Talk about a profitable end to the year. Invited to meet a Taisho man -- that is, someone born in the last year of what many consider to be Japan's most liberal period of the 20th century -- I was met in one location to be maneuvered into a taxi and delivered outside another: a nondescript utility block in Nihonbashi. Told the name of the bank at this address, the cab driver was nonplussed; he too had never heard of Michinoku Bank.

Joining a line of business suits filing in a side entrance, I found myself at a party. Fishermans' flags hung from the ceiling. A boat sailed past (borne aloft by by two exceedingly merry men) filled to the brim with "uni" (sea urchin). All the sake was from Tohoku; the gift bags stacked at the exit contained apples and "mochi" from Aomori, and brandy from Armenia. It was all a bit bewildering, but amazingly jolly. With not a hint of ostentation within sight or hearing, I did literally feel as if I'd stepped back into a different era.

As indeed I had. The ruddy-faced soul who clasped my companion in a bearhug turned out to be the chairman of Jena Books in Ginza. Introduced to his friend, this equally approachable but rather more rarefied figure turned out to be such a bigwig at NHK I felt quite faint. They were both friends of the host; in fact all three were old pals from university days in Sendai. Having been educated just slightly ahead of the most prejudiced prewar propaganda, they were more at ease with foreigners than compatriots even a decade younger.

At 6 p.m. precisely, the crowds parted and half the assembly bent to 45 degrees. Kosaburo Daitoji, the head of Michinoku Bank was making a customary -- but in concern for his age, token -- yearend appearance to greet customers and friends. Ten minutes at the most I was told, then he was all mine. Half an hour later he was still working the floor, moving slowly on a cane, followed by smiling suits who cleared the way while subtly collecting guests' name cards. He was then assisted onto a low stage to make a short speech of thanks and encouragement, before being whisked upstairs.

We met in a room decorated only with a photo of the bank's founder and three full suits of samurai armor. Such dramatic minimalism contrasted sharply with the low table, spread with party food and floral-patterned disposable plates. Those in attendance -- one suit, one skirt -- hovered. Later a Russian arrived; then Daitoji's daughter, who also works for one of Japan's least famous banks, but the best-known in east Russia.

"It all started when my father traveled by civilian railway across Russia from Japan to Berlin in 1925," Daitoji began, speaking in a mix of Japanese and hesitant English. "He studied medicine in Germany and Switzerland. On his return journey across Siberia, a Russian passenger produced black bread wrapped in newspaper. Nodding at my father, he broke the piece in two and handed him the largest portion. This was a great act of generosity so soon after the Russian revolution, with most people near starving."

At Irkusk, everyone had to get off the train. Invited home by another passenger, this man instructed his wife to bring food. "When she brought a dish of small potatoes and a thin salt soup, my father was surprised at the poverty. Then he realized: it was all she had."

When it was time to leave, the man opened a drawer and handed Daitoji's father an antique icon as a souvenir. "But his wife snatched it back, saying, No, no, sorry but it's our heritage."

As a child, Daitoji remembers his father commenting on how much he hated white men; all Southern Europeans were thieves, and the English, the worst of the lot. (I was very good, didn't say a word . . .) Russians, however, were different -- they were good. "He'd say, Russians may be white but they are not racist. Remember that!"

His father initially opened a hospital in Hokkaido's Shizunai, with Ainu communities on his regular rounds. But then the family moved to Hakodate: "I was five, so that'd be in 1930." With regular boat links with Vladivostok, the city was a haven for Russian refugees fleeing the Revolution. Nichiren, the fishery, had a huge packing plant there, with many Russian workers. "It was a big community. The atmosphere was very free at the time; I remember the feeling clearly."

Daitoji's father had moved to Hokkaido from Yamagata Prefecture in the Meiji period. His mother's family were also all doctors, so it was inevitable really that he should follow in their footsteps. But on entering Tohoku University he failed to find a vocation and switched to law. "I suppose I wanted to be a politician." On graduation, however, he found himself back home, helping run the family hospital.

After his father died, he continued to manage the hospital, but only until elder brothers returned from Siberia and Burma, now known as Myanmar. He found his way into banking by coincidence rather than any great master plan. Karoji Binsei (whose portrait hangs on the wall) was a friend of his father. "Binsei had founded a small bank, Hirosaki Bank, in Tohoku, remaining its chairman until the day he died, four months short of age 99. His policy -- to serve ordinary people -- was considered very radical at the time. I joined Hirosaki in 1958."

Mainstream banks have always existed to serve big business. Binsei based his concern on the Bank of America, founded to assist Italian immigrants unable to get loans. Hirosaki Bank was the first bank in Japan to write its name in hiragana, rather than using Chinese characters. "I was made a director in 1973. Three years later we merged with Seiwan, a small Sendai bank, asking our customers to choose the new name." They voted for Michinoku, meaning North East (the northeast of Japan) and East ( for east Russia).

Elected chairman in 1998, Daitoji now oversees more than 118 branches of Michinoku Bank between Tokyo and Hokkaido, plus an office staffed by 15 Russians and five Japanese in Moscow, and representation in Vladivostok and on Sakhalin, one of the disputed islands north of Hokkaido. "As we enter the new millennium, we're the only Japanese bank with a branch in Russia. Yes, I agree, this is rather amazing. We can hardly explain it ourselves."

Daitoji is staking the future of the bank on the belief that east Russia will take off economically. Not today, not tomorrow, nor even in 2002, but eventually. All banks have problems, but Michinoku's is unique: they have more money than they know what to do with. "Our customers aren't rich, but they're many, and they trust us, so we must respect that trust and not risk their hard-earned savings."

Most of the big banks were saddled with bad loans from the bubble period of the late 1980s. Some even collapsed. He believes mainstream banking is 80 percent back on solid ground, with the remainder still in difficulty. "It will take another three years to recover fully."

The reason Michinoku has remained stable is that the bank made no major investments during those dizzy times, when corporate Japan was buying up half the world's status symbols. Also it is not Daitoji's way to delegate responsibility; he personally investigates every single transaction. "In the 1980s, it was common practice to allow young bankers the freedom to invest huge amounts of money. I would never allow that. It's not our money to play with."

In fact, Michinoku is more than stable. Its coffers are overflowing -- the only bank in the country with too much cash. "It's not only the low interest rates. It's poor money with nowhere to go. Right now it's very difficult to use money efficiently. East Asia and China are overcapitalized. The places that need it most -- like Russia -- are too great a risk." Having said this, he has ordered a 10-year study that will keep the Moscow subsidiary very busy indeed. "I'm also talking with friends, like the Governor of Sakhalin, to see what might be done.

"I'm the most famous Japanese in east Russia," he laughed, rising to shake my hand. (Kosaburo Daitoji's name is not only regarded with awe in Aomori; he's an honorary citizen of Sakhalin and Khabarovsk.) He was very tired. It was time to go. Time for Taisho man to cross the threshold into the new millennium. Carrying with him hopefully a tradition of open thinking to help carry Japan forward, and not back.