Then it was on to product trends of rival companies. The business development division had done an analysis on the strength of “Winter Dry,” which Mainichi Beer—the number two company in the industry—had launched that month as part of their winter strategy. “In terms of product development, what merits special mention is the shift in perspective. As for sales, note their targeted promotion to bars and restaurants, their focused campaign in the greater Kantō region, an increase of rebates, and so on.” There were no comments on Winter Dry’s reduced alcohol content. Shiroyama made a mental note of this, and his eyes flew to the reports from their product development division. Come to think of it, what happened to their next-term plan to stay ahead of the health craze by making a lower alcohol content the focus of their development concept?
Just as he started to turn the page, he suddenly heard Ms. Nozaki’s voice through the intercom on his desk.
“Vice President Shirai and Human Resources Manager Tsukamoto are here to see you.”
Shiroyama looked at his watch. Eight thirty-five.
“Send them in,” he answered into the intercom, wondering what they could possibly want now since they were about to see him at the breakfast meeting. The door opened just as he had stacked the documents he had spread on his desk and closed the folder.
“Sorry to bother you so early.” The man who said this as he entered was Vice President Sei’ichi Shirai, whose tone was as bland and curt as always. Following behind him was the human resources manager who, in marked contrast, spoke with shoulders hunched somberly and bowed deeply as he said, “I’m afraid we have a situation that might cause you some concern.”
Internal strife? Shiroyama wondered how long this would take as he offered them a seat. After all they only had twenty-five minutes to spare.
“So, what is it?” Shiroyama had cut to the chase, just as Shirai replied bluntly, “We received an anonymous, well, tape, instead of a letter.”
According to Tsukamoto, who explained the situation, during the selection process for new employees in October, there had been a University of Tokyo graduate who left in the middle of his second interview, saying he felt unwell. He was rejected after apparently going home and failing to return, and subsequently on two separate occasions the human resources department received a letter from the student’s father who raised doubts about their selection process. The father was a dentist with a private practice in Setagaya, and he was from a segregated buraku community in Hyogo prefecture. The father was convinced that there was some kind of discrimination in Hinode’s screening process. Although the human resources department had responded to his first letter, the second time he had used the name of the BLL, and so they had left it alone, after which they received this cryptic cassette tape.
The truth was, it took Shiroyama about three seconds to decipher the abbreviation BLL. It took him another minute to understand the point of the story, after which he suspected there must be some kind of mistake. Even if it were true, he settled upon mild wonderment as to why such a matter had made it all the way up to him.
“Here is a transcript of the tape.”
On the first page of the stack of A4-size paper that Tsukamoto presented him were the words: Hinode Beer Company, Kanagawa Factory, To Whom It May Concern. Shiroyama distractedly leafed through the twenty or thirty pages and was shocked to find the date June 1947 on the last page. He quickly turned back to the first page and began scanning through the document.
“We had the Kanagawa factory look into it, and the Seiji Okamura who appears here did in fact leave Hinode in 1947,” Tsukamoto continued. Meanwhile, Shiroayama’s eyes quickly singled out various words from the contents of the pages. Place names from the Tohoku region such as “Hachinohe” and “Herai.” Phrases such as, “someone from a buraku village,” “labor union,” “conflict,” “General Strike of February 1st,” and “discharged.” And finally, “The second convention of the National Committee for Buraku Liberation.” Ah, right, that’s what they used to call themselves, he recalled, but that was the extent of it. He reread the last lines of the transcript of the tape, the whole of which amounted to many pages, but he still could not fathom the intention of the sender.
“Is this all?”
“Yes. Whatever his objective may be, it seems to involve our employment screening process, and since the problem also concerns the reputation of the company, we thought that this decision goes beyond the discretion of the human resources department, including whether to report it to the police or to ignore it. That’s why we are informing you,” Tsukamoto said as he rubbed his hands idly.
“Do we have the original letter that this Okamura sent to the Kanagawa factory?”
“The factory has no way of looking up something from all the way back in 1947, so whether or not such a letter actually existed . . .”
“The father of this student in question, you said he used the name of the BLL in his second letter? Does the sender of the tape identify himself?”
“No. But the labels and postmarks are the same, and according to our investigation, this Seiji Okamura turns out to be a distant relative of the student.”
“Aha . . .” Shiroyama uttered ambiguously, but what was beginning to concern him more were the company’s internal issues that tended to reveal themselves in situations like this. In the first place, what was the general affairs division doing about it, since they were normally expected to handle this type of problem? Moreover, whether this was a general affairs or a human resources issue, Shirai was not the executive in charge. Shiroyama glanced at Shirai as this thought crossed his mind, but Shirai wore an innocuous expression, as if everything had been obvious to him from the beginning.
“I understand the situation,” Shiroyama said again to Tsukamoto. “I will let you know what I decide later. Please see to it in your department that word doesn’t get out about the tape.”
“I will do so.”
