Shinchosha, editorial department.
The editor-in-chief's office sat on the top floor of the building, its floor-to-ceiling windows facing west.
Kobayashi Tomoaki stood with both hands in his pockets, gazing out at the bustling cityscape beyond the glass.
In the distance, the skyline melted into the horizon, conjuring a sense of sweeping, mountain-swallowing grandeur.
Ever since his promotion to editor-in-chief, he had taken to standing here at this hour each day, lost in thought.
Today he had already been standing there for nearly twenty minutes.
Yet even now, as editor-in-chief, his thoughts remained a tangled knot he couldn't seem to unravel.
It all went back to last month.
News of the old president's retirement had come suddenly, though it had hardly been unexpected.
The man had given more than forty years to Shinchosha, from the Showa era into Heisei, bearing witness to nearly the entire rise and fall of postwar Japanese literary fiction.
His health had been failing for some time; no one had wanted to be the first to say so out loud.
The new president was none other than Kobayashi Tomoaki's own former editor-in-chief—
the man who had promoted him, mentored him, who had seen his potential back when he was nothing but an unemployed drifter without so much as a job.
And so, quite naturally, Kobayashi Tomoaki had risen into the editor-in-chief's chair himself.
If he was honest, no small part of that owed to Tsushima Kagami.
The response after Shincho's release had exceeded everyone's expectations by a wide margin.
The pen name Dassaishooku Shujin became the talk of the literary world overnight.
Bookstore stock sold out within three days, and reprint orders flew one after another to the presses.
Kobayashi Tomoaki had spent day and night at Tsushima Kagami's side, revising, polishing, weighing every phrase; every page of manuscript bore the sweat of both their labor.
In those days they had often stayed in the editorial conference room until deep into the night.
Now, sitting in the editor-in-chief's office, it all still felt like a dream.
Sometimes he would catch himself running a hand over the armrest of his chair, just to confirm it was really solid wood.
Other times he'd get up and take a few steps, feeling the faint give of the carpet beneath his leather shoes.
But the sense of unreality never quite left him.
What truly kept him up at night wasn't the change in title—it was that other matter.
The overseas licensing of The Setting Sun.
Back then, he had been the one handling foreign rights for Tsushima Kagami's work.
A Western publisher had approached them—a name he'd never heard before.
A little digging revealed it wasn't even a notable house in its own country.
He'd reported the situation to the president and the rights department at the time, and the answer he got was—
"There's no better option anyway. Let's just give it a try."
Three words—give it a try—and that was how they'd disposed of an entire work.
The result was exactly what one might expect.
The translation was dreadful.
Promotion was almost nonexistent, the print run pitifully small, distribution limited to a handful of local independent bookstores.
Kobayashi Tomoaki later had someone buy him a copy of the French edition. He closed it before he'd even gotten through ten pages.
He shoved the book to the very back of a drawer and never wanted to see it again.
But it didn't end there.
Worse than the failure itself was the comparison.
Even as The Setting Sun sank without a trace in Europe, Kodansha's Hear the Wind Sing was scoring a triumphant debut across the ocean.
The English translation had been handled by a well-known translator, its language fluid and natural, preserving the original's cool, understated humor.
The publisher's promotional team had run events in New York, London, and Paris.
Reviewers praised it one after another, and sales climbed steadily.
When Kobayashi Tomoaki read the report in Shuppan Shimbun, he nearly dropped the thermos cup in his hand.
He'd stared at the page for a long time, his eyes fixed on the line reading 'A Success Story in Overseas Market Expansion.'
And what kind of scale was Kodansha operating at?
Behind it stood the massive Otowa Group, spanning literary fiction, popular fiction, manga, magazines—even its own printing plants and distribution network.
They'd begun laying groundwork overseas a full decade earlier, setting up offices in New York, Paris, and London, and building long-term, stable partnerships with local publishers.
And Shinchosha?
Shinchosha was a publisher focused on domestic literary fiction.
It sounded focused, pure, above the fray.
But in the world of business, it had another name: conservative.
Kobayashi Tomoaki remembered once drinking with a counterpart from Kodansha, who'd said, half in jest—
"You Shinchosha folks are like some venerable old bakery that only ever sells one kind of bread."
"Tasty, sure. But the shop next door has already opened three more branches."
