Chapter Sixty-Nine: At Twenty, One Must

After the meeting ended, the “adults” like the screenwriter, director, and producer left the conference room first—though, of course, Ye Zhao was not counted among these “adults.” Then the actors bid each other farewell in turn and filed out.

Before leaving, Rie Tomosaka made a special point to arrange with Ye Zhao, “Ye Zhao-san, you must visit the set when you have time! Isn’t that how it always is on TV? The composer comes to the set for inspiration and all that. I’m still waiting for your autographed CD.”

“If I have time, I’ll come. But as for the CD, will you bring your own copy or shall I give you one?”

Rie Tomosaka thought for a moment. “Since it’s a rare opportunity, why not both? I’ll bring one myself, and you’ll give me one too—so you’ll sign twice.”

“You’re too greedy, Miss Tomosaka,” Ye Zhao quipped.

—

The promise to Rie Tomosaka to visit the set eventually amounted to nothing but empty words, because he truly had no free time at all. Moreover, composing for film and television was nothing like what Tomosaka imagined—it wasn’t a whimsical job where one could wander onto set for inspiration, but rather a somewhat dull and tedious task.

Because the filming schedule and broadcast date were so tightly packed, Ye Zhao couldn’t wait until shooting was finished to compose to the final cut. So, as soon as the special drama began shooting, Ye Zhao had to start by reading the script, immersing himself in its atmosphere, and preparing the necessary pieces in advance.

Though he came equipped with his own “golden finger,” Ye Zhao couldn’t possibly have the original soundtrack for a TV drama from over twenty years ago. Fortunately, composing music is a craft where experience can make up for a lack of innate talent. There are established conventions for what kind of orchestration and melody to employ in various situations—quite different from writing a hit song.

Of course, that is, unless one brings up the likes of Master Xu Jingqing or Professor Ryuichi Sakamoto—those legendary figures are in a league of their own. After all, this was just a regular film score, not some epochal masterpiece meant to compete for major awards or make history in music.

And so, Ye Zhao’s first foray into scoring unfolded quietly as he sifted through melodies in his mind, adapting and developing them into something new. Turning the intangible into the tangible is never easy—especially with the particular nature of film music—but he worked harder and with more focus than ever before.

Perhaps he would never have the “gift” for writing chart-topping hits, but he hoped to accumulate “experience” in areas where effort could pay off, to do more of what he was capable of doing.

Still, though he was officially the composer, it didn’t mean he had to handle everything from melody to instrumentation and the final CD alone. The more complex arrangements and orchestrations required collaboration. To lighten his burden, after settling on the main melodies, Ye Zhao enlisted Hiroto Furuai’s help, gradually shaping his rough ideas into the finished pieces he envisioned.

The greatest lesson from composing music was the regret of not mastering more instruments; if only he were adept at every aspect, it would save time, energy, and worry.

—

March was destined to be a busy month. In addition to finishing the score for “The Kindaichi Case Files,” his collaboration single with Masaharu Fukuyama was proceeding at a breakneck pace. When it came to recording, both Fukuyama and Ye Zhao had their own busy schedules, so there was barely any time to be in the studio together. They only recorded together for a single day; after that, each would go to the studio separately to record their parts, and the tracks would be combined in post-production.

When the cherry blossom front reached Kyushu, BMG notified them that the final mix of the collaboration single was complete.

In the studio, Ye Zhao listened to the final master for the first time. He had been a little worried that his voice might not match well with Fukuyama’s, which could undermine the effect of both songs, but when he heard the finished product, all his concerns vanished.

Since it was a cherry blossom single, AMUSE pulled out all the stops for the music video, assembling a team to travel to Fukuoka and shoot among the blooming cherry trees in Maizuru Park.

—

During breaks in filming, Masaharu Fukuyama wandered around the park with his Pentax camera, snapping photos wherever he went, clearly passionate about photography.

“Fukuyama-san really loves photography,” remarked one of the crew.

“Sometimes, I wish I could just drop everything and go study photography,” Fukuyama said, waving his camera. No one present took him seriously; given Fukuyama’s immense popularity in film, television, and music, no one believed he would give it all up just to pursue an interest in photography.

Only Ye Zhao nodded in earnest. “It’s not just Fukuyama-san—even I want to run off and study photography sometimes.”

“Oh? You’re interested in photography too?” Fukuyama looked at him in a new light.

“Interested might be too strong a word—maybe I just don’t want to be hated,” Ye Zhao joked. “Think about it: if you’re terrible at taking photos and make a mess of beautiful scenery, wouldn’t you want to yell, ‘Apologize to the scenery, you idiot!’? And if you’re traveling with your girlfriend and she asks, ‘Please take a picture of me,’ but you mess up the proportions and ruin her beauty, you’re bound to get dumped, right?”

