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Page 2 of 3
We heard a patter of footsteps and then Hiroki appeared out of a hallway. He was grinning. With him was another man, older and taller, whose gut extended outward like a barrel. A barrel in a very expensive suit.
Hiroki spoke formally. This is, he said proudly, the President of Marukin.
The President flashed us a polite smile and we introduced ourselves. He did not bow; we shook hands all around. His was just a last name: Shikara. No moustache.
Shikara-san wore his belly like an executive’s desk. He spoke from behind it in firm tones to Hiroki, who nodded quickly, then bowed and scuttled out the front door.
We smiled and acted embarrassed, not because we were but because the situation seemed to call for it.
“You like…” he began in English. “You like shouyu?”
We nodded. Yes, we liked soy sauce.
He stuck out his lips and stroked his cheek. “You come, my car,” he said. “I show you…” I could feel the pun coming. “I show you…shouyu!” He laughed loudly and we laughed too.
Apparently it was a national holiday, so there were no tours being conducted. But apparently, we were special guests. A shiny black Mercedes stopped in front of us.
Lindsey and I looked at our clothes. A thick crust of dirt wrapped around my shoes and though the sweat on my neck had dried my shirt clung to my back.
Shikara-san waved his hand as if to say it didn’t matter. He took Hiroki’s place in the driver’s seat and we got in the back. Shikara-san stepped on it and we took off on a side road into the forest, kicking up dust at Hiroki, who stood waving behind us.
Shikara-san wanted to know all about our hometowns, our travels, and our opinions of the Japanese people. He told us about himself. He was not born on the island; he was a native Edoko—child of Tokyo—and had come to Shodoshima when his father, the previous company President, had died. Lindsey remarked that he must be very busy and he replied, “Yes, but soy beans are good friends,” and chuckled.
We told him we were from England and Canada. After a few minutes, a low gray building came into view among the trees. Shikara-san pulled up to the front of the building and parked.
He gazed at the doors. “This,” he said slowly, as if we were children learning a secret, “is home of number one shouyu.” He paused. “My grandfather build.”
He got out of the car and unlocked the front doors and, finally, we were inside the factory.
It was all one giant room cast in yellow light. Except for the walls, which were stacked from floor to ceiling with large cans, the place appeared to be empty. I looked down. Bingo!
The floor was a giant cupcake tin. The vats were built into the floor, their round mouths full of dark brown goop. There were about thirty in the place, lined up in rows of five, placed side by side with just barely enough space for a person to walk in between.
Shikara-san nodded, taking our stares for appreciation. “Deep is about two meters,” he told us.
We crept in for a closer look. The vats were about three meters across. Wooden lids covered some but quite a few were open. A wide plank, sitting just a finger’s length above the burgundy soup, spanned the vat nearest to us.
Shikara-san walked to the nearby vat and on the plank he placed one leather shoe, followed by the other, as if he were strolling down a promenade. The right edge of the board lift slightly and our eyes widened. He threw his left arm out for balance. In horror, we watched as one perfectly pleated right leg rose in the air, almost parallel to the beans. I could have sworn he was pointing his toes. Each moment seemed to be dipped in molasses, stretching slowly and helplessly before us.
Then he was in the vat.
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