"This is for you, Chihara. It's a real delicacy."
Inside the makeshift break room, Fujii Arima settled comfortably into his chair. A staff member promptly delivered boxed lunches and drinks. Meanwhile, Fujii pulled out an unusually long red sausage from his bag, unsheathed a small knife, and sliced off a piece to offer Chihara Rinto. His tone was warm and inviting.
Chihara accepted it with thanks but paused when he examined the cross-section. "What is this?"
"It's Thuringian liverwurst," Fujii explained proudly. "Pork liver blended into a paste, seasoned with rosemary, cloves, and peas, then stuffed into casings and steamed. The flavor is exquisite—you'll see once you try it."
Chihara took a cautious bite, finding the taste… peculiar. He quickly shoveled a mouthful of plain rice to neutralize the sensation. "Did you study in Germany, Fujii-san?"
Liverwurst was, after all, a German specialty. Fujii's meticulousness and Westernized demeanor suddenly made sense.
"Yes, I spent eighteen months there as an exchange student during university. Ever since, I've been hooked on liverwurst." As he spoke, Fujii rummaged through his bag again, producing a small jar. "Would you like some natto? Natto rice paired with liverwurst is unbeatable!"
These were his personal treasures—luxuries he rarely shared unless aiming to build rapport. In a way, it also served as subtle reparation for initially doubting Chihara's authority as the lead screenwriter.
"Thank you, but I'll pass," Chihara declined politely. While not particularly picky about food, he preferred avoiding anything too unusual.
"You're missing out," Fujii chuckled, unfazed by the rejection. His goodwill gesture had already been conveyed. He popped open the jar and scooped out a generous spoonful of stringy, sticky natto. An unmistakable stench reminiscent of sweaty socks wafted through the tiny room. Grinning, Fujii remarked, "This is homemade—you won't find it anywhere else."
Chihara struggled to suppress the urge to pinch his nose—a move that would've been impolite. He regretted joining Fujii now; the man's taste in food truly defied convention, rivaling even those who relished stinky tofu or durian.
No wonder none of Fujii's assistants had joined them for lunch. Eating together was typically a prime opportunity to foster workplace camaraderie. Evidently, others had learned their lesson.
But having come this far, leaving abruptly felt inappropriate. To endure, Chihara hurriedly shoveled more rice and changed the subject. "By the way, Fujii-san, you mentioned being married earlier. Is your wife also in the industry?"
He shifted into casual conversation mode, aiming to strengthen their bond. After all, they might work together for a year or two. Better relations meant smoother collaboration.
"No, she's not part of the business world. She used to be an office worker but became a homemaker after we got married."
"That sounds nice. So these liverwursts and natto must be prepared by Mrs. Fujii? You're truly fortunate, Fujii-san…"
Fujii paused mid-stirring, sighing softly. "I wouldn't call myself fortunate. We've been arguing a lot lately."
"What happened?"
"A few years ago, I convinced my father-in-law to buy a plot of undeveloped land near Takagi Ward's highway. I thought Tokyo's expansion would drive up property values. But…" He shook his head ruefully. "I haven't dared visit her parents' house in two years. She's furious."
Chihara nodded silently. This reminded him of someone convincing another to sell their courtyard home in Beijing's Second Ring Road back in 1991—an equally ill-fated prediction. No wonder Fujii avoided visiting his in-laws.
"How much did he spend?" Chihara asked casually.
"One hundred fifty million yen—it was his life savings." Fujii sighed deeply, now fully immersed in idle chatter. "Now, that land is only good for growing wild persimmons. Every autumn, I receive a large jar of persimmon jam and piles of dried persimmon cakes. They're terrible, but my wife insists I eat them all…"
"I see… Have you considered selling the land?"
"It's worth about seventy million yen now." Fujii scratched the back of his head, hesitating. "Maybe if the economy improves, prices will rebound?"
Chihara forced down another bite of liverwurst, offering advice lightly. "In my opinion, it might be better to discuss this with your father-in-law and sell the land sooner rather than later. Otherwise, you'll be stuck eating persimmons for quite some time."
Fujii raised an eyebrow curiously. "Do you have insights into economics, Chihara? Do you think Japan's economic slump will last long?"
Chihara merely recalled historical data from his original world. Based on his memory, Japan's land prices were far from bottoming out. Major crashes awaited in '96 and '98, culminating in a nadir around '99 due to the Asian financial crisis—when values plummeted to just 10% of their peak in '91. Back then, Tokyo's land prices were so inflated that converting them into cash could supposedly buy half of America. Dropping to 10% seemed almost reasonable. Recovery began slowly post-'99, reaching 80–90% of '91 levels by 2019—but adjusted for inflation, buying half of America remained a pipe dream.
Though this was a different world, the pattern likely held, perhaps with minor timing differences. Knowing land prices would continue falling, selling now and repurchasing around 2000 seemed prudent. At least Fujii could avoid years of persimmon-induced misery.
