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All the money and sophisticated décor in the world couldn't hide the smell of impending death, Mido realised as he stepped into the softly lit hospital room after lingering outside just long enough to gather his composure.
A wise precaution, though ultimately a superfluous one.
Of the only two occupants, one had seen him in far more compromising states than a wrinkled button-down and windswept hair. The other lay eerily still in his chemical induced slumber. Were it not for the steady beeping of a heart monitor, he might have thought he was too late, that he'd bypassed the last goodbyes and walked straight into the wake. Over by his bedside, sat with his hands folded in his lap on an upholstered chair out of a luxury home improvement catalogue, was the heir apparent, wearing the same suit from the day before and the grave expression from a fortnight before then still, when he'd broken the news.
"According to some indiscretions," Namikawa had begun, slowly, as if measuring his words. Or, in hindsight, as if saying it out loud might somehow expedite the process. "Mr. Yotsuba's health has taken a sharp decline."
Over 10,000 Yen's worth of seafood had been cooling off in his plate, untouched – unlike the accompanying Merlot.
"I see," was all Mido had been able to say while the pieces he'd been collecting finally fell into their rightful place; his colleague's discordant seriousness, the way the smile had strayed from his eyes when picking a dark hair from his collar and joking about scandals and reputation like for the first time in his career he had any reason to worry about them, his newfound concern over his fellow board members' every observation, even those he would have once dismissed as nonsense, weightless fancies of a limited intellect.
Unbothered by his tepid reaction, he'd added, "If he doesn't recover, which he won't, he's set to be admitted into a private clinic by the end of the week."
During the ensuing pause, his gaze had drifted from his wineglass to him, then to the third member of their party who, despite his decision to cut ties with Yotsuba and all the chagrin it had caused him, still possessed a regular membership to their Friday nights out. Perhaps because of it, given Namikawa's unwavering faith in his own ability to steer him back on the old path by sheer force of fine dining and gentle persuasion.
"So it is a celebration. I told Mido I suspected as much. This place seemed a little more upscale than our usual spots," Shimura had given a tight little chuckle. "Don't you think it's a little in bad taste, though?"
"I still think we should order some champagne," Mido had argued.
"It's not a bad idea, only—"
"I'm afraid that would be premature," Namikawa's interjection had been met with odd looks all around. And so, with a bluntness he wouldn't have employed had he downed one less glass of wine, he'd said, "I'm too young."
The sound Mido had made around a mouthful of smoked eel must have been too reminiscent of a laugh, because his eyes had narrowed, turning him into the perfect image of a man betrayed.
"They'll have to come around it," he'd told him. "And if they don't, well, I doubt they'll say so to your face."
"So my pride will be spared anyhow. What a comforting thought," a stab of sarcasm, much more overt than his custom, quickly followed by a frown. Whether he was more displeased with him for making light of his concerns or with himself for showing an authentic emotion, he would have been hard pressed to say. Either way, his voice was once again empty of feeling when he spoke next. "I apologise. I forgot punishment and promotion are synonyms to some of us."
Mido had chosen not to allow him the satisfaction of a piqued comeback – or, worse, a pitiful attempt at reparations – and they'd left it at that, never to broach the subject again, although their every interaction had been coated with a brand-new, shiny veneer of stilted politeness thereafter.
Shimura, for his part, had declined sharing his own predictions, often apocalyptic.
Which hadn't prevented them from taking physical form. That of a seasoned director from a sister company's R&D department, suddenly emerged from a list of otherwise unimpressive candidates armed with a remarkable resumé and no rumoured association to the Kira Affair that still shook the hearts and wallets of stakeholders and high-profile clients alike. With many a formerly sworn supporter beginning to get cold feet and Ooi's long-awaited transfer to the Osaka branch leaving him with one less ally at the boardroom table, Namikawa was facing the most daunting challenge of all: feigning sympathy.
"How much time does he have?" Mido inquired by way of a greeting.
