sinovels Chapter 127 Recognition and Invitation
Chapter 127 Recognition and Invitation
Chapter 127 Recognition and Invitation
Kyoto, Gion.
The red lanterns hanging at the entrance of the restaurant swayed in the cold wind, but the heat in the largest private room on the second floor seemed to melt the snow on the roof.
This is the wrap party for "The Wives of Yakuza: The End of Hell".
Unlike the buffet-style parties in Tokyo where everyone is holding a wine glass and saying nice things, this victory celebration had the feel of a gathering of heroes from Liangshan Marsh.
Dozens of tatami mats were put together, with a simmering sukiyaki pot in the middle.
The air was filled with the aroma of beef cooked in sweet soy sauce, mixed with the tarry smell of tobacco, making one's eyes sting.
Whether it's the usually imposing director or the camera assistant carrying equipment around the set, all the hierarchical rules between superiors and subordinates have vanished at this moment.
One by one, their ties were askew, their buttons were undone, their faces were as red as Guan Yu's from drinking, and the sound of them playing drinking games was so loud it could shatter the sliding door.
"Glug, glug."
The crisp sake filled the small white porcelain cup, no bigger than the palm of your hand, the surface tension of the liquid creating a precarious arc, reflecting the warm yellow light overhead.
"drink."
Matsukata Hiroki, his face flushed from drinking, came closer, holding a one-liter sake bottle. His posture didn't look like he was offering a toast; it looked more like he was about to force-feed him drugs.
This is a long-established ryotei (traditional Japanese restaurant) in Gion.
There was none of the noise of a Western-style buffet, only tatami mats, low tables, and the sweet aroma of sukiyaki and the pungent smell of alcohol in the air.
Kitahara Shin raised his wine glass with both hands, tilted his head back, and drank it all in one gulp.
The spicy liquid slid down my esophagus like a fire, warming my stomach.
"good!"
Matsukata Hiroki slapped Kitahara Shin hard on the back, so hard he almost coughed up his drink. "That was great! I love your straightforwardness! Unlike those brats in Tokyo, who always make excuses about having a drink, saying they have a gig tomorrow—in Kyoto, drinking yourself to death is an honor!"
The veteran actors and seasoned behind-the-scenes staff around him burst into laughter.
At this moment, there is no distinction between Northeast and Southwest China, and it doesn't matter whether you're acting in an idol drama or a gangster.
After a few drinks, coupled with the experience of filming together over the past few days, the wall that was originally hidden from everyone had long since collapsed completely.
Kitahara Shin wiped the wine stains from the corner of his mouth, smiled, poured himself a full glass, and then returned the toast.
"You're right, senior. In Tokyo, that's 'work,' but here—"
He raised his glass, his gaze sweeping over every face in the room—the lighting technician, the prop master, the makeup artist Yamashita, and the white-haired action director Sato.
"Here, there is life."
One sentence was enough to make the eyes of these drunken old men redden.
This is the rule in Kyoto.
You can be a bad actor, or you can have a bad temper, but you can't be ignorant of the "way". Here, filming is not for fame, but to preserve the craft passed down from the Showa era.
"Kitahara-kun."
The old man sitting in the main seat spoke.
The room, which had been filled with the heat of boiling water, suddenly fell silent, as if someone had pressed the pause button on the heatwave.
Hiroshi Takada.
The top screenwriter for Toei's wuxia films, the "bread and butter" of everyone in this house.
At this moment, he was wearing a faded kimono, with only a cup of tea in front of him.
"Teacher Takada." Kitahara Shin put down his wine glass, leaned forward, and maintained the respect due to a junior.
Takada Koji stared at Kitahara Shin with his cloudy eyes for a long time before slowly speaking, his voice hoarse: "Do you remember what I said to you that day in the tea room?"
Kitahara Shin nodded.
Of course I remember.
The old man tossed him the script that day, saying it was a tombstone for "The Wives of Yakuza," a final, poignant tribute. He invited Kitahara Shin to perform a final dance at that funeral.
"I said at the time, this era is over, and we should be laid to rest with dignity."
Koji Takada looked around.
No one spoke.
Everyone lowered their heads, staring at the wine glasses in front of them. Matsukata Hiroki's fingers, gripping the wine bottle, turned slightly white, and Iwashita Shima also lowered her eyes.
This is no secret.
This banquet, to put it nicely, was a victory celebration; to put it bluntly, it was a farewell dinner for the Toei Kyoto production crew.
As everyone knows, Takada-sensei can no longer write, and the era of yakuza films has passed.
After this drinking session, many people may have to say goodbye to this circle.
"but."
Koji Takada suddenly changed the subject.
