dkrc Chapter 345 People
Chapter 345 People
Monday, November 5, 1990, Osaka.
4-chome, Honmachi, Chuo-ku.
Fujiwara stopped at the third intersection.
She clutched the business card in her hand, the address printed in the lower left corner, the font size one level smaller than the body text: 401, No. 3-7, Honmachi 4-chome, Chuo-ku, Osaka City, Japan (Second Mihara Building).
She looked up—in front of her was a seven-story concrete building, its exterior painted with the kind of beige-gray paint commonly seen in the 1970s, and it looked at least twenty years old.
On the first floor was a typing shop with a sign hanging halfway up; the roller shutter door was only two-thirds open. The second-floor windows were covered with yellowed newspapers, obscuring the view inside. On the third floor, a window was half-open, a corner of the white gauze curtain billowing in the wind.
There are no signs indicating that this building is related to the name "Saionji".
That's Saionji! They're probably the richest family in the entire Kanto region, right? Why would they rent such a dilapidated little building?
She flipped the business card over again to confirm. It was indeed 4-3-7 Honmachi, the address matched.
Okay, let's go in first.
Fujiwara took the somewhat old elevator to the fourth floor.
The corridor was narrow, with only two fluorescent lights on, and another flickering overhead. Three cardboard boxes were piled against the wall on the left, bearing the name of a tax firm. On the right, the first door had a "Vacant" sign; the second door was labeled "401".
There is only a room number, not a company name.
Fujiwara stood in front of the door, his hand gripping the receipt bag tightly.
She recalled the Osaka skyline reflected in the floor-to-ceiling windows of the corridor when she came out of the Sumitomo Chemical Building, and the "well-girder pattern" bronze nameplate of the Sumitomo Group in the elevator—that was what she thought "doing business" should look like.
There's nothing here.
She hesitated for three seconds, then raised her hand and knocked twice.
"Please come in," a man's voice came from inside.
The door was an old-fashioned wooden door, and the handle was a bit stiff. The moment Fujiwara pushed the door open, the flickering of the fluorescent lights in the corridor was shut out—the light source inside the door was completely different.
"Excuse me..."
The room was larger than she had expected. The partition wall had been removed, creating a rectangular space that looked to be about 30 square meters. Two rows of cool white fluorescent tubes hung from the ceiling, but the main light source in the room came from elsewhere.
On the long table to the left, the screens of two workstations glowed a deep green. Characters scrolled rapidly across a black background, line after line. A reflective label was affixed to the chassis; she couldn't make out the model number, only recognizing the letters "SPARC".
On the right wall hangs a hand-drawn world time zone chart, and the names of more than a dozen cities are marked on a whiteboard with different colored markers. Next to each city is a small note with the local time written on it.
At the far end of the desk, two fax machines sat side by side. One was covered with a dust cover, while the other was in operation—paper tape was slowly being ejected from the outlet, hanging down to about half a meter in length.
Fujiwara's gaze swept around the room.
There were no superfluous decorations here. The only green plant was a small snake plant on the windowsill, its terracotta pot covered in dust. But every desktop was spotless, files were sorted by color, and the pens in the pen holders all faced the same direction.
Five workstations. Three people are sitting there.
The man closest to the window stood up from his seat. He was in his early thirties, with high cheekbones, a narrow chin, and very short hair, his sideburns almost shaved to the skin.
He was wearing a dark gray suit with slightly loose shoulders—Fujiwara noticed that the suit wasn't new, but it was ironed very neatly, and the top button on the collar was fastened.
"Ms. Fujiwara from Sumitomo Chemicals?"
"Yes."
"Nagata." He didn't offer his business card, but simply nodded slightly. "Credit Securities Practice, please have a seat."
He pointed to the folding chair opposite him. The folding chair was made of gray iron pipes and had a thin cushion.
Fujiwara sat down and placed the receipt bag on the table.
"Executive Director Murata should have already told you." Nagata opened a drawer and took out a blank form. "For a trial application under five million US dollars, the beneficiary's bank is in Singapore?"
"Yes, the advising bank is DBS Singapore."
"Okay." He didn't say another word and reached out to take the document bag that Fujiwara handed him.
Fujiwara watched him turn to the first page.
