Chapter Ten: Going on a Date

“Although you’re a newcomer and the terms in the contract won’t be particularly favorable, I personally appreciate your potential, so I’m willing to make an exception and offer you better conditions,” Yuko Nakano began, extending a significant gesture of goodwill, before continuing, “Our agency operates on a monthly salary plus commission system. Newcomers receive a base salary of fifty thousand yen per month, with a commission split of one to nine. The contract term is five years, during which you are required to follow the company’s arrangements unconditionally. For you, however, I can increase the monthly salary to one hundred thousand yen. Furthermore, if you perform well, your year-end salary and commission split could be adjusted upward by a few points each year.”

“In addition, you have tremendous potential in music. Once you join the agency, we’ll arrange for you to debut as a singer with a record label as soon as possible. The specifics of the recording contract—such as the commission split—will need to be negotiated with the record company, but as for your royalties for songwriting, concert earnings, and radio play fees, the agency’s standard practice is to take a one-time cut of sixty percent in the first year. After that, the company no longer takes a share.”

In a previous life, Ye Zhao had read online descriptions of Japanese and Korean talent agencies as “sweatshops.” Compared to China, where even a minor internet celebrity could earn tens of thousands for a single appearance and A-list stars command millions, Japanese and Korean entertainers had it much harder. Not only were sky-high paychecks out of reach, but even after years of hard work, most of the money ended up in the agency’s pocket. A one-to-nine split wasn’t even the worst; there were companies on a fixed salary system, where regardless of popularity or number of gigs, artists only earned a stagnant wage according to their seniority.

Moreover, in China, once entertainers gained enough clout, they could go independent or set up their own studios. But in Japan and Korea, the entertainment industry was so thoroughly developed that agencies and TV stations controlled all the resources. Offending an agency would effectively mean exile from show business, unless one had extraordinary backing or didn’t need to deal with the media at all.

The old apartment Ye Zhao lived in now cost fifty thousand yen a month in rent. With the dictatorial power held by Japanese agencies, Ye Zhao could only wait for jobs the company assigned him. If the company ever gave up on him, he would be left with a paltry salary, stuck waiting for the five-year contract to expire. That was the reality: for a newcomer like him, with no credentials, however handsome or talented, it was nearly impossible to secure better terms.

Seeing Ye Zhao’s hesitation, Yuko Nakano decided to stoke the fire further, saying, “Do you know who you reminded me of, holding your guitar and singing? I thought of Masaharu Fukuyama. Now, Fukuyama-san is a superstar in both music and film, but I believe your potential is no less than his. Our agency’s strength is not far behind AMUSE either. With just a bit of effort, we can make you the next Fukuyama.”

Who was Masaharu Fukuyama? Even twenty-three years later, in 2017, he remained one of the top stars in Japanese entertainment—an accomplished actor and one of the rare successful male solo artists in Japan’s music scene. His 2015 marriage to Kazue Fukiishi, which shattered the dreams of countless women, had earned him the joking nickname of “Japan’s Andy Lau.”

In 1994, Fukuyama was still on the rise. Any nineteen-year-old boy, lured by the promise of becoming “the next Masaharu Fukuyama,” would have jumped at the chance. But Ye Zhao was no ordinary nineteen-year-old. Facing these seemingly attractive terms, he simply replied, “Aunt Nakano, I don’t want to be the next Masaharu Fukuyama.”

He only wanted to be the one and only Ye Zhao.

“But I will seriously consider your proposal. If I decide to accept, I’ll be sure to contact you.” Although he had already dismissed the contract in his mind, Ye Zhao still planned to build a career in show business. When dealing with a prominent agent from a major firm, one should never burn bridges, even if negotiations fell through.

Having spent decades navigating this world, Yuko Nakano was far from impatient. She accepted his polite refusal without complaint, her tone softening as she said, “This is an important matter, and it’s right to consider it carefully. You’re still underage, after all, and it’s best to discuss this with your family.” She paused, then added, “But still, it’s not easy for a newcomer to debut. When opportunity presents itself, you must seize it.”

…

At nine o’clock the next morning, Ye Zhao arrived punctually at the headquarters of NTT DOCOMO in Chiyoda. Apart from collecting his one million yen reward, he was also there to sign a contract for an advertising shoot. The person who received him was Mr. Suzuki, a department manager in his fifties. After walking Ye Zhao through the contract and confirming there were no objections, Ye Zhao signed his name in bold strokes.

