Tokyo Literary Masters: Starting from the Late 1980s

"Take off your mask!"

Saito Shigeo suddenly stopped and turned to the three young editors, his voice irritated by the heat: "I brought you here to do fieldwork, not to visit a zoo! If you don't like the smell, go back to your air-conditioned rooms! Don't look at me like that!"

The three young people shrank back as they were scolded, hurriedly taking off their masks, but the next second they were almost vomiting from the stench that hit them.

"Hmph, a flower in a greenhouse."

Saito Shigeo shook his head in exasperation, his eyes filled with disappointment.

Just as he was about to ignore the group of newbies and continue exploring on his own, his gaze suddenly froze.

At the end of the line of sight was a man holding a tattered fan, patiently swatting away mosquitoes for a sleeping old woman beside him.

Saito Shigeo's gaze sharpened slightly, then he frowned, raised his hand to signal the people behind him to stay where they were, and then, alone, he slowly approached, braving the suffocating heat.

The man's drenched shirt clung to his body, his hair was greasy and messy, and his stubble even covered half of his face, making him look no different from the other down-and-out people around him.

However, Saito Shigeo's keen eye as a professional journalist allowed him to see through the disguise at a glance and recognize the outline of the face.

This man is Kitahara Iwao.

These days, everyone in Nagata Town is talking about "Confessions".

Even just yesterday, during an interview in the Diet, Shigeo Saito witnessed radical members of parliament waving the novel at the Budget Committee meeting, loudly proclaiming that the current Juvenile Law was outdated and needed to be amended.

As a leading figure in journalism who always keeps a close eye on the pulse of society, how could Shigeo Saito possibly forget this face that is sparking national-level legal discussions?

He never expected that this man, who should be sitting in a luxury apartment writing or being interviewed in the spotlight on television, would be swatting mosquitoes for a homeless old woman under a bridge in a valley filled with the smell of urine.

But what surprised him even more was Kitahara Iwa's current state.

Completely enveloped by the heat and stench, yet still sitting here calmly, as if one with everyone else here.

Seeing Kitahara Iwa's condition, Saito Shigeo did not immediately go up to talk to him. Instead, he stood in the shadows where the streetlights did not reach, lit a cigarette, and stared intently at Kitahara Iwa through the swirling smoke.

This is a valley.

The people here have exhausted all their energy just to survive tonight.

Indifference is the rule of survival here, and excessive kindness is a luxury that only outsiders can afford.

"call……"

Saito Shigeo exhaled a smoke ring, flicked off his cigarette ash, and finally strode over.

Saito Shigeo squatted down next to Kitahara Iwao with complete ease, just like an ordinary old Japanese employee.

"Give."

Saito Shigeo pulled a pack of cheap cigarettes, which was already a bit soggy from being soaked in sweat, from his pocket and handed one over.

Kitahara Iwa didn't immediately go to receive it, but instead turned his head slightly to sized up the uninvited guest who had suddenly approached.

"Here you go. In this awful weather, if you don't have one to perk you up, even the mosquitoes could carry you away."

Saito Shigeo's voice was hoarse, carrying a sense of exhaustion from being sweltered by the summer heat, and there was no flaw in his tone.

Kitahara Iwa paused for two seconds, then reached out and took the cigarette.

"Could I borrow a light?"

Click.

Saito Shigeo struck a match.

The orange-red flames danced in the sweltering air.

Just as Kitahara Iwa leaned closer to light his cigarette, the flame illuminated his stubble-covered yet still excessively youthful face, as well as his tired yet clear and bright eyes.

These are the eyes of an observer, not the eyes of a despairer.

Saito Shigeo flicked out the match and casually asked, "Are you new here?"

"Um."

Kitahara Iwa took a deep breath of the pungent smell of cheap tobacco and replied calmly, "I've only been here a few days."

No wonder.

Saito Shigeo turned to look at the group of people lying motionless on the ground like corpses in the distance, and said meaningfully, "People who stay here for a long time have no light in their eyes. And..."

Saito Shigeo's gaze slowly moved downwards, finally settling on Kitahara Iwa's muddy, filthy-looking sneakers.

Saito Shigeo's lips curled into a knowing smile, his tone suddenly turning sharp: "Besides, the people here have worn-out soles. Nobody wants to wear shoes with the tread still clearly visible on the sole to work on the construction site."