The trade contract. His gaze began at the date in the upper left corner and swept down the clauses. His finger didn't touch the paper, but the trajectory of his eyes was clear—first the date, then the description of the goods, then the amount, and finally the signature.
Two minutes later, he flipped to the second one.
The export customs declaration form, in the same order: date, product name, quantity, weight. His gaze lingered on the "weight" column for half a second, then he picked up the calculator and pressed a few buttons.
"Twenty-four tons," he said.
"Yes."
"Does the bill of lading also say 24?"
Fujiwara pulled out a copy of the bill of lading and handed it over. Nagata took it, his gaze sweeping over the tonnage column.
"Twenty-four." He put down the bill of lading. "No problem. Continue."
This verification process lasted for nearly forty minutes.
In the forty minutes that followed, Nagata didn't ask a single question related to Sumitomo Chemical's internal affairs. There was no "Which department led this business deal?", no "What stage have you reached in your communication with the bank?", and not even the usual small talk like "How is Managing Director Murata?"
He only asks about the goods, the invoices, and whether the numbers match.
The muscle in Fujiwara's shoulder that had been taut for days finally relaxed around the twentieth minute. She didn't even realize it herself.
Forty minutes later, Nagata rearranged all the documents in their original order, placing a graph paper on top. The graph paper contained his handwritten annotations in a blue ballpoint pen; the handwriting was small, but each stroke was clear.
"There are three things that need to be revised." He turned the graph paper towards Fujiwara.
The first document is the beneficiary's bank information confirmation letter.
"DBS Singapore, you filled in DBSSSGSG. This eight-digit code is correct. However, the confirmation letter is missing an English footnote: 'Subject to ICC Uniform Customs and Practice for Documentary Credits, 1983 Revision, Publication No. 400'."
Fujiwara blinked. "UCP400 references... the bank has never requested that."
"We don't require it because the bank assumes both parties agree to it," Nagata said calmly. "But if the other party is a Southeast Asian bank, there are often disputes in practice—not specifying it leaves a loophole. Putting it in takes only thirty seconds and saves you three months of arbitration in the future."
Fujiwara lowered his head and wrote it down.
The second point: amount.
"Five million dollars is just right at the limit for the trial order. But I suggest splitting it into two orders—two million eight hundred thousand and two million two hundred thousand."
Why?
"The first transaction was a trial order authorization, not submitted to the committee," Nagata said. "We first tested the DBS notification, the shipper's change of bill of lading, and the internal confirmation process of Sumitomo Chemical. Once the first transaction went smoothly, the second transaction was simply a repeat of the process."
He paused for a moment.
"Furthermore, by the time Bai Shui discovered it, the first transaction was already a fait accompli; but the amount was not large enough to prompt them to immediately resort to extreme measures."
Fujiwara wrote down the numbers. Her mind was racing with something else at the same time, but she didn't say it aloud.
The third place. Nagata turned to the page with the bill of lading and pointed to a line in the middle.
"Place of issuance," he said.
Fujiwara peeked out—the bill of lading's place of issue column read "Port Klang, Malaysia".
"DBS Singapore is the beneficiary's bank and also the advising bank." Nagata's finger moved to the port of shipment in the upper left corner of the bill of lading. "But the place of issuance of the bill of lading is Port Klang. The port of shipment and the place of issuance of the bill of lading are not in the same jurisdiction."
He paused for a moment.
"If there are any problems with this shipment—delays, shortages, quality discrepancies—which country's law applies if you go to arbitration?"
Fujiwara was stunned.
"Jurisdiction for a bill of lading depends on its place of issue. If it's issued in Malaysia, then arbitration must take place in Malaysia. But your contract is governed by Singapore law." Nagata moved his finger from the bill of lading back to the contract, pointing to the arbitration clause on the second-to-last page. "These two things conflict."
"If the other party defaults and delays paying, you'll have to take the Singapore court's judgment to Malaysia to enforce it—which will take at least another six months."
Fujiwara's throat moved slightly.
She was thinking of something.
Sumitomo Bank returned her application three times.
The first issue was the seal across the seam—a simple problem that could be fixed that same day. The second was the fifth to eighth digits of the SWIFT code—she confirmed this over the phone and corrected it overnight. The third was the "real estate valuation report"—a trade letter of credit required her to submit a real estate valuation report.
