A short story by Andrew Innes
Andrew writes: “Anger is an emotion that you seldom see expressed in Japan. I did however once see an old man at a festival repeatedly try to start a fight in front of a large crowd with a rather reluctant participant who simply bowed in response each time. The spectacle became more interesting than whatever was on stage at the time. Ten or so years later, I wondered what it would be like to reunite the two together: the conflict of living with anger management issues in a society where it is very much frowned upon.”
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He’d only gone and done it again. Sitting on a barrel, Satoshi clutched a single bottle and surveyed the damage. Jagged shards of glass like shark’s teeth glinted menacingly under the strip lights of the stock room. Surrounded by a sea of alcohol that permeated the senses and intoxicated the very air he breathed, his head began to swim. He ran his thumb over a small salamander on the label that indicated this was a bottle of the brewery’s flagship product, his pride and joy. He knew that he really had gone too far. Having destroyed most of his stock, it was the last remaining bottle – the only one that met the strict standards passed down from one generation to the next. Slipping it safely under his arm, he walked outside to where the moonlight glinted off a river that ran past the centuries-old sake brewery and headed back into the sanctity of the family house.
“Okaeri nasai,” Satoshi’s wife greeted him as she fussed over a frying pan, the sound of a family game console being played in the background. Satoshi left his shoes in the entrance hall and stepped over the threshold where his two daughters, Haruka and Maho, ran to greet him, each grabbing a leg as he struggled to walk into the living room.
“Daddy, did you bring us any sweets today?”
“Oh. Ah!” he slapped his forehead in fake incredulity as he gave them a disappointed look, “I forgot to go to the stall on the way home, sorry!”
“But you promised,” one of them shot back as she stuck out her bottom lip.
“Ah, but wait just a minute. Maybe I put them…here?” He pulled two slabs of rainbow-striped youkan wrapped in plastic from his jacket pocket and handed them out. The girls cheered and gave their dad a hug before running back to their game of Mario Kart.
“No sweets before dinner, thank you,” came a voice as Michiko emerged from the kitchen with a large plate of watermelon slices, “and you, don’t forget your appointment tomorrow morning.”
“What appointment’s that, daddy?” asked Haruka as she struggled to pour a heavy bottle of barley tea into her glass.
“Oh, er. The dentist. Yes. Got to get the old teeth checked up, ah, or the tooth goblin will get me,” he said while pouring the tea for her.
“The tooth goblin?”
“Daddy’s just telling silly stories again. Isn’t he?” said Michiko as her eyes shot daggers at her husband.
“Oh, but I saw that old goblin around here just the other day. He was asking if there were any young girls who hadn’t been brushing their teeth.”
“Enough! There’s no tooth goblin.”
“Daddy’s being silly again,” parroted Maho as she took a bite of watermelon.
“Will the dentist give you some youkan, daddy?” asked Haruka.
“Maybe. Although the tooth goblin said I shouldn’t eat too many sweets. He doesn’t like people who eat sweets, especially youkan.” Michiko watched as her daughter’s eyes widened.
“Yes, anyway. Daddy’s just joking, girls.”
“Yes, there’s no tooth goblin. But don’t forget to brush your teeth before you go to bed, or you might turn into a pair of goblins.”
“Hai,” they both said in unison.
Later that night, with the girls fast asleep in bed, Satoshi slipped on his wooden geta sandals, closed the front door quietly behind him, and headed down a narrow stone path into the balmy summer night. The sound of crickets chirruped, and above, a billion stars sparkled in a bottomless pool of black. After lighting a cigarette and opening a small, glass jar of sake, he exhaled a plume of smoke and watched the river as it patiently gurgled across rocks made smooth over millions of years. The river had all the time in the world. It had no need to rush, no pressing concerns around koji fungus, sake contests, or optimal fermentation conditions.
It had been several weeks since his last outburst had strained the family’s finances and brought things into sharp focus and he had decided to do something about it. Stubbing out his cigarette, he took a final swig of the Ozeki One-cup sake his wife had brought home from the supermarket. “Ah, cheap rubbish,” he winced before tipping it into the river. He couldn’t be late for his one o’clock appointment and needed to have a clear head.
The next day, Satoshi sat hunched over the steering wheel of his car as he waited for the traffic lights to change. The lush fields and fresh air of the countryside had given way to the smog of the city. The traffic and maze of roads added to the fact that he was already running late and made him irritable. He turned the air conditioner up and massaged his head. His shirt clung to his back in the humidity of summer as a rivulet of sweat ran under his arm. This was why he rarely ventured out beyond the peace and tranquillity of Ikuno—that had been the doctor’s recommendation. Outside, a pneumatic drill hammered relentlessly as several men operated machinery, another bowing to the traffic in a carefully executed lesson in how to do road construction.