With a look that seemed to bemoan what an unlucky day this was, Tsukamoto stood up from his seat and bowed as he left the room. When Shiroyama had joined the company in 1959, Tsukamoto had already been occupying a desk in what was then called the personnel division for quite some time. They hardly had any contact until Tsukamoto became head of the division, but he had settled in at the company—Tsukamoto was a dyed-in-the-wool pencil pusher—and was now a diligent support pillar in the corporate structure. Though the lackluster of this man presented itself as a minor concern for Shiroyama.
On the one hand, Sei’ichi Shirai was an executive both in name and in practice—here was a man who had transformed the company by putting an end to the lockstep and conservative tradition of Hinode’s executive team. His appearance was just as unremarkable as that of Shiroyama, but of the thirty-five board members, Shirai’s keen foresight and ability to get things done was second to none. Ten years ago, when Hinode still had a 60-percent market share, Shirai was already criticizing the beer business’s inefficiency and lack of viability, and its difficulties competing against foreign products. Since then, he had created a diversified, long-term plan that anticipated the future, and as a result of his laying the groundwork for the improvement of Hinode’s stronghold, he now played an integral role on Hinode’s executive team as EVP and head of business development. Shirai’s approach—neither a simple pursuit of profit nor a prosaic philosophy—evaluated corporate activities as a holistic system on a macro level, and in a way, this is what made him a prime example of the management machine. But Shirai possessed something Shiroyama fundamentally lacked, even if they were part of the same management machine, and if Shiroyama were honest with himself, this was a constant source of anxiety. Shirai had spent considerable time living abroad in the US and Europe, and his true worth was his will and the assertiveness with which he made that will known.
Such thoughts now flickered in Shiroyama’s mind as his eyes drifted over the cityscape seen from the large windows on eithe
r side of his desk. The commanding view from the thirtieth floor undulated outward, as if the random unevenness of the buildings below had been leveled, and for an instant the wriggling cars and people looked like products rolling along an automated factory line. There were times when Shiroyama looked down from the window and wondered if his was the same general perspective as all CEOs, but no doubt in Shirai’s eyes, from this height the scene appeared to him as a line that should function at the highest efficiency in every respect. What stretched out before him was a system—it was neither human nor thing.
On the other hand, Shiroyama moved of his own accord, his body feeling lighter or heavier from day to day, still carrying a sense of having sold goods with his own hands for more than twenty years, and perhaps it was because of this—if he were to let his feelings be known—that his and Shirai’s sensibilities were somewhat incompatible.
Incidentally, there was another EVP at Hinode, Seigo Kurata, who had taken over the beer division after Shiroyama had been promoted. In contrast to Shirai, who continued to push for diversification, Kurata sustained the reality that beer still topped 96 percent of their overall sales. It was clear as day that Shirai was only able to wield his talents because there were men like Kurata who sold beer to the tune of 1.2 trillion, and now that under the current executive structure both Shirai and Kurata had become EVPs, the truth was that the difference in their approaches to corporate strategy divided the board into Shirai and Kurata factions even more than before.
What this difference came down to was whether to focus on a long-range outlook or the concerns of the moment. This disparity was brought to a head two years ago when, confronted by declining sales of their lager, a decision was forced regarding whether or not to proceed with a diversified product strategy. If they were to incite a competition, randomly releasing new products several times a year to counter other brands’ offensives, it would lead to a significant increase in costs to reorder production lines, as well as increased costs for product and sales management, and expanded advertising and promotional fees and so on—all of which would mire them down, essentially putting a noose around their own neck. It was a decision that could weaken the entire beer industry, so Shirai insisted that he could not agree to an excessive diversification of products, but at the core of his logic was an assessment of the managerial efficiency of Hinode’s entire system, which already carried twelve factories.
Meanwhile, on the beer division’s side, Shiroyama and Kurata ensured that if it came to that, Hinode, with its basic and fundamental strength, would be last one standing, an assertion driven by pride in the Hinode brand and the current hard-and-fast numbers. It was a futile clash—each side was correct in their own way but only about their own argument—and ultimately, on the judgment of the current chairman, they agreed to a fair enough compromise—they would issue new products when they needed to, and when they didn’t need to they wouldn’t.
Shortly thereafter, a longer-than-anticipated decline in lager sales precipitated Shiroyama’s promotion from head of the beer division to president, on the consensus of the board who had no choice but to strengthen the beer business, however the fact of the matter was that the need for diversification was more urgent than ever. Shiroyama and Kurata’s beer lines, which had been the backbone of Hinode for so many years, were now the last stand and, more than anyone, Shiroyama was aware of the drastic reform that the division required. He had yet to acknowledge it publicly, though. In these board meetings where various emotionally-charged conflicts, factional manuevering, and backroom deals were the norm, it was important to bide one’s time for the right moment to say anything.
Obviously the real reason Shirai had appeared during the busiest time in Shiroyama’s morning was because he intended to make a deal with him, one that presumably had to do with controlling some kind of move by Kurata. But Shiroyama made a point to devote enough time to ascertain Shirai’s motive for showing up like this, especially since Shiroyama’s sentiments were so clearly aligned with Kurata’s.
