Chapter Seventy: In Progress

At the premiere, the film’s key creators, director Shunji Iwai, Miho Nakayama, Etsushi Toyokawa, other main actors, as well as producers from the investors, were all present. The interviews lasted for about thirty minutes. After Shunji Iwai picked up the microphone and said, “Next, please enjoy the film,” the lights in the theater dimmed. Ye Zhao and Izumi Sakai took the opportunity to remove the black baseball caps they’d worn throughout.

There was no need to elaborate on the fame of “Love Letter”—it was the film almost everyone recommended when talking about Japanese cinema. Hiroko Watanabe, a woman mourning her fiancé Fujii Itsuki three years after his passing, unable to control her longing for her lost love, stumbles upon her late lover’s elementary school yearbook. With a peculiar feeling, she sends a letter to the address listed, believing she’s writing to heaven.

Unexpectedly, she receives a reply from someone named Fujii Itsuki. Upon further inquiry, she discovers this Fujii Itsuki is a woman of similar age, who had been a classmate of her late fiancé. Driven to learn more about her lost love, the two begin exchanging letters.

As memories unravel, female Fujii Itsuki gradually discovers that the male Fujii Itsuki had harbored deep affection for her in their youth.

Shunji Iwai, a master of the arts, infused his signature aesthetic into “Love Letter,” a film both accessible and exquisitely crafted. Most of those in attendance were industry insiders with a focus on box office, yet even they found themselves unconsciously drawn in by the film.

The movie, spanning about one hundred and twenty minutes, let time flow gently within, while outside the screen, time slipped away unnoticed—even Ye Zhao, who had seen the film in a previous life, found himself once again watching it with earnest attention.

“Dear Miss Hiroko Watanabe, I was too shy to send this letter.” In the final scene, the camera lingered on Miho Nakayama’s tearful face.

“What a wonderful film,” Izumi Sakai murmured quietly to Ye Zhao as the credits began to roll across the screen.

Ye Zhao nodded. “Indeed.” To capture the subtle flavor of a Japanese art film without a trace of dullness—Shunji Iwai’s brilliance was evident.

…

Before leaving the cinema, Izumi Sakai went to greet Shunji Iwai.

Shunji Iwai’s gaze was calm, his tone deliberate, his presence steeped in the air of an artist. Upon seeing Izumi Sakai, he gave a gentle smile, “Thank you for coming, Miss Sakai.” His gaze shifted past her to Ye Zhao, who stood behind in a baseball cap, scrutinizing him. “Mr. Ye?”

“Hello, Mr. Iwai,” Ye Zhao bowed slightly. “Thanks to Miss Sakai, I was able to attend. The film was exceptional.”

“Thank you.” Shunji Iwai nodded.

Backstage, aside from Iwai, staff members passed by from time to time. Though nearly two years had passed since Izumi Sakai’s farewell to television, she was still easily recognized.

“Isn’t this Miss Sakai?” A man in his forties or fifties stopped in his tracks.

“Hello,” Izumi Sakai bowed.

The man beamed. “It’s my good fortune to meet Miss Sakai here. I’m Takahashi, a producer from Fuji Television.”

Fuji Television was both the producer and distributor of “Love Letter.” With a long history in film production reaching back to 1968’s “Goyokin” by Hideo Gosha, Fuji Television, like other networks, made a decisive push into the film industry when Japan’s cinema market declined in the eighties, eventually splitting the domestic film landscape among studios, TV networks, and independent producers.

Private TV networks were often backed by major conglomerates and newspaper companies, ensuring ample support in terms of funding and publicity.

Before directing films, Shunji Iwai had a long-standing collaboration with Fuji Television. For his first theatrical feature, Fuji Television naturally became his support.

Producer Takahashi seemed fond of Izumi Sakai, and once he recognized her, he chatted incessantly. As for Ye Zhao, he didn’t spare him a glance, perhaps mistaking him for staff due to his cap and the distance.

Izumi Sakai was clearly not adept at such social niceties, but constrained by etiquette, she could only respond politely. Ye Zhao, after some thought, quietly slipped out of backstage, retreated to the stairwell by the emergency exit, and dialed Izumi Sakai.

The phone was answered almost immediately.

“Miss Sakai, your next appointment awaits. The car is ready. Please come out soon,” Ye Zhao said, adopting the tone of an assistant.

A swift reply sounded from the other end: “Understood. Please wait a moment, I’ll be right there.”