"The doctor said days. I'm more inclined to think hours," then, in response to his mute question, "He asked of Hatori."
A name he hadn't heard spoken in years, yet very much still able to conjure the afterimage of an empty chair in a council of seven, alongside a trepidation he used to be intimately acquainted with. He shooed it back to its cage before it could make the experience any more painful than it already promised to be.
"The repentant father looking to make amends on his deathbed," he clicked his tongue to punctuate the cliché. "I wish I could say I was surprised. What did you tell him?"
"The truth, of course. That he'll be seeing him soon."
Having thus exhausted all pretences of civil conversation, there was little Mido could do but to poke at the elephant in the room with them and the soon to be husk of a successful entrepreneur. "What am I doing here, Namikawa?"
"Paying your respects, I'd wager," his colleague replied.
"That would require some gratitude on my part," and I'm not sure if I can muster any, he was about to say, but a dissonant note from the life support machine gave him pause.
Namikawa's shoulders stiffened. He waited for the monotone beeping to resume before speaking. "Offering moral support, then. Whichever you prefer."
"You said you needed a witness."
"He seemed lucid for a while," he said after a great exhale. "I now realise I might have been too hasty in my judgement."
Mido shot him a sceptical glance, which went unreciprocated. As though hypnotised, the other man's gaze hadn't once left the chairman's bloodless lips, willing them to give him a sign. Damnation or salvation in a word before the flatline.
"They told me it's not unusual to have a brief parenthesis of presence of mind before the final throes," he went on. "We talked for a while. He thanked me for my contribution to keeping Yotsuba afloat in the dire times after Kira, mentioned how valuable an asset my business acumen has been, how grateful he always was to be able to count on my conseil. All platitudes, naturally. Though it did sound like he was trying to build up to an endorsement. My fault for pressuring him, I suppose. The moment I alluded to my plans for the future of the company, he became agitated. That's when he mentioned Hatori. The nurses had to sedate him again and, even then, he managed to ramble some more about regrets and great leaps a man can't make alone. For all I know, he could have been talking about his three failed marriages."
Defeating the point of a witness and casting Namikawa's efforts to garner his favour into ridicule, Mido surmised with an inward sigh.
He felt the weariness he'd been able to keep at bay as he dragged himself out of bed at five in the morning and drove for a full hour outside the capital on a cryptic text message's behest come crumbling down on him at once. He didn't bother recriminating, however. It wasn't an activity he particularly enjoyed, and it had proven to have little effect on his colleague, in the past. Most likely, it would only earn him a tut and some comment about his paradoxical dedication to the company he was sure to have heard before.
Instead, he walked over and laid a hand on the backrest of his chair, having only for a brief moment considered placing it on his shoulder and swiftly rained in the impulse, detesting how patronising it might have come across. "Which means you're free to take a break. I'm no doctor, but I'm guessing he won't reach enlightenment in the next fifteen minutes or so. I'll let you know if he wakes up."
After a long silence, only mechanical static between them, Namikawa nodded. "Care to join me?"
"I should—"
His half-hearted protest was immediately dismissed. "Be providing moral support, if I remember correctly," Namikawa patted the back of his hand and stood up. "Come, I'll offer you a coffee for your trouble."
Ever the acute salesman, he didn't make an offer unless he was sure it was hard to refuse.
The machine swallowed a few coins in exchange for a mixture whose only coffee-like quality was an indecisive brown colour. It did him some good nonetheless. Even as the steam momentarily fogged his glasses, it allowed him to look at Namikawa with a new sort of clarity that made the shadows cast over his features by the slant of his brows stand out in – he could hardly believe it himself – an unflattering way. Still, the usual gratification of seeing him brough back down among mortals eluded him. Maybe it was ingrained in human nature to be unnerved at the tarnishing of something once unblemished. Maybe it was the faint stress lines below his eyes and their resemblance to the ones he'd long grown used to seeing reflected back at him in the floor-to-ceiling windows of his own office.
