Yasushi Inoue - Bullfight

In the end, the parade did get under way earlier than planned: the twenty-two bulls ambled out of the yard at regular intervals, banners dyed with their names hoisted up in front of each one, a handler on each side. Already an eager crowd had collected on the street outside the fence, forming a human wall. As Tsugami stood watching the bulls plod out, Tashiro, who had already climbed into the final truck with the bulls’ owners and people from the paper, with their microphones and company flags, made a great show of leaping from the cabin just as it was about to start moving, and came running over to Tsugami.

He had almost forgotten something important, he said, smiling. “Can you get hold of a hundred thousand yen by tomorrow? We’ll be okay as long as you have it by two or so.” He spoke as though this were nothing at all. “We were supposed to pay the handlers after the tournament, but they say they want it up front. Sorry to trouble you, but that’s how it is.”

Tsugami felt a sinking sensation. He found it hard to admit that, with this big event coming up the day after tomorrow, the paper didn’t have that much money on hand. Tsugami was still groping for a reply when Tashiro spoke again, ever so nonchalantly.

“Let’s see… I don’t believe there is anything else…” He frowned pensively for a moment, then suddenly raised his hand. “Well, see you around!”

A moment later, he had turned his back to Tsugami and was scampering off toward the truck, his heavyset body tilting forward, the muffler hanging out of his coat, jerking in the wind.

Tsugami returned alone to the paper’s office in Osaka. As he was walking up the stairs, a reporter on the night shift who was heading downstairs told him a man had been waiting to see him for two hours and took a business card from his pocket. Looking down at it, Tsugami saw that it belonged to Miura Yoshinosuke, president of Tōyō Pharmaceuticals — a brand-new player in the industry that had been generating enormous sales thanks to a series of ads for a breath freshener called Clean & Cool that had been appearing not only in newspapers and magazines, but in trains, buses, and even on the streets. Tsugami had no reason to know Miura personally, of course, but his flamboyant strategy of plastering every space with ads had occasionally come up in conversation at the Reporters’ Club.

“The chief said he didn’t know when you’d be back, but the man insisted on waiting. Said he would stay until noon.”

When Tsugami stepped into the reception room, Miura was sitting alone with Time or some other foreign magazine spread on his lap, marking the text with a red pencil. He immediately sprang to his feet and said crisply, “Hi, my name’s Miura.”

He was a young man, probably in his late twenties or early thirties, with long sideburns and a red necktie in a large, loose knot; he had the affected air of someone in the film world — an assistant director, perhaps — but he exhibited a certain drive as he rose, an unmistakable energy, like that of a sportsman meeting an opponent.

“Actually, I’ve got a favor to ask of you. How would you feel about letting my company buy all the tickets for this bullfighting tournament of yours at a twenty percent discount.”

Miura lost no time in getting to business; he didn’t even seem inclined to sit down. Tsugami felt slightly taken aback, unable to gauge the intentions of a man who had popped up like this without any warning. He gestured for Miura to have a seat, then hastily made an inspection of his elegant attire, from his impeccably white collar to the tips of his well-polished shoes, everything absolutely the best that could be had these days, betraying an overweening desire to make money speak. Next Tsugami shifted his gaze to Miura’s face, which was characterized above all by the rather over-intense ambition that burned in his eyes. He had the confidently cheerful, obliging look found among people who have been raised in good families, but at the same time there was a fearlessness in his gaze that could not be attributed entirely to his youth.

When Tsugami did not immediately reply, Miura leisurely took a cigarette case from his pocket, as if to say that he was happy to give Tsugami a moment to think. He extracted an expensive cigarette, lit it, and began slowly blowing out streams of purplish smoke.

“No doubt this sounds like an extremely good deal for us,” he said after a time, his tone softer than before, “but in exchange for the twenty percent in sales you would be sacrificing, if you’ll forgive me for putting it that way, we would be able to pay you the full cost of the tickets up front, immediately. That means you would be guaranteed not to lose money on this thing, no matter what, even if it rains, even if there’s an earthquake.”

Miura crossed his legs and gazed at Tsugami, waiting to see how he would respond. When Tsugami continued to sit there listlessly, saying nothing, Miura added, “Naturally, when I say we would buy all the tickets, this would all happen behind the scenes. As far as the public knows, the paper will still be selling the tickets. That would suit us just fine.”

At last, Tsugami spoke. “You buy the tickets at a twenty percent discount, and then what?”

“We advertise.”

“Ah.”

Tsugami felt his cheek muscles stiffen oddly. Miura’s brash confidence, and the way he seemed to be pushing for an immediate answer, stirred up a powerful urge to fight back.

“It would help if you could describe the sort of advertising you plan to do. Then, perhaps, I can consider your proposal.”

Tsugami noticed that his tone was as clipped and businesslike as Miura’s, and the realization made him slightly annoyed. Miura explained that he wanted to include a small packet of Clean & Cool with each ticket when it was sold. In other words, everyone who attended the bullfight would go away with a packet of Clean & Cool as a giveaway. Ordinarily the packet would be sold for seven yen, so they would be getting a seven-yen prize in addition to getting to see the bullfight. In that sense, it would actually be helping the paper.

“You buy all the tickets at a twenty percent discount and pair each one with a seven-yen giveaway. And do you come out in the red, or in the black?”

“More or less even, I’d say. Either way, it wouldn’t be much.”

“Meaning,” Tsugami said, looking directly at Miura with a slightly sarcastic grin hovering around his mouth, “that you would be able to advertise Clean & Cool for free.”

“Precisely. Assuming, that is, that we sell every last ticket, that is. But if we don’t—” Now it was Miura’s turn to grin. “I lose the cost of whatever we can’t sell. It’s a sort of gamble, you might say.”

Miura looked straight ahead the whole time he was speaking, his manner proud; the only time he lowered his head was when he was lighting a cigarette. Tsugami had no idea whether Miura’s proposal truly was a good deal for the paper or not. If the tournament was a success, they would see twenty percent of their total sales of three million three hundred thousand yen — a cool six hundred and sixty thousand yen — go up in a puff of smoke. The thought rankled, it was true, but he couldn’t deny the great attraction of having eighty percent of their earnings guaranteed, especially now that Tashiro had asked him to produce one hundred thousand yen and he had no idea how he would get that money. Tsugami’s mind was made up, though, when Miura said it was “a sort of gamble,” offering the words like a challenge.

“It’s generous of you to make the offer, but I’m afraid can’t accept it. If packets of Clean & Cool were distributed with every ticket, people might get the impression that your company had put up the capital to sponsor the bullfight.”