The document was returned three times, and not once did the jurisdictional issue come to mind.
They weren't blind to it; they simply weren't looking at the deal itself.
Their eyes were focused on "how to prevent the money from leaving the country," while Nagata's eyes were focused on "how to ensure the money arrives safely."
The same document, being flipped through in the same way, but in completely different directions.
"Then what changes do I need to make?" she asked.
"Have the shipper reissue the bill of lading," Nagata said. "Request their agent in Singapore to reissue the bill of lading. With the place of issuance changed to Singapore, the jurisdiction and arbitration clauses will be consistent."
He picked up a pen and wrote a line on the graph paper: "Contact the shipper and request a re-issue of the B/L in Singapore."
"How long will it take?"
"If they cooperate, it will take three days." Nagata put the pen back in its holder. "If they don't cooperate, we can issue a follow-up letter—in the capacity of both the applicant and the arranger of the letter of credit. If necessary, the actual issuing bank can attach a bank letter."
That's all. Each of the three problems has a solution, and each solution can be implemented.
Is this what efficiency is?
Fujiwara finished writing his notes in the blank space on the graph paper and looked up.
"Mr. Nagata."
"Um."
"If we break it down into two parts... after the first part is completed..."
She didn't finish her sentence.
Nagata glanced at her.
He simply said, "The first SWIFT message will remain in the system."
Just this one sentence.
Fujiwara didn't ask any more questions.
SWIFT messages leave traceable records between banks.
Once DBS Singapore completes the notification, Sumitomo Chemical, the beneficiary bank, the actual issuing bank, and the necessary clearing nodes will all know that this letter of credit from Sumitomo Chemical will no longer go through Sumitomo Bank.
The news will reach Osaka sooner or later.
Bai Shui might want to pretend he didn't see it, but that's impossible.
She recalled what Managing Director Murata had said: "The angrier they get, the clearer the manufacturing company presidents become—they have no way out."
This five million dollars is a flag.
The flag planted in front of the White Water Meeting.
And she, Fujiwara, a sales planning staff member who had been with the company for two years, was the one pushed out to plant the flag.
Her fingertips felt a chill.
Why myself?
To be honest, it would be a lie to say she wasn't afraid, but she had no choice—in today's society, no other company would want an employee who had only graduated a few years ago and was already job-hopping.
Nagata did not sit back down immediately.
The fax machine, covered by a dust cover, rang. He went over, lifted the cover, and waited for the paper tape to finish spitting out.
Fujiwara's gaze followed his movement, and out of the corner of her eye, she caught a few letters at the top of the paper strip.
"Frankfurt aM"
Frankfurt.
Nagata folded the paper strip twice, opened a locked metal drawer on the side of the table, put the paper strip inside, and locked it. He tucked the key back into his belt. Then he walked back and sat down, as if nothing had happened.
Fujiwara slowly stacked the receipts back into the bag, his movements becoming more deliberate.
"Mr. Nagata," she finally spoke.
"Hmm." Nagata didn't look up; he was writing the fax number at the bottom of the graph paper.
"You...have you been working at Saionji Trading Company for a long time, haven't you?"
She assumed it was just a polite greeting. Someone with such expertise must be a veteran who's been working in the trade finance department for twenty years.
Nagata paused for a moment.
Then he shook his head.
"Four months."
Fujiwara thought he had misheard.
"I joined in July." Nagata put his pen back in the pen holder and, unusually, added, "Back then, it wasn't Saionji Trading Company; it was the Trade and Finance Preparatory Team under Executive Director Endo. We were transferred here after the Department of Commerce was officially established in October."
"Before that, I worked at Maruhishi Bussan."
Fujiwara had heard of this name before. Maruhishi Bussan—a mid-sized trading company specializing in Southeast Asian oils and rubber—was still mentioned in last year's Nikkei. One day in March of this year, a half-line appeared in the corner of the newspaper: applying for the Company Rehabilitation Law.
"I worked there for twelve years," Nagata said. "For the last four years, I was the Vice Minister of Trade and Finance."
Fujiwara didn't say anything.
"When the overall credit line is regulated, banks will target trading companies of our size first," Nagata said calmly. "Once the credit line is cut off, all the letters of credit in transit become dead ends. In three months, the company is gone."