The old man reached out and touched the thick stack of scripts on the table. His fingers were rough, and the paper made a rustling sound as he rubbed them together.
"After watching this week's filming, especially the last shot yesterday—"
His gaze fell on Kitahara Shin, and the turbidity of old age in his eyes dissipated, revealing a greedy light belonging to a creator.
"I suddenly realized that I was wrong."
"It's not that the subject matter is dead, it's that the brains of us old guys are dead."
Koji Takada picked up his teacup, took a sip, and seemed to have made a decision: "That kiss, that look in your eyes that was willing to do anything to climb up the ladder—your portrayal of Kyoji Sanada showed me a new possibility."
"That kind of yakuza, which no longer adheres to traditional benevolence and righteousness, but only focuses on survival, is more naked and more savage, and is more in line with the yakuza of this new Heisei era."
At this point, the old man gave a self-deprecating laugh.
He pulled a folded envelope from his pocket—his formal resignation letter, which he had prepared long ago and intended to hand over to the producer that evening.
"Tear it open"
The crisp sound of tearing paper was particularly jarring in the deathly silent room.
Under the watchful eyes of dozens of people who widened their gazes instantly, Koji Takada slowly tore the envelope into pieces and casually tossed them into the wastebasket next to him.
"It seems this farewell letter will be unnecessary."
"Kitahara-kun, you've set the stage too high, and it's reignited my addiction."
The old man looked at the stunned crowd, then fixed his gaze on Kitahara Shin's face, revealing a mischievous old man's smile: "The outline for the next script is already in my head. It seems this old body will have to stay in this position for a few more years to continue tormenting you all."
"However, we need to find more young people like Kitahara-kun in the future. We old coffin ...
In that instant.
Kitahara Shin clearly heard a series of synchronized gasps from those around him.
Followed by.
"Ohhhhhhh!!!"
The room erupted in cheers that nearly lifted the roof off.
It was the ecstasy of surviving a catastrophe, the excitement of keeping one's job, and the shock of a sudden reversal of a certain "inevitable death."
Matsukata Hiroki jumped up. This big shot, who had just been looking worried and drinking alone, was now trembling with excitement. He grabbed Kitahara Shin by the neck, his grip so tight it looked like he was going to strangle him: "Did you hear that, kid! You saved our livelihood!!"
"Come on! Drink! You have to drink this!"
"Thanks to Kitahara-san!"
"Please, please come back for the next one too! I beg you!"
Countless wine glasses were handed to Kitahara Shin like raindrops.
Kitahara Shin was surrounded by the crowd, his shoulders being patted by those rough, large hands.
He looked at the old man sitting in the main seat, who had torn up his resignation letter and was smiling, and a genuine smile also appeared on his lips.
10 PM.
The banquet ended.
Kitahara Shin stood at the entrance of the ryotei (traditional Japanese restaurant), seeing off Matsukata Hiroki, who had gotten quite drunk. The night breeze carried away much of the lingering smell of smoke and alcohol from inside.
A black Toyota Century was parked on the side of the road.
The rear window was rolled down halfway.
Iwashita Shima sat in the car. She hadn't been drinking and still maintained her impeccable makeup, though her expression betrayed a hint of weariness from the social engagement.
"Iwashita-senpai," Kitahara Shin greeted as he walked over.
Iwashita Shima glanced at him, said nothing, took an envelope from her bag, and handed it to the window.
"Take it."
Kitahara Shin accepted the envelope with both hands. The envelope was thick and felt like some kind of stiff cardboard.
"There's a film festival awards ceremony in Tokyo in a few months."
Shima Iwashita's voice was calm, as if she were talking about something trivial: "The organizers gave me a few front-row seats. But I don't want to sit next to those distributors who only talk about box office revenue sharing, nor do I want to listen to those old men bragging about their glorious past."
She raised her eyelids, looked at Kitahara Shin, and said with a matter-of-fact disdain, "Come sit next to me."
"At least talking to you about acting is better than talking to them about money."
This reason is very real, and very much like "Shima Iwashita".
Kitahara Shin paused for a moment, then smiled.
"It's my honor to shield my seniors from those pointless topics."
He did not refuse and readily put the envelope into his pocket.
"Um."
Iwashita Shima seemed satisfied with the answer and nodded slightly.
"See you in Tokyo then. Don't be late, I don't like waiting."
After saying that, she waved her hand, signaling the driver to start the car.
The car window rolled up.
The black sedan smoothly glided into the traffic and quickly disappeared into the Kyoto night.
Kitahara Shin stood under the streetlight, squeezing the heavy invitation in his pocket.
"So you asked me to chat because you didn't want to listen to the old man bragging?"
He shook his head and turned to walk towards his van.
This boss lady is actually quite adorably willful.