The human resources manager Tsukamoto had left after delivering his somewhat absurd story, and now Shirai leaned forward slightly, as if to signal that he was about to begin the real topic of conversation. Here it comes, Shiroyama thought, and glanced at the clock. Eight forty-three.
Shiroyama thought back over Tsukamoto’s explanation, recalling that there were certain problematic details. “I have two questions if you don’t mind,” he said, beating Shirai to it. “First, how did you become involved in a matter that you are not in charge of?”
“Oh, that. Tsukamoto had been looking rather pale in the face these past few days, so I just happened to ask him what was the matter. Not surprisingly he was loath to admit that they’d received an anonymous letter and a tape over trouble with the screening process for new employees,” Shirai responded without any defensiveness. “By the way, Tsukamoto forgot to mention something important. This student, Hatano, he was killed in a car accident on the fifteenth last month. They say he was speeding, but it’s not unthinkable that his father may have lost all sense because of it.”
In the moment Shiroyama took to find the words to respond, Shirai added, “It’s an unfortunate story, sure, but since it was a car accident, I have to say that it’s of no concern to our company.”
“Can I trust nothing took place that would make the other party suspicious of us?”
“I myself was at the second interview, so I can guarantee you that.”
“But I would think rejecting a University of Tokyo student who made it as far as a second interview is out of the ordinary, no matter the reason.”
“You’re absolutely right. Since Hatano left in the middle of his interview on the tenth because he felt sick, the next day the screening committee did in fact get into a minor debate about how to handle his case. Ultimately, we decided that in order to reject a student who came with a recommendation, we would need to meet with him again in person, so on the eleventh I instructed human resources to contact him—”
“And?”
“When I asked Tsukamoto about it earlier, they had contacted neither his home nor his university. He said they only contacted the university on the twelfth to let them know his application had been rejected. When I pressed Tsukamoto about what exactly happened, he said that Kurata had apparently instructed human resources not to bother any more with this student. Then I asked Kurata about it—” Shirai paused to take a breath. Then he came out with it slowly. “This whole thing traces back to a problem with Sugihara’s daughter.”
“You mean Takeo Sugihara?”
“Yes.”
This past June, in a staff reshuffling, Takeo Sughihara had been appointed deputy general manager of the beer division and a board member. Twenty-five years ago, Sugihara had married Shiroyama’s younger sister, so their daughter was his niece. Naturally, Sugihara fell into line with Shiroyama and Kurata.
Unable to immediately grasp the situation, it took a moment for Shiroyama’s shock to form. Shirai continued in a clerical tone, ignoring Shiroyama’s confusion. Shirai was like a blowfish, Shiroyama had often thought. Shirai the blowfish never suffered from autotoxemia, always saying the reasonable thing in a coherent manner, but now and then the people around him would fall victim to his poison.
“Shiroyama-san. I will only speak of the facts here. Your niece had been dating Hatano at University of Tokyo, and apparently she told her father that she wanted to marry him after graduation. When a parent hears such a thing from his daughter, well, he’s going to look into the young man’s background, isn’t he? The result was, there was an issue with the father’s family register, so Sugihara told his daughter he wouldn’t allow it—this is the story that Kurata forced out of Sugihara the other day.”
Hearing this much, Shiroyama finally felt his heart quickening, but the reality of the situation still had not hit home. During the past thirty-one years, his work or the mention of it had never
carried over into his personal life—not even once—and his mind now experienced a dull confusion for the first time.
He had seen his younger sister over the summer during the Obon holiday, the festival of the dead, but the last time he saw his niece’s face had probably been at New Year’s. His niece had worn a kimono, which had been made specially for her coming-of-age ceremony, and his sense of admiration that she had grown into quite a young lady quickly dissipated when she put out her hands and, with an obsequious bow of her head, asked, “Uncle, my New Year’s money?” It did not matter that she was a University of Tokyo student—in Shiroyama’s eyes, she was still just a girl. Speaking of which, at the beginning of fall, hadn’t Sugihara himself mentioned that she would either go on to graduate school or study abroad? As he vaguely recalled these things, Shiroyama calmly examined each facet of the story, one by one.
When did Sugihara speak to his daughter about her boyfriend? And at that time, did he say anything to her about Hatano’s buraku connections? Did she then tell this young man—Hatano—about it? And if so, when? Until these things became clear, the cause and effect of Hatano’s leaving during the second interview on October tenth remained uncertain.
Shirai continued, ignoring Shiroyama’s prolonged silence. “Shiroyama-san. Whatever the reason Hatano decided to leave before the completion of his second interview, I think it’s best for Hinode not to get involved. There was no blunder on the company’s part, at least not in terms of the screening process, so there is no need to say more about it.”
“I’d like to know—was Sugihara at the second interview or not?”
“He was not. If Sugihara and the student in question had come face to face at the interview, it would have complicated matters, but since they did not—no matter what transpired personally—we should deem this occurrence as unrelated to the company.”
“Then why did Kurata go to the trouble of instructing human resources to quash things?”
Lady Joker, Volume 1 Page 9