The sign changed to green. Yes. Satoshi waited for the cars to move. Nothing. Looking through the centre of the windows, he could just make out a car near the front of the queue. The driver pecked a screen with his finger, unaware that the sign had flashed green. Satoshi pipped his horn. Nothing. Seconds went by. He checked his watch. Peck, peck, peck. He pipped his horn again. Tap, tap, swipe. Suddenly, the driver raised his head and jumped into action as though an electric eel had fallen from the sunshade and was now thrashing around in his lap. Stepping on the gas, the engine of his small boxcar screamed past the roadworks just as a man turned the sign to red again. Satoshi tightened his grip on the steering wheel and let out a drawn-out growl of frustration before remembering what he’d learned in his last anger management session: breathe.
“So, Satoshi. In order to move forward, we must ascertain the source of where your anger comes from.” Satoshi wiped the sweat from his brow and drank hurriedly from a bottle of water. His clothes—clinging to his body like wet papier-mache—contrasted sharply with the impersonal interior of the clinic and immaculate suit of the therapist he’d been seeing for the past six weeks.
“I don’t know. It just seems to come out of nowhere. My family business has always had very high standards. My dad would explode in an incandescent rage if he thought that standards had slipped. It was as though a demon had taken him over. If we hadn’t got it just right, he would throw barrel after barrel into the river, where they would split open on the rocks and spill their contents into the water. The next day, he would joke that the river had been thirsty. He was just keeping it happy. Meanwhile, the brewery’s profits had drifted off to who knows where and we would have nothing to eat except rice gruel and daikon radishes for the next month. Like father like son, I guess you could say.” Satoshi stared at the ceiling as he related his tale.
“Interesting. And would you say that you find these episodes to be an impediment to being a member of Japanese society?”
“Of course,” he shifted on the leather chaise lounge, wiping away the sweat that was beginning to seep into the arms. “As you well know, anger is taboo in Japan. This is probably why, for me, it only comes out behind closed doors and away from the public eye. To all outward appearances, I’m a successful business owner with a lovely wife and two beautiful daughters. But when it comes to anything that threatens the business—bad weather, a poor rice harvest, pollution, a dead deer carcass upstream in your water source. Do you know just how nerve-racking the soaking process is?” he sat up, suddenly shifting gears.
“No,” the therapist replied, taken aback as Satoshi turned to face her.
“Well. It’s absolutely imperative!” he said, as though reprimanding a junior staff member. “It sounds simple, but I can assure you it’s not! The quality of the koji is entirely dependent on the level of water absorption, and just a fraction of a second too long can ruin it. Most breweries use a stopwatch, we use an atomic clock. You just can’t leave these things to chance, you know!” the therapist noted the rise in pitch, and the tension in his voice. “Of course, you’re going to need to make your koji by hand, but above all else, you’re going to need to have the purest water available—from Nada if you can get it,” he took another hurried drink from his bottle. ”Charcoal filtered, strictly no chemicals, you hear? And don’t get me started on saccharification, microorganisms, and multiple parallel fermentation. It’s a complicated process, you know. You can’t just come swanning into it as though you’re taking up a Zumba class or a cooking course,” Satoshi was now gesticulating wildly, his eyes darting around the room. He took a shallow breath and gulped down the last of his water. “Ah, listen to me go on. I’m sure you’ve got no interest in sake production. I’m sorry,” he offered a small bow before his body crumpled into the plush leather.
“No, it’s interesting. But I’d like to know, what do you think would happen if, one year, you produced a sake that was, let’s say, extremely good, but not quite perfect? How do you think your customers would react? Surely, they wouldn’t notice,” the therapist offered in a calming voice.
“Unthinkable! In this business, reputation is everything! I would sooner cut off my right arm than compromise a single ounce of quality!” The therapist noted Satoshi’s shallow breathing, the rigidity of his posture, and the slight flaring of his nostrils. As though seeing himself reflected in her startled expression, his body deflated back into the chaise lounge once more.
“Ah, I’m sorry. I’m doing it again, aren’t I?”
“No, no. It’s quite alright. It’s important to explore hypotheticals in a safe space like this. Roleplaying and running thought experiments are how we can begin to develop long term coping strategies.”
“Yes, yes. Anyway, I’d like you to have a token of my appreciation.” Satoshi reached into his briefcase and pulled out a single bottle of sake which he handed to the therapist—the label embossed with a golden salamander.
“No, no. I couldn’t possibly…”
“It’s the least I can do. My wife seems to think I’m making progress thanks to your sessions. She feels that I should sell the business rather than pass it on to my daughters. Her biggest fear is that history will continue to repeat itself if I decide to train them up as apprentices, and the art of sake brewing won’t be the only thing passed down.”