Once the contract was put away, Suzuki handed him an envelope containing the check. Ye Zhao took it out, and when he saw the six zeros following the one, he flashed a satisfied smile, oblivious to the others in the room watching him.

Suzuki’s son was about Ye Zhao’s age, so upon seeing this unabashed delight over money, he didn’t look down on him at all. Instead, he asked kindly, “Ye, have you thought about how you’ll use your prize money?”

“Of course—I’m going to do something big with it,” Ye Zhao replied, carefully putting the check back in the envelope.

Boys his age usually splurged on designer sneakers or a personal computer. Suzuki’s son himself had recently pestered his father into buying a computer for “study purposes,” at a cost of 360,000 yen. So Suzuki didn’t take Ye Zhao’s words seriously, merely offering a polite, “Then I wish you success.”

A million yen, by the 1994 exchange rate, was just over eighty thousand yuan—not an enormous sum, whether in China or Japan. That’s why Suzuki assumed Ye Zhao’s “big plans” were simply a shopping spree. In 1994, China was booming; with eighty thousand yuan, one could start a business and possibly make a fortune. But in Japan, just coming out of its economic bubble, the most practical use for such money was to buy some luxury goods and improve one’s lifestyle.

The celebration dinner with Natsumi Fujii was set at a restaurant near Nakano Station. At five in the evening, as Ye Zhao exited the station, he saw Natsumi already waiting at the exit. She was dressed fashionably in a light-colored, fitted romper, her long, slender legs drawing the gaze of many passersby. When she spotted Ye Zhao, she waved energetically and called out, “Ye!” The two or three young men who had been considering approaching her immediately gave up.

Nakano wasn’t just home to the earliest otaku paradise, Nakano Broadway; it was also a music mecca. Besides the renowned Nakano Sunplaza concert venue, many musicians had lived here before their rise to fame, and even the famous Horikoshi High School, cradle of stars, was located in Nakano. It was common to see street performers in the area.

Outside the restaurant, a girl with shoulder-length hair was playing WANDS’s “Door of Time” on her electric acoustic guitar. The song, with its lively and intense rhythm, took on a unique flavor in her rendition. Under the flickering neon lights, her focused expression reminded Ye Zhao of a famous female guitarist from the future, YUI.

His own days performing on the streets of Shibuya had given Ye Zhao a deep appreciation for the hardships of street musicians. Perhaps because of this, he took out his wallet and slipped a thousand-yen bill into the girl’s guitar case. She acknowledged him with a nod.

Dinner consisted of stuffed bell peppers, vegetable stew, potato salad, chicken tempura, and the restaurant’s signature grilled sea bream. Natsumi Fujii raised her teacup in place of wine and toasted him, “Congratulations on winning the championship.”

“Thank you,” Ye Zhao replied, raising his own glass and taking a sip of oolong tea. A beer would have been perfect for the occasion, but both he and Natsumi were still a few months shy of Japan’s legal drinking age. Though restaurants typically turned a blind eye and wouldn’t refuse if they ordered alcohol, the ever-rule-abiding Natsumi insisted on skipping it.

Natsumi was lively and cheerful, so there was never a risk of awkward silence in her company, making the dinner thoroughly enjoyable. Dessert followed the meal. While scooping her cake, Natsumi suddenly said, “I feel like there’s something different about you compared to before.”

“Is that so?” Ye Zhao’s brow twitched.

She nodded. “Yes, you’re more cheerful and confident now, but the change came so quickly, it’s as if you suddenly became a different person.” She laughed as she finished.

“People always change,” Ye Zhao replied evasively.

The moment he stepped out of the air-conditioned restaurant, a wave of heat hit him, and he instinctively raised his hand to shield his face. The muggy, sticky summer air left him feeling stifled. Ye Zhao thought to himself that any couple willing to walk arm in arm in such weather must truly be in love.

The girl who had been performing had already stopped playing and seemed to be packing up to leave. Ye Zhao glanced at her guitar and, on a sudden impulse, approached and asked, “Excuse me, may I borrow your guitar for a moment?”