Chapter Ninety-Four: Not Even Thirty Seconds for You

“When I first got the song and tried it out, I almost bit my tongue, too. Even now, I still have to do a proper warm-up before every official recording.”

Izumi Sakai held her teacup in both hands as if she were a little cold. “Still, though singing it is a bit of a struggle, I really do love this song. The moment I got the demo, I thought that if I ever went out for a drive, this was the song I’d want playing in the car.”

“I love it too. The tune is great, of course, but what I like even more than the melody is the lyrics.” Ye Zhao said. “The first time I heard it, I had this feeling of, ‘Wait, is this about me?’ Ms. Sakai, you really are a master lyricist.”

Izumi Sakai gave a slightly bashful smile. “That’s too much praise. I only put what I wanted to say into the lyrics. Still, I’m really happy to hear you say you felt a connection.”

“By the way, the new single by Field of View has lyrics written by you, right, Ms. Sakai? You also wrote lyrics for Deen before, didn’t you?” Ye Zhao looked at her with anticipation. “Someday, would you write lyrics for one of my songs, too?”

In the four years since her debut, Izumi Sakai had written lyrics for singers such as Teresa Teng, Deen, and Field of View, but those collaborations had all been arranged by the company. They were not personal invitations made to her directly, much less a face-to-face request like Ye Zhao was making now.

“Lyrics for your songs, Mr. Ye?” Izumi Sakai asked, as if seeking confirmation.

Ye Zhao nodded. “This is the sincere request of a junior.”

His exaggerated wording made Izumi Sakai laugh. “You definitely did that on purpose, didn’t you?”

“In any case, what do you think, Ms. Sakai?”

“If my junior here has gone to the trouble of making such a sincere request, then of course I can’t refuse.” Izumi Sakai agreed, then added half-jokingly, “But if I write the lyrics, you’ll be taking in one less share of royalties.”

At a moment like this, saying something like, “Your lyrics are worth their weight in gold, let alone one share of royalties,” would have sounded so cloying and sycophantic it might have made him sick. So Ye Zhao deliberately followed her lead. “That’s true. In that case, when you release your next song, maybe you could consider using one of my melodies. Then we’d be even, wouldn’t we?”

“You’re very calculating, Mr. Ye.” Izumi Sakai teased him kindly.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Ye Zhao looked at her with a broad smile. “There are still plenty of things I’ll need money for in the future. If I don’t start saving now, I’m sure it’ll come in handy.”

Izumi Sakai looked curious. “What sort of things will you need money for?”

“Well, the usual things in life, food, clothing, housing, transportation, and hobbies, of course. If I end up doing more projects and such, that’ll definitely cost a lot too. And I’m going to get married someday, so before that I’ll have to buy land and build a house, right? I’m still living in a one-bedroom apartment that costs 250,000 yen a month. After marriage, I’ll have to work hard right away to earn formula money for the baby. If it’s a shotgun wedding, the situation gets even more serious. If it’s a daughter, I’ll have to start saving for her dowry immediately. And if my wife still wants to keep pets, I’ll have to think about their nutritional balance, too…” Ye Zhao counted off the items on his fingers with great seriousness.

“If you keep talking, I’m going to leave.”

Ye Zhao made a motion as if zipping his lips shut. “I won’t say another word.”

...

After all sorts of preliminary preparations, filming on The Kindaichi Case Files finally began in late May.

Japanese drama productions are generally shot in the order the story unfolds, so on the first day of filming they were shooting the first episode, “The Murder in the Strange House Village.” In theory, as a guest actor appearing in the second episode, Ye Zhao shouldn’t have been at the set. But early that morning, he still made his way to a resort in Saitama Prefecture called Izumi Village and watched the simple opening ceremony from start to finish.

The reason, of course, was director Yukihiko Tsutsumi’s invitation.

A TV drama’s entire production schedule rarely exceeds three months. That may sound rather generous for a series of about ten episodes at fifty minutes each, but that “generous” estimate does not include the director. As the director, you have to supervise every moment of filming on set, and you also cannot miss the work of post-production editing, so the workload is substantial.

That is why Japanese dramas do not rely on only one director. Aside from making it easier to adjust the directing staff according to ratings and other factors, it is also because having the same director carry the entire burden from start to finish is exhausting and makes it difficult to guarantee the quality of the series.

Tsutsumi, who also had a film awaiting post-production, had only scheduled the first and second episodes of the drama for the time being. To honor the promise he had made to Ye Zhao earlier, he took the initiative to invite him to visit the set. And so, for the first time in his life, Ye Zhao entered a real Japanese drama production site.

When Ye Zhao arrived at Izumi Village, dawn was only just beginning to break, but countless staff members were already rushing about making preparations. Leaving aside the people handling miscellaneous chores and the various extras, there were dozens of costume designers, prop masters, and makeup artists alone. Add lighting, camera work, and equipment, and there were nearly a hundred crew members on set.