“You’re worried about the effect your temper will have on your daughters?”
“If there’s one thing more important to me than the sake business, it’s my family.” Satoshi said as he relaxed and stared at the ceiling. “I’d burn the whole place down in a second if I thought I’d raise my voice even an octave in front of them. But I do worry about the consequences my own actions may indirectly have on the girls.”
“Well, just remember what we talked about. You know what to do when you feel the primitive part of your brain hijacking the controls away from the more sophisticated area.”
“Yes. ABC: Assess the situation calmly; Breathe deeply; Consider the consequences of your actions,” replied Satoshi.
“Exactly. And just remember, the more primitive area will fight for control of your actions. And, more often than not, it’s going to win unless you do so.”
“The hairy caveman beating up the wise old professor with his club. That’s not a fair fight, is it?” added Satoshi.
“No, it’s not. Above all else, just remember to breathe.”
Later that day, Satoshi arrived at the fancy hotel and headed up to the members’ club on the top floor. The smell of sake and the chatter of jovial conversation hit him as he opened the oak-panelled door and stepped into the crowded room. Around the perimeter, booths had been set up to showcase samples from ten different breweries who had been invited to the event. Satoshi headed over to the Tatsuriki sake table where he was instantly recognized with a bow of respect from the staff. He sipped a cloudy sake and surveyed the room.
“Ah, Satoshi san. Long time no see. You’re looking well.” Satoshi opened his mouth in an exaggerated show of surprise as he turned to find a grey-haired man in a pinstriped suit—his old friend and rival, Masayoshi.
“Oh, Masayoshi san. Osewa ni narimasu. How are you?”
“Ah, can’t complain. A little too much business and not enough play, perhaps.”
“Ah, ha, ha. Nothing ever changes, does it? Are you here for the sake tasting today or are you showcasing?”
“A little of both, actually. It would be a foolish fellow who would come between a sake party and me, let me tell you.” Masayoshi raised his eyebrows and gave a conspiratorial nod. “This is our new sake. Would you care for a sample?” He gestured towards a corner of the members’ club with a flick of his hand where several men in finely tailored suits were chatting over various barrels. The air was drunk with the intoxicating smell of rice wine and occasional laughter as staff ladled the beverage into small ceramic cups.
“This cloudy one here with the turtle on the label is Kameyama. We named it after the birthplace of our company’s secretary. Please…” Masayoshi passed Satoshi a small ceramic cup while surreptitiously taking in the one feature that was said to have made Satoshi the best in the business: his large nose. Inhaling the fumes, he gazed towards the ceiling as Masayoshi looked on in anticipation.
“Apples, melon, strawberries, pears,” he took a sip and held it in his mouth before inhaling to allow the flavours and aromas to explode on his palate. “I’m guessing that the water is sourced from Kyoto—possibly Fushimi. Its low iron and manganese content means that the necessity to chemically filter out any impurities would have been bypassed,” Masayoshi nodded in silence as Satoshi let the liquid play on his tongue. “Balanced astringency, body, and taste, and an attractive umami finish. I’m guessing that of the 46 rice varieties available for sake production, you opted for somewhere in Hyogo. Let me guess, Nada?” he added as he exhaled to allow the ‘fukumi-ka’ through his nose. “Highly commendable.”
“Ah, spoken like a true master of the craft. I’m truly humbled,” Masayoshi laughed as he took the glass and set it down on the table. “Now, this next bottle is inspired by the birthplace of my mother-in-law, Gifu.”
“Ah, famous for its castle, and if I remember correctly, the dying art of cormorant fishing?” added Satoshi.
“Oh, amazing,” Masayoshi took a sharp intake of breath as though momentarily lost for words. “You know Japan much better than I do,” he added with a show of deference. “Cormorant fishing is certainly a dying art, and I was lucky enough to see a demonstration when I was last there on business. The cormorants do all the hard work catching the fish. And then, just before they can gobble one down, their keeper snatches it away and keeps it for himself. The cormorants only get about one in ten, I think.”
“Yes, it’s a wonder they keep doing it, isn’t it? You’d think they’d get wise. Although, it reminds me a little of the way my wife takes all my salary each month before giving me a few thousand yen back for pocket money!” Satoshi shot back.
“Ha, ha, ha!” Masayoshi’s laughter boomed out as he narrowly avoided spilling his sake onto the floor. “No, this bottle is actually inspired by the salamanders that reside in the rivers of Gifu.” He took out a bottle embossed with a silver salamander on the label, chuckling at the joke as he filled a fresh cup.
