The Cat Who Saved Books(34)

“I don’t need to explain it to you. I know—because I’m just like you.”

Rintaro’s words, delivered very quietly, had the power to stop the president in his tracks. He didn’t move again for a while. The plume of smoke that rose from between his fingers gradually thinned then finally petered out.

Eventually he narrowed his eyes slightly and opened his mouth.

“I don’t know what you mean by that.”

“That’s another lie.”

The president’s eyebrows twitched.

“You said just now that books are expendable goods. You claimed your job is impossible to do if you love books.”

“That’s correct.”

“That’s a lie.”

Rintaro’s voice was blunt.

A line of ash fell from the president’s cigarette.

“You said it just now: books need to metamorphose if they are to survive. If you really just saw books as expendable goods, you would never have said that.”

“Humph. That’s a questionable line of reasoning.”

“It’s all about the nuances. If you really think of books as nothing but scraps of paper, then you ought to quit this job. But I hear from you that you are committed to changing the form of books so they will survive. That means you like books. That’s why you’re still sitting there. Just like my grandpa . . .”

Rintaro’s voice trailed off into a heavy silence. The room remained silent apart from the occasional swish of a book falling past the window. But there were fewer than before.

The president regarded Rintaro awhile, then spun his chair around to observe the bleak landscape beyond the windows.

“It doesn’t matter anymore. It doesn’t matter what I think—we have to face reality. Books are getting thinner and thinner, and people are flocking to them. And then books need to respond to the demands of the flocks. No one can stop the cycle. And isn’t Natsuki Books proof of this? No matter how special or welcoming the atmosphere, the number of customers won’t go up. Am I wrong?”

“Not true!”

Sayo’s voice made its way through the stuffy air of the room like a fresh breeze.

“Natsuki Books’s customer base isn’t dying. For example we have Akiba . . . he doesn’t have the greatest personality, but he is extremely smart. And there’s me. I’ve also become a regular.”

It wasn’t exactly something to shout from the rooftops, but Sayo stood there with unwavering pride.

“Fine,” said the president, “but that amount of business just isn’t profitable. If you’re not selling, then it’s meaningless. Bookshops aren’t charities.”

“Well then,” Rintaro cut in, “exactly how much profit do you need to make?”

“How much?”

The president’s eyes widened at the unexpected question.

“My grandpa used to say once you got thinking about money there was no end to it. If you have one million yen, then you want two. If you have one hundred million, then you want two hundred. So better to stop focusing on money and talk instead about the book we read today. Like you, I believe that bookshops need to turn a profit. But I do know that there are things just as important as making money.”

Rintaro was no longer trying to persuade or win an argument. He was simply speaking from the heart.

“If you’re a producer of books, you should never call them ‘expendable goods,’ no matter how much things don’t go as you’d hoped. You should shout ‘I love books’ from the rooftops—don’t you agree?”

The president screwed up his eyes as if dazzled by the light.

“Even if I were to say that, would it make any difference?”

“Of course it would,” replied Rintaro, quick as a flash.

“But if I admit I love books, how will I be able to publish ones that I don’t like?”

The president’s eyes widened slightly and the corners of his mouth twitched.

It took a moment for Rintaro and Sayo to realize he was smiling. They also noticed that at some point the books had stopped falling. Everything was quiet. Time stood still.

“With that approach, you’re going to have a hard life ahead of you,” said the president finally, looking Rintaro straight in the eyes.

Rintaro didn’t look away.

“Sitting behind that desk calling books expendable goods—I would call that a hard life.”

“Would you, now?”

As the president murmured those words, the door to the room opened and the woman from the reception desk entered.

“It’s about time—” she said, but the president raised a hand to cut her off. She stepped back out again.

The president paused for a moment, then indicated the door through which she’d just exited. It slid open, this time to reveal the red carpet that led back to the elevator.

Not a word was exchanged. Rintaro looked at Sayo, and the two turned to leave. They’d barely taken a few steps when the president finally spoke.

“I wish you the very best of luck.”

Rintaro turned back to look at the man behind the desk. It was difficult to read any emotion in the light of his eyes. He waited a beat.

“You, too.”

The president was probably not expecting this response. His eyes widened, and this time, the corners of his mouth clearly curved upward. Rintaro caught a glimpse of a most unexpected grin.