Still, when he thought about the commercial he had filmed, which had used several dozen staff members as well, this drama’s scale seemed perfectly normal, even a little modest.

Tsutsumi, who had worn a suit at the production meeting, had changed into the legendary director’s vest once he reached the set. When he saw him, Ye Zhao hurriedly greeted him first. “Mr. Tsutsumi, I’m terribly sorry to trouble you.”

“Mr. Ye can also take this chance to watch the actors perform while observing the shoot. It’ll be helpful for the official filming later.” Tsutsumi said.

“TV dramas are scheduled with great precision. Every day’s work is laid out on a detailed timetable. When filming on location like this, an application has to be submitted to the network in advance. In each episode’s shooting schedule, location filming usually cannot exceed three days, and studio shooting is limited to two days at most.” During a break in the shoot, Tsutsumi’s assistant explained to Ye Zhao.

“In that case, doesn’t it take about a week to produce one episode of a drama?”

“Yes, though the first episode usually takes a little longer, because there are more parts that have to be coordinated. After filming is finished, post-production editing will probably take another two days or so.” Saying this, the assistant added in a lighter tone meant to liven things up, “The music Mr. Ye Zhao is providing will also come into play during those last two days.”

The Kindaichi Case Files was not a big-budget drama. That much could be seen from the props on set and the size of the cast. But because the budget was not especially high, the pressure on the production staff to chase ratings was also less intense, and the atmosphere on set was fairly harmonious.

From the moment filming was announced, the entire set had been in nonstop motion. Ye Zhao, for his part, stayed half-invisible the whole time, keeping his presence as low as possible while observing every detail of the shoot, cautiously absorbing the smallest tidbits of knowledge like a sponge taking in droplets of water.

Filming in the morning continued until noon. After the director called a stop, lunch break finally began. The lunch was a set order of boxed meals: the director’s team and the main cast had beef boxes, while the regular staff had rice bowl boxes.

Ye Zhao, who had come to interrupt things unexpectedly, had originally planned to treat everyone to lunch at noon. But since there were plenty of people on the crew who were older than he was, it would have been rather rude to announce that out of nowhere. So instead, the day before he arrived, he asked Yuuki Kamimura to prepare a generous number of cookies as gifts, and distributed them to the cast and crew as soon as he got to the set.

He had to thank Kamimura for being so experienced, too, since he had prepared well over a hundred portions. If there hadn’t been enough, the embarrassment would have been considerable.

Ye Zhao ate with Tsutsumi and the rest of the crew. No one there had much habit of staying silent while eating, so they chatted casually as they ate. After lunch, just as Ye Zhao was asking about some things he had noticed during filming, Rie Tomosaka came running over full of energy and gave Tsutsumi a childlike grin. “Mr. Tsutsumi, I’m here to find Mr. Ye Zhao.”

Tomosaka, who had already worked with him on a special, was quite familiar with the crew, and everyone good-naturedly let her take away Ye Zhao, who kept a blank face but was inwardly resistant.

“Miss Tomosaka, what’s the matter?” Ye Zhao asked after they had walked a short distance.

“Well,” Tomosaka said, turning back with a smile from where she walked ahead of him, “I was bored during lunch break, and Tsuyoshi and I were planning to play catch. Mr. Tonegasa heard about it and wanted to join us too, but three people can’t really play, so I came to invite Mr. Ye Zhao.”

“So this wasn’t an invitation at all, it was an abduction…” Ye Zhao muttered under his breath.

Tomosaka put a hand to her ear. “I didn’t hear a thing.”

Mr. Tonegasa was the actor playing Odagiri Shin, the murderer in the first episode. By the time Ye Zhao and Tomosaka reached the school field, he was already tossing the ball back and forth with Tsuyoshi Domoto.

“You’re late!” Tonegasa Toshihide, who was two years older than Ye Zhao, said to them.

“We were already pretty fast. I didn’t even give Mr. Ye Zhao thirty seconds to think it over,” Tomosaka said with great pride.

Domoto looked a little embarrassed. “So, Mr. Ye Zhao was forced to come along by you?”

Still wearing the Inaho High School uniform from the drama, he looked just like an ordinary student at the moment.

“That’s not important!” Tomosaka made an exaggerated X with her crossed arms.

Tonegasa backed her up as well. “Let’s get started already. If we keep talking like this, lunch break will be over.”

...

There was an unwritten rule on Japanese drama sets: when filming began, the actor playing the lead role was expected to treat the cast and crew to a meal.

But when the lead actor was very young, that rule had to be adjusted accordingly. After all, asking a boy of sixteen or seventeen like Tsuyoshi Domoto to stand in front of a group of senior actors, some of them ten or twenty years older than he was, and say, “Today, allow me to treat everyone,” would have been rather impolite.

So, once the day’s shooting was declared finished, the cast collectively decided to hold a dinner together and split the bill evenly. The director, the screenwriter, and even Ye Zhao were invited.