Satoshi winced as Masayoshi passed him the small cup, his mind suddenly working overtime. His eyes stared at the label as though looking away constituted a tacit acceptance that the balance of their relationship had just shifted beyond repair. Thoughts raced through his head. How on earth did he have the gall to steal the family branding? The sheer audacity! What a flagrant act of copyright infringement! He tried to stay calm, but he knew—as well as every other person gathered in the bar—that in this business, branding was vital. At this level, the difference between the different sakes, as everyone in the business knew, was paper thin, and after a few cups they pretty much all started to taste the same.
No, it was all about the backstory. How old was your brewery? How pure your water source? How deep within the mountains was it? Clever marketing created a veneer of sophistication that demarcated a clear boundary between the high-class product sipped over business deals and talk of kabuki, and the hundred-yen sake that old men slurped outside the convenience store. Masayoshi’s smile turned to an expression of confusion as he registered the red flags in Satoshi’s body language: the hardened jaw, the furrowed brow.
“Satoshi san, is everything okay? Do you need to sit down?” Masayoshi pulled a chair over and gestured for Satoshi to sit down, confusion giving way to concern.
Satoshi felt his hands begin to shake as his body flooded with adrenaline. It was as though he’d downed four double espressos. Fight, flight, or freeze? He couldn’t not mention it, could he? Fight, flight, or freeze? Make a choice. He couldn’t lose his temper in a setting such as this, but then again, he couldn’t just let it pass, either. While all this was happening, and below the level of conscious thought, the wise professor of his brain had long been taken out by the primitive cavemen. Satoshi’s mouth opened and closed as though any rational thought had been short-circuited.
Masayoshi looked on bemusedly as jazz music continued to play at odds with the scene about to unfold in the exclusive members’ club. How could he not know? My life’s work, my father’s legacy, and my reputation are all contained within that one logo. Fight, flight, or freeze? Adrenaline pumped through his veins. Masayoshi gave a quizzical look which turned into one of concern as his eyes surveyed the tell-tale signs of Satoshi’s state of mind. He noticed the pursed lips, the pallid complexion, and the veins raised around the temples. Fight, flight, or freeze. Assess, Breathe, Consider the consequences. Consider the consequences. Consider the consequences. Consider the consequences.
Suddenly, it was as though he was no longer in control of his own actions. His arm, as though acting of its own accord, picked up a heavy glass bottle, raised it above his head and brought it down onto the corner of Masayoshi’s head in one swift motion. Blood sprayed across the sake barrels as people began to scream. There was a curious juxtaposition of terror and light jazz as the skin split open to expose what Satoshi took to be the area of the brain responsible for higher-order functioning. There it was; he could just see it between the rhythmic spurts of blood as Masayoshi writhed on the floor in pain. That was the area his therapist had been talking about—the part of the brain that had once again lost the battle in his own head and would have consequences far exceeding anything he could imagine.
The traffic lights had already changed to green some time ago. Drivers pipped their horns as Satoshi sat staring into space, oblivious even to the sound of the pneumatic drill and the blur of workers in orange jackets as they toiled under the midday sun. His mind had been elsewhere since leaving the clinic. He had been considering the consequences of his actions. The bottle, the blood, the screams. He saw the blue light from a police car light up the river as an officer waded in to take him away. He watched the tears and confusion in his daughters’ eyes as daddy was handcuffed and put into the back of a police van. He felt the shame and humiliation he had brought on his family as his neighbours watched on. He contemplated the end of the business.
Shaking his head, he released the handbrake and cringed at the wildness of his own imagination, shocked at the consequences of what might have been. His wife had been right; he was making progress. Giving a small nod of apology to the traffic behind him, he drove past the roadworks and out of the city limits a free man.
The night had been a success. He had been more than a little taken aback that Masayoshi had used his company’s branding, but, recalling the words of his therapist, had taken a deep breath, and recalibrated. Upon returning to the room after a quick cigarette break, he had calmly suggested that the cormorant would be a far superior image to represent a sake from Gifu. Masayoshi agreed that it was indeed a good idea. There was no need for a lawsuit, no need to make an enemy, and no need to go to prison for the rest of his life over a simple act of violence. He had followed the doctor’s orders: Assess the situation; Breathe; Consider the consequences.
Rolling down the window of his car, he took a deep breath as the sweet smell of rice plants swaying in the warm breeze carried him home to Ikuno. Before long, the city was forgotten; his spirits lifted as the car climbed higher and deeper into the mountains. Now and then, he caught sight of the old, familiar river through the forest as it ran alongside the road and thought of the gallons of stock that he’d thrown into it over the years. He chuckled to himself at the legend of it being thirsty. Perhaps something in there really did have a taste for sake after all.
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This story first appeared in a 2021 book by Andrew Innes (The Short Story Collective: 13 Tales from Japan).
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