He'd laughed it off at the time, but the words had stayed with him the whole way home.
It wasn't that Shinchosha lacked the capacity to go abroad—it simply never occurred to anyone to try.
Everyone in that building, from the president down to the proofreaders, operated within one comfortable, closed loop.
Discover new talent, publish the work, sell it domestically, win a literary prize, discover the next new talent.
No one ever stopped to think those works might also be sold to readers elsewhere in the world.
Still less had anyone considered that, with a good enough translation and a strong enough promotional push—
those same works might take root in foreign soil and bloom into something entirely different.
The Setting Sun had been sacrificed to exactly that mindset.
Kobayashi Tomoaki knew there was no point assigning blame now.
But the failure sat lodged in him like a splinter he couldn't work free.
Because it hadn't just been Kagami-kun's work.
It was a work he and Kagami-kun had revised together, word by word.
The rhythm of every chapter, the white space of every paragraph, the length of every sentence—all of it the product of the two of them turning each choice over again and again.
There was Kobayashi Tomoaki's own labor as an editor woven into every part of it.
And in the end, all that shared effort had simply been squandered overseas.
The one mercy was that they'd only licensed that single title.
So when someone from Éditions Gallimard suddenly appeared, every nerve in Kobayashi Tomoaki's body went taut.
Éditions Gallimard.
The name had flown like a banner over European literary publishing for nearly a century.
Proust, Gide, Sartre, Camus, Beauvoir…
Nearly every French literary giant one could name had published with Gallimard.
In the field of foreign rights, Gallimard commanded a distribution network and translation resources without equal.
That a house of this stature would send someone across the ocean to negotiate in person, in Tokyo, was itself remarkable.
The man who came was named Gaston, a young man who looked not yet thirty.
A young man, moreover, who spoke fluent Japanese and was well read in modern Japanese literature.
Kobayashi still remembered how, at their very first meeting, Gaston had gotten straight to the point: he wanted to acquire overseas rights to the rest of Tsushima Kagami's works, at a generous price.
Generous by how much?
Kobayashi Tomoaki had glanced at the figure on the draft contract and thought he'd miscounted a zero.
His first thought had been—
This man hadn't come to negotiate a deal. He'd come to poach a talent.
After several days of back-and-forth confirmation and negotiation—
just this morning—
the contract had been finalized, awaiting only signatures; the whole process had gone smoothly.
After the signing, Gaston's colleague had left first, saying he needed to catch an evening flight back to Paris.
But Gaston had stayed behind, saying he wanted two more days in Tokyo, and might as well swing by some manga conventions while he was at it.
Kobayashi Tomoaki had assumed that was the end of the matter.
So he'd been mulling over whether to suggest to his former editor-in-chief and mentor—now the new president—that the company pay closer attention to overseas releases going forward.
This sudden visit from Gallimard, after all, had secured overseas rights to the rest of Kagami-kun's works on generous terms in one stroke.
It made a perfect pretext to raise the subject with the president—to urge more attention toward overseas business.
After all, the twenty-first century was practically upon them; the internet had already been around for years. If Shinchosha kept its eyes fixed only on the domestic market, it would simply wither away like the rest of traditional publishing.
Just as Kobayashi Tomoaki's thoughts were wandering, a knock sounded at the office door.
"Come in."
He answered without thinking and turned around.
The door opened, and Gaston stepped through.
There was a faintly apologetic smile on his face.
But Kobayashi Tomoaki's gaze slid past Gaston's shoulder to the person standing behind him.
It was indeed Tsushima Kagami.
"You two…"
Kobayashi Tomoaki blinked, the words slipping out before he could stop them.
"Mr. Gaston, your colleague already finished signing the contract today. Is there something else?"
Gaston smiled.
"I ran into Mr. Tsushima at a café nearby," he explained.
"I'd actually meant to come see you after the signing, to ask you to introduce me to Mr. Tsushima."
"But then—"
He paused, glancing sideways at Tsushima Kagami. The corner of his mouth lifted.
"I never expected to run into the man himself at a coffee shop."
Tsushima Kagami dipped his head slightly, a wordless greeting.
Kobayashi Tomoaki hurried to usher them both in and offered them seats.
He brought out his finest tea leaves and whisked bowl after bowl of tea with careful strokes of the chasen.
