Chapter 99: When You Arrive in Tokyo, You Can Meet Akana Rika
Ayako Fuji escorted Ye Zhao all the way to the door of the dressing room.
“Do your best in the upcoming performance. I wish you all the best,” Ye Zhao said, looking at her.
“Thank you for your kind words, Ye,” Ayako Fuji placed her hands before her, offering a modest gesture of courtesy. Her dignified demeanor reminded Ye Zhao of a refined lady.
He couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re suddenly so formal—it's quite unsettling.”
“You make it sound as if I’m some rough woman feigning sophistication.” Not a hair was out of place at her temples, her kimono and sash impeccable, so poised that Ye Zhao was tempted to play a mischievous trick.
He thought so—and acted on it. Catching Ayako off guard, he leaned in, gently pressing down her hair at the temple with his right hand while swiftly pulling out a small black hairpin she used to secure her hair with his left.
“Hey!” Ayako Fuji’s expression flickered with panic.
“This,” Ye Zhao dangled the pin before slipping it into his trouser pocket, “I’ll keep as a memento.”
“You’re too unruly, Ye!”
“In any case, do your best today. I’ll be watching from the audience.”
...
After leaving Ayako Fuji’s dressing room and preparing to head toward the theater, Ye Zhao saw a group of five or six people approaching from the far end of the corridor. Leading them was none other than the planner of tonight’s performance—the legendary Saburo Kitajima.
There was little need to explain who Saburo Kitajima was. Even people who scarcely listened to Japanese music had likely heard his name. While other singers might be called performers, and actors, no matter how accomplished, merely great actors, Saburo Kitajima belonged to the realm of “artists.” In fact, the now-powerful Yuo Suo in the entertainment industry once served only as his household driver.
Saburo Kitajima looked unremarkable, a bit like a fisherman. Yet, reigning atop the entertainment world for years, singing the dignified style of enka, his aura was simply overwhelming. Ye Zhao finally understood what people meant by a “three-meter aura”—he only needed to stand there, saying nothing, and everyone around instinctively showed him utmost respect.
Kitajima wore a gray twisted silk kimono; two young men in kimono followed, likely his apprentices. Enka singers passed down their art much like rakugo or manzai performers—one had to formally apprentice, move into the master’s home, and be ready at all times to serve, helping backstage at every performance until being officially declared independent.
With no way to avoid, Ye Zhao quickly stepped aside, bowing as all staff did when passing, “Good evening, Kitajima-san.”
After reaching a certain status, one no longer needed to bully those beneath them for satisfaction. Kitajima showed no arrogance, but nodded kindly to each staff member in greeting, his manner as gentle as any ordinary elder. When he reached Ye Zhao, Kitajima paused, examining him with some curiosity.
Ye Zhao promptly introduced himself, “Good evening, Kitajima-san. I am Ye Zhao.”
“Oh, hello,” Kitajima nodded, a little surprised. “I didn’t expect to meet you here.”
“The honor is mine, Kitajima-san.”
Kitajima’s gaze fell on the dressing room door behind Ye Zhao, marked “Ayako Fuji,” and he asked, “Are you acquainted with Fujimura-san?”
“Yes, I’ve received much help from Ayako before. I’ve always loved enka, and hearing that Ayako was performing tonight, I came especially to support her.”
“You like enka? That’s unexpected.”
“Well, Kitajima-san often says, ‘America has jazz, France has chanson, and Japan has enka.’ So, liking enka seems only natural.”
Kitajima laughed heartily, “You even know my catchphrase?” His expression grew warmer. “Fewer young people like enka these days, but that doesn’t mean enka is outdated. Quite the opposite—I’ve always believed enka stands equal to any nation’s traditional folk arts. Jazz and chanson transcend age and borders; as an enka singer, I hope enka’s charm will be recognized by more people.”
“For young people, some things in enka are hard to grasp at their age. When they reach middle age and gain insight into life, they naturally feel its allure. In that sense, Ye, who fell in love with enka early, has entered a new realm ahead of others.” Kitajima’s voice brimmed with pride when speaking of enka.
...
An enka performance was nothing like a concert. The atmosphere was calm; everyone sat quietly, waiting for the show to begin.
Ayako Fuji was performing, so Ye Zhao didn’t need to buy his own ticket—he received one from her. Ten minutes before curtain, Ye Zhao entered via a special passage and found his seat among the guests.
“Ye Zhao-san?!” Even trying to keep her voice low, the surprise was unmistakable as he sat down.
