be described as hasty.
If someone were timing it, the entire process from Kitahara Iwa standing up to pushing open the door would take no more than thirty seconds.
Then the door clicked shut behind Kitahara Iwa.
Only two women remained in the living room, along with a glass of ice-cold black tea, a glass of barely touched tea, and a silence colder than ice.
Yasuko Sawaguchi and Akina Nakamori's gazes lingered on the closed door for a second.
Then, their gazes returned simultaneously, meeting once again in mid-air.
No one spoke.
But this gaze itself is already a declaration of war, a bloody battle.
Meanwhile, in the underground parking garage.
The dedicated driver assigned to Kitahara Iwa by Shinchosha was standing upright next to a black Crown sedan.
Upon seeing Kitahara Iwa step out of the elevator, the driver immediately stepped forward respectfully and reached out to open the back door for him.
"I'll drive it myself tonight."
Kitahara Iwa raised his hand to stop the driver's movement and took the car keys from the other person.
"You should go home and rest early, you've worked hard."
The driver hesitated for a moment, then quickly said, "But Editor-in-Chief Sato instructed me about your safety when you go out recently..."
"It's okay, I just want to go for a drive by myself and get some fresh air."
Kitahara Iwa spoke in a gentle tone.
Seeing Kitahara Iwa's resolute words, the driver wisely swallowed the rest of his sentence.
Then he bowed deeply, turned around, and quickly left the garage.
Only when the driver's footsteps completely disappeared at the end of the underpass, leaving him alone in the huge garage, did Kitahara Iwa finally feel a true sense of peace and quiet.
Then Kitahara Iwa pulled open the driver's side door and got in.
boom.
The dull thud of the car door closing echoed listlessly in the empty garage.
The person slumped back in the leather chair, tilted their head back, and exhaled a long breath.
As he exhaled, Kitahara Iwa's shoulders, which had been tense all afternoon, visibly slumped down.
The garage was very dark. Kitahara Iwa closed his eyes and rubbed his temples hard.
The oppressive atmosphere in that living room was even more suffocating than when he was conceiving the darkest chapters of "White Night".
Two women standing at the pinnacle of the Japanese entertainment industry are engaged in a battle right before their eyes, with the most perfect smiles and the gentlest words, while simultaneously fighting a battle that is invisible even to the naked eye.
Caught in the middle, he felt suffocated even if he took just one more breath.
Kitahara Iwa desperately needs an antidote.
The next second, almost instinctively, a shadow appeared in Kitahara Iwa's mind.
She's not a top-tier actress dressed in pure white haute couture, flawless from head to toe, nor is she a songstress in casual clothes, stabbing people in the heart with the softest voice.
Instead, she is a girl who speaks a little fast, whose eyes crinkle into crescents when she smiles, and whose voice always carries an indelible clarity.
Kitahara Iwa opened his eyes, picked up the car phone receiver, and skillfully dialed a number.
beep - beep -
After the second ring, the phone was answered.
"Feed?"
A slightly puzzled voice came from the receiver, but the moment she recognized Kitahara Iwao's voice, it instantly transformed into a surprised and unguarded exclamation: "Ah—Kitahara-sensei!"
Upon hearing that voice, Kitahara Iwa smiled.
"Quanshui, are you free tonight?"
Kitahara Iwa's voice was much lighter than it had been five minutes ago.
"I suddenly feel like eating something simple. How about we go out for a meal? It's on me."
There was a moment of silence on the other end of the phone. In that moment of silence, Kitahara Iwa could even hear her take a soft breath.
Immediately afterwards, a clear laugh rang out.
"Teacher Kitahara, your novel 'Journey Under the Midnight Sun' has sold over two million copies, and you're only treating me to 'simple things'?"
Hearing this clean, crisp voice, so different from the silk-wrapped blades, Kitahara Iwa shook his head with a smile and said, "Alright, what do you want to eat? You decide."
"Um--"
Izumi Sakai pondered intently for three seconds on the other end of the phone.
This solemn expression suggests that they are making a major decision that will determine the course of their lives.
"I remember there was a yakiniku (grilled meat) restaurant in Shibuya! It was in a really remote location, on the second floor of a small alley, and the sign was so small you couldn't even see it."
"But the meat quality is exceptionally good; the owner personally selected the Wagyu beef from the production area."
Izumi Sakai's speech regained its natural briskness, like a string of wind chimes being plucked by a gentle breeze.
"Besides, the private rooms in that restaurant are very small, offering excellent privacy, so it's unlikely that people outside will see you..."
She spoke those last words in a very natural tone.
But Kitahara Iwa immediately understood the clumsy kindness hidden beneath the surface of this naturalness.
With the popularity of "Journey Under the Midnight Sun" skyrocketing and all the Japanese media watching him, any appearance of him alone with any woman would become tomorrow's headline.
But Kitahara Iwa immediately understood the clumsy kindness hidden beneath the surface of this naturalness.
With the popularity of "Journey Under the Midnight Sun" skyrocketing and all the Japanese media watching him, any appearance of him alone with any woman would become tomorrow's headline.
When recommending restaurants, the girl's first thought wasn't how high-end they were, but rather "I won't get photographed, and I won't cause you any trouble."
"Whatever you say. Tell me your address, and I'll drive to pick you up."
"Okay! I'll go change my clothes—oh wait, if I'm going to eat barbecue, wearing nice clothes will make me smell... I'll just change into something casual! I'll be leaving in half an hour!"
Izumi Sakai hesitated for two seconds on the phone about what to wear, then burst out laughing, a hint of shyness in her voice.
"Alright, alright, I won't nag anymore. Kitahara-sensei, wait for me, it'll be ready soon!"
Click.
The phone hangs up.
The moment the busy tone came through the receiver, the garage fell silent again.
Kitahara Iwa leaned back in his chair, his mind flashing back to Yasuko Sawaguchi's pure white haute couture dress without a single wrinkle, and then to the cheerful female voice on the phone who was worried about ruining her clothes with the smell of a few pieces of Wagyu beef.
To be fair, he didn't think there was anything wrong with Yasuko Sawaguchi and Akina Nakamori upstairs.
On the contrary, as a creator, he sincerely admired them.
This willingness to burn everything for a perfect role, arming oneself with ambition, pride, and understanding to the teeth, is itself a captivating radiance belonging to top artists.
But this light is too intense for Kitahara Iwa in the present moment.
Kitahara Iwa, having just finished writing eight hundred pages of despair, has now endured an exhausting struggle of balancing power in the living room, pushing his spirit to its limit.
So Kitahara Iwa doesn't need great art or a monument in film history at this moment. All he needs is barbecued meat with the smell of smoke, laughter that doesn't need to be guarded, and a set of ordinary casual clothes that he doesn't have to worry about getting dirty.
The next second, Kitahara Iwa put the receiver back on the base and turned the car key.
With a deep roar from the engine, the garage door slowly rose.
In the early summer evening of 1990, sunlight streamed in through the crack in the door, and a golden-orange band of light cut a warm dividing line in the dark underground space.
Kitahara Iwa drove out of the garage, merged into the traffic on the main road of the port area, and headed in the direction Sakai Izumi had indicated.