Jade-green foam rose and settled on the surface, releasing a clean, bright fragrance.
Tsushima Kagami lifted his bowl, took a shallow sip, and set it down.
"Mr. Gaston says he'd like to commission a manuscript from me."
Tsushima Kagami didn't wait for Kobayashi Tomoaki to ask; he simply laid out the reason for their visit himself.
The hand holding the teapot went still for a moment.
"Commission a manuscript?"
"That's right."
Tsushima Kagami glanced at Gaston.
"I don't have any experience working with an overseas publisher, so I figured, since Shinchosha's just nearby, I'd bring Mr. Gaston here and we could talk it over with you."
Gaston picked up the thread, drew a document from his briefcase, and set it in front of Kobayashi Tomoaki.
It was a draft commissioning contract, its terms clear, its figures precise, along with an attached note on translation arrangements.
"We've already reached out to three well-known translators."
"One for English, one for French, one for German."
"All three have lived in Japan. The English translator spent six years in Kyoto and has a very deep understanding of Japanese literature."
"I think, on the point that matters most—translation quality—we can guarantee it."
He paused, meeting Kobayashi Tomoaki's eyes directly.
"Whether it's promotion or translation, we won't do anything less than better than Kodansha."
The words tore open the still-unhealed wound in Kobayashi Tomoaki's chest all over again.
Seeing that Tsushima Kagami made no move, Kobayashi Tomoaki simply picked up the contract without ceremony and began reading through the clauses one by one.
The terms were even better than he'd expected, and settled in US dollars, no less.
He closed the contract without speaking right away.
He reached up and rubbed the back of his neck.
It was a habit of his—whenever he faced a decision that needed weighing, his hand went unconsciously to the back of his neck, as if the answer might be hiding there.
By the duties of his office, he ought to have Tsushima Kagami turn the offer down.
But in Japan's literary fiction world, there was no rule barring an author from submitting to other publishers.
Exclusive contracts like the kind Shueisha used existed, sure, but nothing compulsory.
The standing of a literary author simply carried too much weight for that.
No major writer would ever sign something like that.
As editor-in-chief, he had to put Shinchosha's interests first.
Tsushima Kagami was their own author; his works ought by rights to debut here before licensing overseas.
That was industry convention, and it was sound business logic.
And given how close the two of them were, Kobayashi Tomoaki believed that if he spoke to Kagami-kun himself, he'd still agree to debut the work with Shinchosha.
But that "convention" and that "logic" felt hollow, weighed against the disaster of The Setting Sun.
This wasn't the treatment Kagami-kun deserved.
If he'd only pushed harder back then, tried a little more—
The Setting Sun might have met an entirely different fate.
Maybe it would have caught the eye of a better publisher, been rendered by a better translator, been pushed into the market with real care.
And he'd now have far more standing to ask Kagami-kun to turn this offer down and stay debuting with Shinchosha.
But there was no such thing as if.
Only outcomes.
And now another if lay before him, waiting for him to choose.
Whether it was the three existing works now licensed to Gallimard, or the new book to come—
this was also a chance to help Kagami-kun break into overseas markets, to let more readers discover him—and discover Japanese literary fiction.
By every measure, feeling and reason both, it would be selfish of him to ask Kagami-kun to refuse.
Having worked through it, Kobayashi Tomoaki raised his head and looked at Tsushima Kagami.
Tsushima Kagami was already looking back at him.
Their eyes met for just a moment in the air between them, and Kobayashi Tomoaki understood at once what Tsushima Kagami meant.
They knew each other too well for that—well enough that neither needed words to read the other's mind.
Kobayashi Tomoaki knew that if Tsushima Kagami hadn't wanted this offer, he never would have brought Gaston here at all.
He'd have simply declined right there in the café, politely seen the man off, and given Kobayashi Tomoaki a call that evening to mention it in passing.
What Kobayashi Tomoaki could do now was help him secure the best possible terms.
Once he'd worked that much out, his mind felt far clearer.
"Mr. Gaston."
Kobayashi Tomoaki drew himself up with the bearing of an editor-in-chief.
"In principle, we can accept the terms of this contract. But I have one condition."
Gaston straightened slightly in his seat.
"Please, go ahead."