Fukuyama couldn’t stop laughing. “Ye-kun, you really are…”

“How amusing? Fukuyama-san, you’ve said that plenty of times already,” Ye Zhao replied lightly. Their collaboration had brought them closer, and exchanges like this had become commonplace.

After filming wrapped, a bouquet was presented along with a birthday cake. In bold strokes of chocolate sauce on the cake was written: “Twenty years old, congratulations!!”

“Ye Zhao-san, happy twentieth birthday!” the staff all cheered.

Coming out of his daze, Ye Zhao accepted the bouquet with emotion, repeating, “Thank you, thank you all!”

Fukuyama approached with a bottle of champagne, his manner relaxed as he invited, “Ye-kun, now that you’re twenty and an adult, you can’t do without this. How about a drink? Of course, even if you say ‘no,’ I’ll just pretend I didn’t hear you.”

“Hey now…” With such a good atmosphere, there was really no need to play the fool, Fukuyama-san.

The crew brought out the pre-prepared champagne glasses and filled them. Everyone raised their glasses and toasted again: “Happy twentieth birthday, Ye Zhao-san!”

“Thank you!” Ye Zhao raised his glass to each person, then downed the champagne in one go.

Miss Saga, the costume designer, was the one to cut the cake. She sliced off the piece with the “o” and set it on Ye Zhao’s plate, teasing, “Ye Zhao-san, now that you’re in your twenties, any aspirations?”

“Well…” Ye Zhao replied in jest, “First, I’m going to have a good drink—being twenty is the perfect excuse to get drunk, after all.” With that, he dipped his right ring finger in some cream and tasted it. “Delicious. Thank you, Miss Saga.”

—

On March 25th, the day after returning from Kagoshima, Ye Zhao received a call from Izumi Sakai.

He stretched his arm out from under the covers, groping for his phone on the nightstand. Trusting his instincts, he pulled out the short antenna, and, seeing no caller ID, answered, “This is Ye Zhao. Who’s calling?”

“Ye-kun, you sound like you’re still in bed,” came Izumi Sakai’s gentle voice through the receiver.

Ye Zhao jolted awake and sat up. “Izumi-nee, sorry, last night I was at the wrap party with Fukuyama-san’s crew, so I overslept a bit. Give me a moment, I’ll come meet you right away!”

“No need to rush,” Izumi laughed softly. “I just wanted to ask if you’d mind changing our plans a little.”

“Hm?” Ye Zhao paused in the middle of getting dressed.

According to what they’d agreed upon after returning to Tokyo yesterday afternoon, Izumi Sakai was supposed to treat him to lunch in Nishi-Azabu as compensation for sending the wrong gift previously—naturally, accompanied by both their managers and assistants.

“Here’s the thing,” Izumi continued, “I went to the office today and found two tickets to a movie premiere at three this afternoon. I don’t have anyone else to invite, so if you don’t mind, would you go with me? We can have dinner after the movie. Of course, if it’s inconvenient, we can stick to our original plan.”

“That’s fine, I’m free this afternoon anyway,” Ye Zhao replied. “By the way, Izumi-nee, what movie is it?”

—

The movie was called “Love Letter.” Yes, the very “Love Letter” you’re thinking of.

As for the connection between Shunji Iwai and Izumi Sakai: when ZARD first debuted, Iwai directed the music videos for their first three singles. At the time, Iwai was still an up-and-coming rookie director, and ZARD was barely making a name for themselves.

In less than four years, ZARD had become a top-tier band, and Iwai had emerged as a much-admired new force in the film world.

—

At 2:20 in the afternoon, after meeting downstairs at the SENSUI agency, Ye Zhao and Yuki Uemura got into one car, while Izumi Sakai and her assistant, Miss Imai, took another. After driving for about twenty minutes, the two cars arrived at Kadokawa Cinema in Shinjuku Sanchome.

As soon as he received Izumi’s call, Ye Zhao had instructed Yuki Uemura to order flower baskets. Uemura and Miss Imai delivered the baskets separately, while Ye Zhao and Izumi Sakai took the special elevator and entered the venue through a private passage.

About two hundred people attended the premiere—fifty ordinary viewers selected by lottery, with the rest made up of film company staff, TV personnel, industry insiders with invitations, journalists, and a handful of members from civilian review boards.

Neither Ye Zhao nor Izumi Sakai was in the habit of mingling at such events. Once inside, they quietly found their seats and settled in.