"Passable?" He asked him after he'd taken his first sip.
"Barely."
Namikawa hummed.
In times like these, he could have done with a vice or two. His luxuries were always calculated, so much that even a second glass of red with his dinner, five minutes more after the wake-up call, could pass for indulgence. Bereft of bad habits to fall back upon, he could only nurse his disappointment, and try his best to swallow it, nothing to wash it down with.
For the first time in their acquaintance, Mido felt something bordering on pity for him. He had to remind himself – it was a hell of his own making.
"We could always lie," he mused aloud, as the other man fed more spare change to the coffee machine. "I don't know how many people the story of our esteemed chairman using his last breath to nominate you as his one true successor will sway, but my testimony should still account for something. I've listened to enough of his inauguration speeches to be somewhat confident in my ability to replicate his speaking patterns. I'll throw in some of his favourite phrasings, for good measure."
The battle between his pride and ambition was brief, if there even was one at all. None of it showed on his face. "I appreciate the sentiment, but it won't be necessary. I could use a second opinion, however."
"What about?"
"My letter of congratulations to our new chairman."
"You're not thinking of admitting defeat?" He'd meant it as a statement, but when it reached his lips it wound up morphing into a question.
Namikawa countered it with one of his own. "Do you remember what your greatest weakness at shogi was?"
"You never told me," Mido replied. "But you did call me a chronic defeatist. Several times."
It had been, as they'd both conceded afterwards, an exercise in futility. Fairly diverting, though, when they were tipsy, and the hour was so late, and the couch so comfortable that by the time ties and jackets had been discarded Mido had found himself in no mood for the real reason why he'd been invited over for drinks. And maybe a bit guilty, too, despite his colleague's reassurance that, really, no harm to foul. Which was why he hadn't objected when he'd put his mind to teaching him the rules of his pastime of choice. He never did learn what to do with his knights when he was cornered, nor how to use his gold generals to effectively pressure his opponent into the defensive, but he had reached the depressing realisation that the days where he could fall asleep on a leather couch in his work clothes and not be punished for it come morning were past behind him.
"You are," Namikawa said, as usual a stranger to sugarcoating when he had little to gain from a merciful lie. "I found it quite frustrating, at first, your tendency to consider any odds unsurmountable only to save yourself the trouble of attempting to defy them. But I'm starting to think there might be some merit to it, as a self-preservation strategy. Also," he added, retrieving his coffee from the tray. "There's a difference between resignation and defeat, even if it may not seem so."
Once upon a time, Mido would have blanched at the unwarranted mortification of having his ego pried open and laid bare for the world to see in a matter of a couple sentences. Oh, he'd scoffed and spluttered alright before he'd learned to recognise the difference between offense and observation. It stood out plainly to him now, as did the fact that, by admitting to something as mundane, as embarrassingly human as frustration, Namikawa was exposing himself as well, evening the playing field. Somewhere within what could have easily been misread as in insult was an olive branch, laid out for the seizing.
So when he held his cup for a toast, Mido indulged him. The dull noise of plastic on plastic, scalding hot against lukewarm, was the sound of something mending.
As they each sipped their beverage and the late hours of the night made way for the early hours of the morning, the parade of family members gathering to say their last farewell began. Some indifferent, some bawling already, some carrying bouquets not unlike the ones he'd seen arranged in the chairman's room, clearly chosen with no prior consultation or accord, and too many in number to account only for his immediate family and the odd overly appreciative business partner. He'd glimpsed the one they'd sent as a company on his way out – carnation and white daisies – crammed between a wilted gardenia and wreath of lilies, the latter accompanied by a card, the name unfamiliar but the kanji distinctly feminine. He doubted it was the only case.
"The will reading is sure going to be interesting," he remarked off-handedly.
That, at last, elicited the approximation of a chuckle. Subdued, however. Without the airy but poised quality he'd come to know and expect.
