After witnessing Natsuho Murata’s live performance at Hamarikyu Hall, the author became convinced that she is not only Japan’s pride—shared by over 100 million people—but also a treasure for the entire world. Her overwhelming musical gifts, combined with her rare natural genius, reaffirm the need for those around her to nurture her talent with utmost care. Blended with detailed descriptions of Hamarikyu Garden, travel episodes, and personal memories, this account captures the profound impact of encountering a once-in-a-century virtuoso.

I am a person unfamiliar with the music world, but I strongly felt that her talent—an honor shared by 100 to 200 million people, a treasure not only of Japan but of the world—should be carefully nurtured by all music professionals involved with her.
I learned of the announcement that Natsuho Murata would perform at the “Noto Peninsula Earthquake Charity Concert” held at Asahi Hamarikyu Hall on March 10, and thanks to immediately making arrangements, I was able to secure an excellent seat.
The second row from the front, right in the center.
After three piano soloists, she appeared as the first violin soloist.
I have listened to all her performances uploaded on YouTube, but of course, this was my first time seeing her live.
From the moment the performance began, both our company’s managing director and I were completely captivated.
There has never been a more blissful moment.

I am unfamiliar with the music world, but I felt strongly that her talent—an honor for 100 to 200 million people, and truly a treasure of Japan and the world—should be carefully nurtured by every music professional involved with her.
Needless to say, she possesses overwhelming, extraordinary talent.
It is only natural that the world was astonished by her.

I recently discovered that Natsuho Murata and I have an unexpected connection.
She was born in Mito City, Ibaraki Prefecture.
When I was a student at Sendai Second High School, the principal—renowned in the field of education—was a man from Mito.
When I was in the midst of deep personal anguish (as readers are aware), I happened to encounter the principal and his wife at a department store in front of Sendai Station.
He must have sensed my distress instantly.
We exchanged a short conversation.
Even now, remembering the thoughtfulness and concern behind his words brings warmth to my chest.
Like Sendai, Mito has First High School and Second High School, which compete as the highest rivals while maintaining extremely high academic standards.

When I was around twenty, I lived in Tokyo.
I worked as a construction laborer to get by.
Young people raised in happy families spent their days absorbed in student activism.
As I wrote in the chapter inspired by the “gutter-level election,” student activism was, in my view, nothing but the height of foolishness.

Some years ago, when I stayed at a hotel in Shiodome for business, I visited the Hamarikyu Gardens beside the concert venue during the short time before returning to Osaka.
I did not have my camera with me.
As expected of a Tokugawa shogun’s garden, it left me in deep admiration.
I grew up by the sea, on the beach, in ports, river mouths, and fishing harbors.
I live in Kyoto as if it were my own garden.
Even then, Hamarikyu astonished me.

The pond there is seawater—connected directly to the sea.
Thus, fish from the sea such as black sea bream live in the pond.
An incomparable Japanese garden pond, filled with seawater, in which sea fish swim.
The lawful wife of Ienari, who visited this place 247 times, adored fishing here.

Doors opened at 13:30 for the concert.
The weather forecast predicted clear skies in Tokyo.
I woke up very early that morning.
I changed my Shinkansen reservation from 8:06 to 7:39.
Shinagawa to Shimbashi.
From Shimbashi by taxi.
Everything went smoothly, and I arrived at Hamarikyu with even more time to spare than expected.
This time, unlike before, I entered through the main gate.
This too was wonderful.

Naturally, I brought my beloved camera.
My primary photographic goal was to capture the black sea bream.
I wondered whether water clarity and depth would make it difficult.
As I crossed the bridge toward the Nakajima teahouse, I saw one immediately.
The water was a bit deep, so I could not capture it clearly.
But I felt certain I could.
As if the black sea bream sensed my intention, it appeared in the shallow water by the bank and stared directly at me.
Overwhelmed with delight, I murmured, “Objective already achieved.”

After walking through about 80 percent of the garden, I finished.
Being Sunday, most restaurants near the venue were likely closed.
There would be no problem if we walked toward the hotel area in Shiodome, but that would take time.
I asked the staff at the main gate.
They said there was an underground restaurant area in the Dentsu headquarters building across the main street.
I crossed three crosswalks to get there.
Tokyo is the city with the largest block size in Japan.
Caretta Shiodome—the same name I had seen in my earlier restaurant search—turned out to be the original name of the Dentsu headquarters building.

Many restaurants were closed for the holiday, making the area nearly empty.
On the first floor of the building was the Shiki Theatre Company performing Aladdin.
People were already lining up before the show.
Upon entering the basement—which was quite a walk—we found an eel restaurant right away.
The prices seemed strangely low.
I thought, “Well, fine,” and tried to enter, but my companion dislikes eel.
Still, they were willing to tolerate it for my sake.
At first, I assumed the low price was because Tsukiji was so close by.
But at the same moment, we both said, “It must be Chinese eel.”
When we asked, indeed it was.
We immediately turned back and searched for another place.
There was a Marugame Seimen.
The menu offered udon topped with about six Hiroshima oysters.
We immediately decided to go in.
It was our first time at Marugame.
They had my favorite—kakiage.
Enormous size for 190 yen.
It was the most delicious kakiage I had ever eaten.
At the sauna today, when I stepped on the scale, my weight had gone up sharply.
No wonder—the volume was tremendous.

Our managing director planned to return to Osaka as soon as Natsuho Murata’s performance ended, as preparations for the next day awaited.
But we decided to stay until the final ensemble piece featuring all string players.
We took the subway line directly connected to Tsukiji Market Station and headed to Tokyo Station.
At Daimaru’s basement, we bought boxed meals to eat on the train.
When we passed through the ticket gate, we learned the Shinkansen was delayed.
I was startled for a moment.
The cause, however, was similar to the recent frequent disruptions on the Osaka–Kyoto rapid line—incidents we are convinced are sabotage operations by Chinese agents and spies from the Korean Peninsula.
This time, near Himeji in the Hanshin region, a piece of plastic blown from nearby had become tangled in the overhead wires.
The same as the rapid line—so, we concluded, it would not lead to full suspension.
The earliest departure was a Hakata-bound train.
We chose it immediately.
But due to the major delay, there were no free seats in the unreserved section.
We quickly gave up and switched to the next train bound for Shin-Osaka, waiting on the adjacent track.
But that too was crowded.
There were no two seats together.
So we decided to return in the Green Car of the Hakata-bound train.
As an active businessman, I used to travel Green Car frequently.
I thought there would be no issue, but only two seats across the aisle were available.
We accepted that.
I never imagined that this decision would lead to my first-ever blunder.
The Shinkansen, delayed by one hour, arrived at Shin-Osaka around 20:30.
Upon returning home, I immediately realized something terrible.
(To be continued.)