"In the previous contract, your house secured exclusive distribution rights for Europe. This time, we'd like to keep that clause."
Gaston's eyes narrowed slightly.
He was silent for a moment, then shook his head.
His tone stayed polite, but the ease of a moment ago had clearly hardened.
"Mr. Kobayashi, what I want this time is worldwide exclusive distribution rights for Mr. Tsushima's new work."
"To come to Tokyo this time, I called in some personal and family connections just to secure this commission at all, half through official channels and half through private favors."
"I'll admit I'm a great admirer of Mr. Tsushima's work. Believe me, I'm not just being polite."
"The first time I read The Sound of Waves, I was at home in Paris."
"It was raining that day. I read it straight through, and never even noticed when the rain stopped."
"But loving a work is one thing. My duty to the company is another."
"That I crossed an ocean to Tokyo to discuss this commission with Mr. Tsushima in person—that is the greatest sincerity I can offer."
"And besides, this is a direct commission for a new work—not a finished piece I can evaluate before setting a fee."
"It's a work that still exists only in Mr. Tsushima's head—one no one can judge good or bad yet."
He drew a deep breath and went on.
"There's too much uncertainty in that."
"Perhaps this time Mr. Tsushima's… well, perhaps it won't turn out as well as hoped."
"I don't mean anything by it—I say perhaps, and I sincerely hope it won't happen."
"But as a business decision, I have to account for that possibility."
"So given the risk I'm taking on, asking for a worldwide exclusive doesn't seem unreasonable to me."
Having finished, Gaston sank back into the sofa, folding his hands over his knees again, and waited for Kobayashi Tomoaki's answer.
Kobayashi Tomoaki didn't answer right away.
He lifted his own bowl of now-cold tea and drained it in one go.
The sweetness of the gyokuro unfolded slowly on his tongue, but he couldn't taste much of anything just then.
He was thinking of one thing.
He knew Kagami-kun far too well.
The man never did anything he wasn't already sure of.
Every time he said, offhand, that he wanted to write something new, he was already nearly finished with it.
So now, watching Tsushima Kagami sit there on the sofa, looking utterly unconcerned as he sipped his tea, Kobayashi Tomoaki already knew.
This little fox had surely already worked out his new piece long ago.
Not just worked it out—very likely he'd already written most of it.
Whatever Kagami-kun turned out, it was bound to be a masterpiece.
Judging by his manner, he seemed even more confident in this one than in his previous works.
Honestly, if there was already a new work, he could have just said so sooner.
It wouldn't have put him in such an awkward, regrettable spot now.
With that thought, the scales in Kobayashi Tomoaki's mind tipped decisively.
And if he negotiated this contract well, letting Tsushima Kagami break into overseas markets,
letting more readers around the world encounter his words—wasn't that worth far more than clinging to their own small patch of turf?
A work its author had such confidence in deserved to be seen by the whole world.
But at the same time, he couldn't forget who he was.
He was Shinchosha's editor-in-chief.
He could choose not to make things difficult for Tsushima Kagami, but he couldn't fail to fight for his own publisher's interests.
"Mr. Gaston."
He spoke again, his tone firmer this time.
"A worldwide exclusive—I don't think Kagami-kun can accept that."
Gaston's eyebrows twitched slightly.
He very much wanted to ask why, when he'd come to commission Tsushima Kagami himself, it was this editor-in-chief negotiating the contract with him instead.
But then he glanced at Tsushima Kagami, sitting there placidly sipping tea, and remembered that Kagami had brought him here of his own accord.
The only explanation Gaston could come up with was that this editor-in-chief must also be some kind of guardian for the high schooler.
So he didn't press the question further.
Kobayashi Tomoaki went on.
"East Asia, South Asia, Southeast Asia—those three regions have to stay with Shinchosha."
"That's non-negotiable."
Gaston went quiet for a few seconds, as if running some calculation.
His fingers tapped twice, lightly, on his knee.
Watching him deliberate, Kobayashi Tomoaki pressed on.
"This concerns Shinchosha's own strategy for growth."
"It's not a worldwide exclusive, no, but what I'm offering you is far more than just Europe—it's every territory outside a portion of Asia."
"That's very nearly global reach as it is. This is already a substantial concession."