"I don't envy the notary," Namikawa concurred, and with that they went on a good while hypothesising about the strange and convoluted relationship each newcomer would claim, or attempt to, with the dearly departed – right until a racket of alarmed voices cut through their banter.
A glance exchanged, and they moved as one. They pushed past the relatives huddled on the threshold, just in time to catch a hollow rattle that could have been Namikawa's name.
"I'm here," he said, hurrying to his side in utter disregard for the nurses' belated attempts at shielding the patient from excessive attentions.
Mido followed right behind. The chairman's unfocussed eyes landed on him, and he took it as his cue to reintroduce himself. "Mido, from Finance."
A tiny spark of recognition lit up his otherwise dull irises. Suddenly, he seemed very pressed to say something. Almost as pressed as Namikawa was to hear it, with how he leaned in, trying to pick up a coherent sentence amidst his stuttering and the chatter of the staff around them growing in agitation in concert with the old man's heart rate. Reaching inside his jacket, Mido felt for his cell phone, swiping through the screen until his thumb landed on the voice memo application. He pressed record.
If there was still any confusion as to Mr. Yotsuba's health conditions, they were routed out by a request that could only the product of a mind well on its was well on its way to abandoning its mortal coil, even if not nearly as babbling and incoherent as his colleague's account had him believe. Regrettably clear, in fact, in his anointment of Reiji Namikawa as the only member of the board of directors equipped to perpetuate Yotsuba's legacy – on one simple condition. One little clause, for the greatness of the company, of course.
"With all due respect, sir—" Mido started upon realising where he was headed, but never got to finish, for Namikawa's hand clasped his upper arm tight enough to startle, fingers planted into the fabric, the searing cold of his ring no doubt leaving an imprint on the meat below.
Less than an hour later, Dainosuke Yotsuba was gone.
A bank!" Mido huffed out, incredulous, as he and Namikawa stepped outside into the morning sun.
Whatever listlessness the cheap coffee and the late chairman's decision hadn't yet managed to rinse out of him, the chilly breeze did, leaving him acutely aware of the travesty about to befall him and Yotsuba as a whole.
"Really, now, Mido—"
"This is financial suicide. I understand how a senile chairman whose greatest service to the company these past few years has been delivering employee of the month awards might believe it's a good idea, but that you..." he trailed off, cleared his throat, and bowed his head at the disconcertingly young window and her entourage striding past them in a profusion of sobs and paper tissues. "My deepest condolences."
"He was an inspiration for all of us," Namikawa added without missing a beat.
Once the sobs and thank yous had died out on the distance, he picked back up where he'd left off. "That you, of all people, should go along with this."
"Never have I seen you so agitated," and there it was, the subtle undercurrent of a tease. Things taken for granted often only reveal their value after they're lost. Mido had recently found out that so do things that are slightly vexing. Unfortunately, they also go right back to being so once they're recovered. "I agree it's not ideal, as far as inheritances go, but we'll pull through. We always have."
"Maybe at first, but in the long term? If he wanted his company to suffer the same slow agony as he, he could have just sold us to the Americans five years ago, when they offered," a depressing thought manifested itself. "It's going to be another Yotsuba Insurance fiasco."
"Perhaps," Namikawa said, though his tone didn't carry an ounce of the amount of worry the prospect warranted.
"I thought we concluded there was some merit to my approach."
"In some cases, yes. But it's not time for us to fold just yet – you, especially. I'll need your eye on the budgeting. Our head accountant is hopeless when it comes to planning ahead and, I'm not sorry to say, so is that vice of yours, Yoshitaka."
"I wasn't intending to," Mido assured him, purposefully neglecting to mention the strength of the temptation to. Then he sighed, outwardly this time, and muttered the same thing he would say sidling up to an appropriately composed, if ostensibly satisfied Namikawa at the funeral, and again, in case his displeasure needed reiterating, standing in front of the bright red sign of the newly inaugurated Yotsuba Bank. "All I'm saying is, we'll need a miracle to convince anyone to trust us with their life savings."