Kitahara Iwa's fingers, which were holding a cigarette, paused slightly, and he quickly looked up at Saito Shigeo.

He looked at the old man with sharp, eagle-like eyes, but instead of panicking at being exposed, he asked in return, "It seems you're not a 'resident' here either. Ordinary day laborers wouldn't be so observant."

"It's just an occupational hazard."

Shigeo Saito shrugged, his aura as a top reporter finally becoming undisguised.

Then, looking directly into Kitahara Iwa's eyes, he asked, "So, the Kitahara Iwa teacher who sparked a major debate in the Diet and made members of parliament clamor to amend the Juvenile Law."

"Why would someone choose to leave a luxury apartment with air conditioning and come to this stinking ditch that can't even be found on a map to feed mosquitoes..."

Saito Shigeo flicked his cigarette ash, his expression turning incredibly serious. "Is this some kind of performance art piece about experiencing poverty?"

As Saito Shigeo finished speaking, the three young editors not far away were immediately stunned.

With a reminder, they finally recognized the sweaty homeless man as Kitahara Iwa, a rising star in the literary world and a multi-millionaire writer!

Faced with Saito Shigeo's ironic performance art question, Kitahara Iwao did not rush to refute it.

He simply met the old man's gaze calmly, without flinching or showing any anger at being offended.

In those bloodshot eyes, there was only a deep weariness and numbness caused by long-term lack of sleep.

Saito Shigeo stared at those eyes for a few seconds.

There is no excitement of the curious, nor a sense of superiority of the experiencer; only patience.

"call……"

Saito Shigeo's tense expression gradually relaxed.

He took a deep drag on his cigarette, his sharp gaze softening as if he had confirmed something.

"The heat from the concrete floor won't dissipate much until after 3 a.m.

"And back then, the mosquitoes by the river were the most vicious; they could even bite through jeans. Right?"

Saito Shigeo exhaled a smoke ring and casually uttered a phrase that only those who have truly experienced a summer night in a valley would understand.

Kitahara Iwa used the already soaked and yellowed towel around his neck to vigorously wipe the oil and sweat from his face, and said in a hoarse voice, "Yes."

"Lying on the cardboard, it felt like my back was pressed against a hot teppanyaki grill."

"I was just about to take a nap when the mosquitoes swarmed in like bombers. The moment I stopped fanning myself, they were immediately carried away."

"If you don't curl up into a ball, you feel like your soul is going to evaporate."

Upon hearing this answer, Shigeo Saito smiled.

This is the smile of someone who has met someone like them.

He then revealed his teeth, yellowed from years of tobacco use, and, no longer caring about his status, plopped down on the scalding, dirty cement floor beside him, completely unconcerned about the stains and grease on his suit pants.

Two men, one old and one young, sat side by side under the sweltering, foul-smelling bridge in the slum.

Saito Shigeo looked at the homeless people lying on the ground like corpses in the distance, his tone becoming complicated: "Even members of parliament are discussing your book now, and you're here feeding mosquitoes. What is it all for?"

Kitahara Iwa was silent for a moment, then reached out his dirty hand and pulled out a crumpled notebook from his sweat-soaked pocket. The paper was soft and wrinkled from the dampness.

"To write a new book."

Kitahara Iwa gently stroked the notebook and slowly said, "I want to see with my own eyes what it's like when someone falls into this sweltering, foul-smelling, and hopeless sewer..."

"Will she ever be able to get rid of that smell?"

"Or rather, what price does she need to pay to climb back into a normal life?"

As Kitahara Iwa finished speaking, the air seemed to freeze.

The only sounds were the buzzing of mosquitoes around us and the ramblings of a drunkard in the distance.

Saito Shigeo did not respond immediately.

He sat beside him, letting sweat stream down his face, his eyes fixed on the notebook in Kitahara Iwa's hand.

He is evaluating.

In this fast-paced era, there is still a writer worth millions who is willing to reach into this unnoticed place for the sake of a story.

After a long while.

Saito Shigeo stubbed out his cigarette, and his originally wary gaze softened, transforming into a journalist's inquisitive curiosity.

He pointed to the small notebook soaked with sweat and said in a serious and restrained tone, "Would you mind if I took a look?"