Gaston listened, then glanced again at Tsushima Kagami, who still hadn't said a word.
He turned back and argued his case with Kobayashi Tomoaki once more.
Tsushima Kagami simply kept drinking his tea throughout.
He knew this sort of thing wasn't his strength.
With Kobayashi Tomoaki right beside him, the professional work could be left to the professional.
He wasn't the type to butt in at a negotiating table.
He knew Kobayashi Tomoaki would fight for the best terms on his behalf, and he knew Gaston wouldn't give up too much ground either.
Both men were sharp; a negotiation between sharp men never took very long.
Because each side knew exactly how far the other could be pushed.
So all he had to do was sit there, occasionally nodding to show he was still present.
Sure enough, in under ten minutes, the two of them reached an agreement.
Tsushima Kagami's new work would be signed over to Éditions Gallimard for distribution rights everywhere except East Asia, South Asia, and Southeast Asia, for a term of five years.
East Asia, South Asia, and Southeast Asia were what Kobayashi Tomoaki had reserved for Shinchosha.
Shinchosha's own reach, for now, extended about that far and no further.
As for what happened after the five years expired, that could always be renegotiated.
By then, if Shinchosha had built up the capacity to distribute overseas on its own, there'd be plenty of time to talk it over with Kagami-kun again.
So, with everyone still gathered there, Tsushima Kagami went ahead and signed the contract for his new work with both Gaston and Kobayashi Tomoaki.
The two men handed the contract over to Tsushima Kagami.
"Take a look and see if anything needs changing."
Tsushima Kagami set down his tea bowl, took the contract, and read it through from start to finish.
Then he set it back on the table, took out the seal he always carried, and stamped his name into the signature field.
Gaston passed over his own copy along with a fountain pen; Tsushima Kagami took it with a smile and signed his name.
Handing it back to Gaston, he rose and offered Tsushima Kagami his hand.
"A pleasure doing business, Mr. Tsushima."
Tsushima Kagami shook it.
"A pleasure doing business, Mr. Gaston."
Gaston turned to Kobayashi Tomoaki and gave a small bow.
"Thank you for your help, Mr. Kobayashi."
Kobayashi Tomoaki returned the bow.
"Likewise."
With the contract signed, the mood in the office loosened at once.
Gaston dug a bottle of red wine out of his big backpack, festooned as it was with anime merchandise.
He grinned.
"I have a friend at the French Embassy here. He brought this back from Bordeaux a while ago."
"Good vintage. Shall we open it now?"
Kobayashi Tomoaki glanced at the clock on the wall. Three-thirty.
By the rules, an editor-in-chief shouldn't be drinking during working hours.
But he was the editor-in-chief now, and weren't rules made to be broken?
Kobayashi Tomoaki decided to exercise the privilege of his office, just this once.
"Just a small drink, then."
"I'll go find some glasses."
He crossed to the low cabinet in the corner of the office and opened it; inside, several crystal glasses sat neatly arranged.
It was a Riedel set the old president had left behind—used only for the most important guests.
Kobayashi Tomoaki hesitated for the barest fraction of a second, then took them out anyway.
Gaston uncorked the bottle, and the three of them each raised a glass.
The wine left beautiful tears sliding down the glass, its aroma rich and layered.
There was the fruit of blackcurrant, and a smoky note from the oak barrel.
"Cheers."
Gaston raised his glass.
"Cheers."
Kobayashi Tomoaki and Tsushima Kagami lifted theirs at the same moment.
The three glasses touched with a bright, clear chime.
Tsushima Kagami only clinked his glass symbolically, then set it back down.
Kobayashi Tomoaki, savoring it, took a sip and let it linger on his tongue.
Gaston took a good swallow, sighed with satisfaction, and turned to Kobayashi Tomoaki.
"Mr. Kobayashi, I have a rather bold request."
"Please, go ahead, Mr. Gaston."
Kobayashi Tomoaki, leaning against his desk now, swirled his glass lightly.
"Could you, um…"
Gaston chose his words carefully.
"—use your power as editor-in-chief, just once, to knock off work early?"
"We could all go find an izakaya and have another round."
"You know how it is—my colleague already flew home today, and my only friend in Tokyo is a poor corporate slave who can't even get time off. Wandering around alone would be far too dull."