However, Chihara couldn't explain all this directly. Instead, he smiled vaguely. "I occasionally glance at the news, though I wouldn't claim expertise. Call it intuition—I don't think land prices have hit rock bottom yet."
Judging by current trends, Fujii might avoid seeing his father-in-law until 2020. Eating persimmons daily for that long might leave him hospitalized.
"But prices have already halved," Fujii mused doubtfully. "Shouldn't they be close to the lowest point?"
Chihara shrugged inwardly. Colleagues chatting over lunch often spouted nonsense. Who took such talk seriously?
Fujii scooped another spoonful of natto, intensifying the pungent aroma filling the room. Finally, he conceded, "Still, you're right, Chihara. Talking things over isn't a bad idea. Things can't go on like this forever."
Despite their marital struggles, Fujii still cared deeply for his wife. He refrained from visiting Ginza without her knowledge, knowing how jealous she'd be. Occasional persimmon treats weren't bad, but consuming them daily tested his patience.
Chihara's advice stemmed purely from casual conversation. Whether Fujii acted on it was his decision. Smiling, Chihara finished the last bite of his meal and stood up. "Fujii-san, enjoy your lunch. I'll step outside for a walk."
The smell in the room overwhelmed him. Why did people enjoy such bizarre foods? Couldn't they just eat normally?
"Eh, you're done already?" Fujii glanced at his watch, slipping back into director mode. "Break ends in thirty-seven minutes. If you plan to observe, make sure to return on time."
Chihara nodded and stepped out, inhaling fresh air gratefully. Outside, the studio resembled a Hollywood backlot—rows of white buildings designed to minimize heat absorption. The area offered little scenic value, and wandering into other studios was prohibited. He circled the perimeter idly.
Rounding the side of Studio 17, he stumbled upon a young woman clinging desperately to a man's sleeve, pleading fervently. "Tsumura-san, please don't send me away! This is my first chance to appear on camera… Please, I promise I'll work hard—I really will!"
"Let go!" Tsumura Haruki, the assistant director, looked exasperated, veins bulging in his neck. Yanking free, he snapped, "You argue endlessly. Fine, I'm done with you!"
"I'll change, I swear! I won't talk back anymore!"
"It's too late!" Tsumura turned to leave but collided with Chihara Rinto moments later. Startled, he bowed respectfully. "Chihara-sensei, hello."
Chihara returned the greeting with a polite nod. Noticing the dejected girl standing nearby, he hesitated before asking softly, "What's going on here?"
Tsumura hesitated, glancing between Chihara and the girl. "I was explaining the rules to her, but she kept arguing and refused to cooperate. So, I decided not to use her… Don't worry, it won't affect filming. I'll arrange for someone else to fill in."
The extra had countered every instruction with artistic musings, nearly driving Tsumura to despair. Another mistake, and Fujii wouldn't blame the actress—he'd criticize Tsumura for failing to manage extras properly.
"Well," Chihara interjected, glancing at the girl. "Perhaps this is presumptuous, but… could you reconsider letting her stay?"
Chihara wasn't usually one to meddle. However, something about the girl tugged at his conscience. Earlier, her face had seemed familiar under heavy makeup and bundled hair. Now, with her ponytail tied back, recognition dawned—this was the same round-faced girl he'd met on the day he signed his contract. She'd introduced herself as "the daughter of the sea," fearlessly plunging into icy waters to rescue a drowning child despite the cold. Her bravery had left a lasting impression.
Here stood a kind-hearted individual who'd risked her own safety to help others. If losing this job jeopardized her livelihood, Chihara felt compelled to intervene. Stories of good deeds going unrewarded abounded. Perhaps rectifying such injustices started with small acts of kindness. Occasionally being "foolishly" compassionate didn't hurt.
Tsumura frowned, confused. Turning back to the girl, whose eyes now brimmed with hope, he hesitated. Logically, if she knew the lead screenwriter, securing a minor role shouldn't pose a problem—even if her acting skills were subpar. Yet here she was, relegated to the status of an extra. Still, he had to show proper respect.
In producer-centric productions, the director and lead writer ranked above mere assistant directors like himself. While replacing Chihara would cripple the production, dismissing Tsumura would barely register. Defying Chihara's request risked offending a key figure unnecessarily. Even if Chihara hadn't been serious, mentioning it to Fujii would suffice to override Tsumura's decision.
Realizing resistance was futile, Tsumura relented immediately. Turning back to the girl, he scolded gruffly, "Fine, for Chihara-sensei's sake, I'll give you one more chance. Come here—I'll explain the rules again. This time, listen quietly!"
"Yes, yes!" The girl beamed, momentarily considering thanking Chihara but noticing he'd already wandered off. Resigned, she obediently listened to Tsumura's instructions.
Meanwhile, Chihara strolled aimlessly, digesting both his meal and thoughts. Returning to the studio shortly thereafter, he approached his seat only to find a small figure poring over his half-written script.
Startled, the figure spun around instantly—it was Fukazawa Michiko.
After a brief silence, she bowed slightly. "I'm sorry for looking without permission… But does this refer to me?"