The Shinkansen bullet train sped through the night.
Outside the window, it was pitch black, with only a few lights occasionally flashing – those were the sleeping villages along the way.
Kitahara Shin leaned back in his chair, his eyes closed, but he wasn't sleepy.
My body is very tired, but my mind is unusually excited.
This past month in Kyoto felt like a long dream.
From being ostracized and harassed to finally being accepted and recognized.
Using the shell of "Sanada Kyoji," he forcefully carved out a path within this closed circle.
"Tokyo----"
He looked at his reflection in the window.
The "fierceness" that was deliberately maintained for acting had dissipated in that look, replaced by something more composed and profound.
It was already 1 a.m. when I got back to the apartment.
Push open the door.
The room was cold and quiet, lacking the damp, musty smell of Kyoto, but instead filled with a long-lost dryness and sense of alienation.
He changed his shoes in the entryway and turned on the light.
In the instant he bent down, he saw a letter lying on the mat.
A pink envelope.
There was no stamp on it, only a line of neat handwriting:
[To the Letter Author]
Kitahara Shin paused for a moment, then picked up the envelope.
It was not sealed.
I pulled it out, and inside was only a thin sheet of paper with a single sentence written on it: "Call me when you get back. No matter how late."
The signature featured a simple line drawing of a chubby little dog, a style of doodles that Akina has been enjoying lately.
Kitahara Shin glanced at the clock on the wall.
1:15.
At this hour, most people should be asleep, right?
But looking at those words, the image of Akina's face—sometimes stubborn, sometimes confused—came to mind.
If I don't play, I'll probably be nagged to death tomorrow, right?
"call----"
Kitahara Shin sat on the sofa, picked up the cordless phone on the coffee table, and dialed the number he knew by heart.
"beep----·----·----"
It rang three times.
"Feed————"
A voice came from the other end of the phone.
It was hoarse, soft, with a thick nasal tone and the languor of someone who had just woken up. It was as if the cat had been forcibly dragged out of bed.
"it's me."
Kitahara Shin said softly, "I'm back."
There was a two-second silence on the other end of the phone.
Immediately afterwards, there was a clattering sound, as if someone had suddenly sat up in bed and knocked over something on the bedside table.
"Shin-kun?!"
Akina's voice instantly became much more alert, even carrying a hint of surprised sharpness, "You really went back to Tokyo?"
"Hmm. Just came in."
Kitahara Shin smiled, sinking completely into the soft sofa. "Did I wake you? Sorry, I saw in the letter that no matter how late it is—"
No! No!
Akina hurriedly denied it on the other end, though her voice sounded like she had just woken up, "I—I was just looking at the script! Yes, I was looking at the script!"
This is a lie told by the feet.
"Okay, let's look at the script." Kitahara Shin didn't expose her. "How have you been lately? Still busy recording new songs?"
"Sigh, don't even mention it."
Once this topic comes up, Akina starts talking non-stop.
She began to ramble on about what had happened in the past month.
The agency has scheduled another variety show appearance for her that she doesn't like, they're still not satisfied with the arrangement of her new song no matter how many times they change it, and that annoying producer is nitpicking again—
They were all trivial little things.
But at this moment, to Kitahara Shin's ears, it sounded much more pleasant than the grand pronouncements he had made at the wrap party earlier.
He listened quietly, occasionally responding with a word or two.
After a while, Akina seemed to realize that she had said too much.
"that----"
Her voice suddenly softened, becoming hesitant, "Xin-kun, are you free tomorrow?"
"tomorrow?"
Kitahara Shin thought for a moment. Since filming had just wrapped, Ota would definitely arrange a few days of rest for him.
"There should be. What's wrong?"
"Then tonight—"
There was a rustling sound of fabric coming from the other end of the phone, as if she were clutching the blanket tightly. "Come to my place tonight."
"Um?"
"I have something to give you." Akina's voice was even softer, tinged with a little shyness, but mostly with anticipation.
Kitahara Shin blinked: "What is it?"
"Why ask so many questions!"
Akina suddenly reverted to her spoiled tone, chuckling lightly, "Just come. Remember, you absolutely have to come! Bye!"
"Click".
The phone hangs up.
The receiver was busy.
Kitahara Shin held the receiver, paused for a few seconds, then shook his head helplessly.
Why all the secrecy?
He stood up, walked to the balcony, and opened the French windows.
In Tokyo in December, the wind is cold, carrying a dry and biting chill.
The streets below were still bustling with traffic, and the Tokyo Tower in the distance shone with a red light.
Kitahara Shin took a deep breath of the cold air, letting the chill fill his lungs and carrying away the last trace of fatigue he had brought back from Kyoto.