The voice came from his right. Ye Zhao turned, hesitated, then asked, “Miss Sachiko?” It wasn’t that he couldn’t recognize faces, but the girl before him had changed—her once-sleek black hair was different, the sparkling earrings gone, though the faint marks in her small shell-like ears remained.
Sachiko Fujimura’s face was full of surprise. “Why are you here, Ye Zhao-san?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I’m here for the performance.”
“I know you’re here for the performance,” she wrinkled her nose, clearly dissatisfied. Her blunt tone finally matched the delinquent girl Ye Zhao remembered.
Seeing her about to ask more questions, Ye Zhao raised his right index finger, making a “shh” gesture, and whispered, “Miss Sachiko, talking in the theater will disturb others.”
Sachiko instinctively glanced around, huffed, and ignored him.
...
This was Ye Zhao’s first time watching Ayako Fuji perform. If Ayako in daily life was a striking beauty, and Ayako in kimono was an elegant, dazzling lady, then Ayako on stage in kimono possessed a magic that stirred the soul.
If Ye Zhao were to describe Ayako at that moment, he wouldn’t use the usual words for beauty, but had a strange notion: if only her life could remain forever frozen at this moment.
...
After the performance, Ye Zhao and Sachiko Fujimura left together—not because they’d made any arrangement during the hour-and-a-half show, but simply because they happened to head the same way... That’s how it should have gone, if Sachiko hadn’t jumped into his car as they exited the theater.
“Miss Sachiko, why did you...”
Ignoring Ye Zhao’s surprise, Sachiko’s lips curled on the right side. “Ye Zhao-san, you don’t mind giving me a lift, do you?”
“I don’t mind, but Miss Sachiko, aren’t you going to the backstage first?”
“If I went backstage now, I’d only get in the way.” As the family of a performer, Sachiko knew well, “After the show, there’s no time even to change costumes—they immediately start the post-performance summary meeting, and when that’s done, it’s straight into the opening night celebration. Everyone’s so busy, there’s no time for anyone not involved.”
“You seem very familiar with all this.”
Sachiko made a complicated face. “Ye Zhao-san, things like running backstage after a performance, only to be sent home by my mother’s manager—since last year, it’s happened three times. Even if I’m a hopeless fool, I should learn by now.”
“That’s a pitiful description,” Ye Zhao laughed. “But Miss Sachiko, you look so different now—I almost didn’t recognize you.”
“Just call me Sachiko, Ye Zhao-san,” she said. “After all, I barely managed to get into Sunrise Girls’ Academy. If I kept dressing like before, the school would probably call my mother in for a meeting every three days.”
“In that case, Ayako would be very pleased.” Ignoring Sachiko’s glare, Ye Zhao replied nonchalantly, “Because it would mean you need her.”
“Such lines are fine for TV dramas, but saying them in real life is just silly,” Sachiko retorted.
...
From the driver’s seat, Yuuki Kamimura finally found a chance to interject, “Um, Ye Zhao-san, can we go?”
“Sachiko, do you want to head straight home, or...?”
“Drop me at home, or anywhere near Yoyogi Park is fine.”
“If you’re free after this,” Ye Zhao offered, “why not let me treat you to dinner, and drop you home afterward?”
Sachiko shrugged, “As long as I don’t have to pay, I don’t care.”
“That’s unusually agreeable.”
“Are you the type who enjoys a girl’s indecision?”
“With a tongue that sharp, you’ll never get married.”
“...Annoying.”
Dinner was at a Western restaurant in Shinjuku’s third district. Sachiko cut her steak with a rough hand; Ye Zhao, sitting opposite, asked, “How’s life in Tokyo?”
“Not bad at all,” Sachiko replied without pause.
“By the way, back in Akita, what happened to the guy who was always with you?”
“First, let me correct you—I was never dating Aoki-kun.” Sachiko finally looked up at him.
“So his name was Aoki.”
Ignoring him, Sachiko continued, “I told Aoki, if he wanted to see me, he should come to Tokyo.”
“With so many good girls in Tokyo, if Aoki really comes, he’ll be dazzled,” Ye Zhao joked. “When I watched ‘Tokyo Love Story,’ I thought that if I could come to Tokyo, maybe I’d meet a girl like Rika Akana.”
Though it was his former self who had such thoughts.
“So, Ye Zhao-san, did you meet Rika Akana in Tokyo?” Sachiko leaned forward, a little nosy.
“With Ms. Honami so famous, how could I ever meet her?”
“Pfft, how boring.”
...