After hanging up, Ye Zhao rolled his neck like a triumphant general and headed for the elevator.

Soon, Izumi Sakai hurried out into the corridor. Ye Zhao waved, “This way, Izumi.”

In the elevator, just the two of them, Izumi Sakai adjusted her hat and joked, “Ye, I never expected you to be so good at lying.”

“No choice, Izumi, you looked so awkward just now, sweating bullets. Special situations require special solutions,” Ye Zhao raised an eyebrow. “By the way, was that a compliment or an insult?”

“You went out of your way for me. If I insulted you, wouldn’t that be heartless?” Izumi Sakai laughed.

“If it’s a compliment,” Ye Zhao perked up, “is there a reward?”

“There is.”

“What is it?”

Izumi Sakai blinked, “I’ll treat you to dinner.”

“But that was already planned…” Ye Zhao protested.

With a ding, the elevator stopped. Izumi Sakai stepped out first with a smile, her actions declaring Ye Zhao’s protest invalid.

Dinner was set at a kaiseki restaurant in Nishi-Azabu, Minato Ward. Izumi Sakai had made the reservation a week prior. Though the time was changed last minute, as a regular, the restaurant readily accommodated her.

…

Separated by elegant folding screens, in a refined Japanese-style private room, Izumi Sakai and Ye Zhao sat across a sturdy low table, with Yuuki Uemura and Miss Imai seated beside them.

Apparently, reporters had spotted them at the premiere, and on the drive from Kadokawa Cinema to Nishi-Azabu, Yuuki Uemura noticed a magazine car tailing them in the rearview mirror.

Times had changed—Ye Zhao was now a rising star and media sensation, and Izumi Sakai, ever since she announced her retirement from television, had been the focus of countless magazines, all eager for scoops on her private life.

But since they rode in separate cars accompanied by assistants, the tabloids found nothing of interest; there was no need even to shake the tail. Once the group entered the restaurant maintaining polite distance, the paparazzi packed up and left.

After all, no one brings assistants to a kaiseki restaurant for a date. Perhaps a brief mention of the event would surface in a magazine in a few days, but more likely, it wouldn’t be mentioned at all.

The appetizers included Akashi sea bream sashimi, followed by Abugawa chicken and pea soup, assorted sashimi, mullet roe, tuna sushi, grilled beef tenderloin, sea urchin… The server carefully presented each dish in exquisite porcelain.

“Izumi, I’ve wanted to ask you something,” Ye Zhao broached the subject as the aperitif was served.

“Hmm?” Izumi Sakai looked at him with interest.

“Mr. Daikoku told me you don’t attend the BEER club because you don’t drink beer. So, what do you usually drink?”

Izumi Sakai responded with a question, “What do you think?”

“Well,” Ye Zhao mused, feigning seriousness, “I picture you dressed in a tailored suit, seated by the window in a luxurious skyscraper restaurant, swirling a glass of fine wine and toasting the cityscape.”

Miss Imai couldn’t help but laugh, covering her mouth to stifle the sound.

Izumi Sakai looked at Ye Zhao, conflicted. “Is that really how you see me?”

“Just kidding,” Ye Zhao folded his hands. “I’ll bet you’re secretly a sake drinker.”

“Why do you think so?”

“I get the feeling you really vibe with the atmosphere of kaiseki cuisine, so maybe you like traditional drinks?”

Miss Imai finally burst in, answering for Izumi Sakai, “Ye Zhao, you’re wrong. Miss Sakai’s favorite is a slightly sweet cocktail.”

“So I guessed wrong.” Ye Zhao scratched his head, picked up his glass, drained the pale aperitif, smacked his lips, and his eyes lit up. “Izumi, you’d like this drink—it’s sweet, with a refreshing hint of yuzu.”

Izumi Sakai rested her chin on her hand, gazing at Ye Zhao with a look that was… benevolent? No, tender. After a moment, she finished her aperitif and nodded, “Yes, I do like it.”

In truth, the only alcohol consumed during the meal was that single glass—but Ye Zhao felt he might remember its flavor for a long time.

After dessert, Miss Imai and Yuuki Uemura went ahead to fetch the car, while Ye Zhao and Izumi Sakai left the restaurant a little later. As Ye Zhao helped Izumi Sakai into the car, he said, “Thank you for the dinner, Izumi. I had a wonderful time.”

“So did I,” Izumi Sakai waved at him, “See you next time, Ye.”

…