Gaston shrugged, spreading his hands with a look of pure helplessness.
Kobayashi Tomoaki laughed.
He was about to agree when something occurred to him, and he turned to look at Tsushima Kagami.
"Kagami-kun," he said suddenly.
Tsushima Kagami turned to look back at him.
"You already have a draft, don't you? You have for a while now."
The question came out casually, but the man asking it already knew the answer.
Kobayashi Tomoaki's gaze lingered on Tsushima Kagami's face, trying to catch something in his expression.
The corner of Tsushima Kagami's mouth twitched, just slightly.
Hearing this, Gaston turned, curious, glancing between Kobayashi Tomoaki and Tsushima Kagami.
He didn't quite grasp what lay behind the question.
But judging by the look on both their faces, this was clearly an important moment.
Tsushima Kagami was quiet for a few seconds.
He was weighing whether to tell the truth.
The moment Kobayashi Tomoaki learned he had a draft, the questions would never stop.
He'd ask about the content, the structure, the characters, the ending.
He'd keep at it from dusk into nightfall, from nightfall into the deep of the night, until every last detail had been dragged out of him.
And Gaston would be even worse.
A publisher's rep who'd flown all the way from Paris and gone to such lengths to lock down this contract—if he found out a draft already existed, wouldn't he start hounding him for it on the spot?
But then again…
there wasn't really anything worth hiding, was there.
He didn't have it on him anyway.
Would the two of them really have the nerve to march over to his house for it?
So Tsushima Kagami simply admitted it outright.
"I've written a bit of a draft, yes."
"I don't have it with me today, though. I'll show you next time."
By rights, that should have settled the matter.
But Gaston's excitement flared up far faster than Kobayashi Tomoaki had expected.
"There must be a pen somewhere in this office, no?"
Gaston set down his glass, his eyes lit with pure excitement.
"Could you write out the opening for us? Just to see?"
The suggestion struck Kobayashi Tomoaki like a small jolt.
Of course—why hadn't he thought of that?
Rather than waiting for next time, why not get a taste of the opening right now?
"Come on, come on."
Kobayashi Tomoaki caught Tsushima Kagami by the arm and steered him toward the editor-in-chief's chair.
"Sit down and write."
Without waiting for an answer, he pushed Tsushima Kagami down into the broad leather swivel chair.
Then he turned and rifled through a drawer, pulling out a fresh stack of manuscript paper and a fountain pen.
He laid the paper out in front of Tsushima Kagami, uncapped the pen, and checked the ink for good measure.
"There you go."
He handed the pen over, then took up a position at Tsushima Kagami's left, hands on his hips, leaning slightly forward.
Gaston crowded in as well, taking his place at the right.
Both men bent slightly at the waist, staring intently at the blank sheet of paper.
Sandwiched between the two of them, Tsushima Kagami felt rather like a prisoner under escort.
He glanced left, then right, and sighed.
Well, since it had come to this, he might as well write.
He reached out and picked up the Pilot fountain pen.
He held the nib poised above the paper for a moment.
Kobayashi Tomoaki and Gaston both held their breath without meaning to.
Neither wanted to break his concentration.
The room fell utterly silent.
Then the pen came down.
The nib scratched across the paper with a faint rasp.
In the profound quiet of the room, every stroke was clearly audible.
The instant the first character touched the page, Kobayashi Tomoaki's eyes fixed on it and would not move away.
国 — the first character: border.
Having written it, Tsushima Kagami lifted the nib just slightly, then set it down again, and continued: 境の長いトンネルを抜けると雪国であった.
At that point he paused, the nib hovering over the final stroke of た.
The breath Kobayashi Tomoaki had been holding escaped him all at once, ragged and heavy.
He no longer cared whether he might be disturbing Tsushima Kagami's concentration.
He was already lost entirely in the handful of words on the page.
Then Tsushima Kagami went on writing: 夜の底が白くなった.信号所に汽車が止まった.
With the final period drawn, Tsushima Kagami set down the pen and sank back into the chair.
Two lines of text lay on the manuscript paper:
「国境の長いトンネルを抜けると雪国であった.夜の底が白くなった.信号所に汽車が止まった.」
(The train came out of the long tunnel into the snow country. The earth lay white under the night sky. The train pulled up at a signal stop.)
____
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