He paused for a moment.
"Forty-seven years old, and her resume says she was the deputy director of a bankrupt trading company." Nagata looked at her. "Guess what kind of job she can get with that kind of resume?"
Fujiwara recalled what Executive Director Murata had said—in this day and age, no company would hire someone who had switched jobs. She suddenly realized that her situation was actually much better than that of the man in front of her.
"It was Saionji Trading Company that approached us," Nagata said. "A senior executive named Endo sent someone with only one condition—to provide everything I know, exactly what it is."
"What about your salary?" Fujiwara asked, then realized it was rude. "...Sorry."
Nagata, however, did not pay any attention.
"My last year with Maruhiko was pretty much the same," he said. "Not a penny less."
Fujiwara was stunned.
The deputy director of a bankrupt trading company, a middle-aged man unwanted by the market, was hired by Saionji Trading Company at his peak salary.
“I’m not the only one.” Nagata’s gaze swept across the room. “The one by the window was the foreign exchange manager of a mid-sized trading company in Kansai last year. The one inside with glasses lost his job when Ataka Corporation collapsed and stayed at home for more than ten years before being brought back last year.”
Fujiwara followed his gaze. Two faces were buried in their work, their hands moving so fast they were almost invisible as they flipped through receipts.
She used to think it was talent, but now she understands—it was a skill accumulated over decades.
They had been sitting in the ruins of a certain company for too long, and then the Saionji family dug them out, gave them jobs, gave them dignity, and enabled them to support their families with dignity.
During the lowest point of their lives, they met the only person who was willing to accept them...
"That empty table..." Fujiwara's gaze fell on a mug with the old company logo printed on it.
"The employer hasn't officially started yet; he'll be here next Monday," Nagata said. "He also comes from a trading company, specializing in Middle Eastern settlements—he's the only one here who understands Islamic finance. That cup was left behind during his last interview."
Fujiwara recalled the dark blue loose-leaf book on Nagata's desk, flipped to page 170-something, and the chapter title read "Murabaha Structured Letter of Credit under the Islamic Financial System".
"That booklet..."
"Everyone wrote it together," Nagata said. "Everyone wrote down what they were best at. Whoever added something new would put a correction label on it." He glanced at the thick book, with a silver family crest pressed under the lower right corner of the cover. "You can't buy it on the market. Because what's inside is the result of decades of trial and error by more than a dozen bankrupt trading companies and hundreds of people."
Fujiwara's hand paused for a moment on the zipper of the receipt bag.
She recalled Sumitomo Chemical's "Guide to Foreign Substitute Business," published in 1985, 240 pages, which hadn't been updated for five years.
The dark blue booklet in front of me had a line of gray text at the bottom that read October 15th—half a month ago.
It is still growing.
Just like that group.
Nagata has picked up his pen again.
"Regarding the issue of the place of issue, please contact the shipper when you get back. After you've corrected it, fax over a copy of the new bill of lading." He pointed to the number at the bottom of the graph paper. "This number is available 24/7."
Fujiwara stood up and slung the receipt bag over his shoulder.
"I will send you the new bill of lading within three days."
Nagata nodded. "After receiving it, we'll conduct an internal review. If all goes smoothly, the first letter of credit issuance should be sent out within five business days."
Fujiwara walked towards the door. As she placed her hand on the doorknob, she turned back for one last look.
Nagata was already engrossed in his work on graph paper. Behind him, on the wall, the time zone clock for Frankfurt pointed to three in the morning. The screen of the UNIX workstation was still scrolling green characters, its light reflecting on the empty desk next to it—on the empty desk was a mug, the rim of which bore the logo of a trading company that no longer existed.
Next Monday, someone will sit there.
Fujiwara opened the door and walked into the fourth-floor corridor. After she pressed 1, the elevator gearbox made that metallic meshing noise again.
She stood in the elevator, watching the floor number jump from 4 to 3, and from 3 to 2.
In this tiny room, less than 30 square meters and without even a sign, sat the people—people from Ataka, from Marunishi, from that string of names that have since vanished—whose craftsmanship hadn't died with the company. Someone had bought them back at the original price when they were at their lowest value.
She suddenly understood what the name Saionji had actually gained from this collapse.
They took the most valuable part.
people.