Those who believe there are limits to what beer can taste like should not participate in the development of the test product.
Shiroyama had spewed such histrionics three years ago January in his opening remarks at the meeting of the New Product Development Committee, which had assembled all the engineers and researchers from the beer division, as well as the executives from Product Planning. With the launch of a second Hinode lager as their goal, they quickly began narrowing down concepts based on analysis from a vast accumulation of market research. At the time, all of their competitors were focused on alleviating the bitterness of the hops; they had removed the astringency from the grain husk and improved the consistency of the carbonation, bringing out products known for their clarity and cool, crisp flavor. The results of their market research plainly showed that such light and clean “dry” beers would continue to be on trend, but the whole point of developing a second Hinode lager was to create a timeless product to be enjoyed for all time, impervious to the whims of the latest fad.
Ultimately, by taking into account Hinode’s century-old penchant for the real thing—“the beer of all beers”—along with the shifting preferences of the era, they had narrowed it down to three concepts: “Joy,” for the blissful delight of drinking; “Levity,” for the uplifting experience; and finally, “Serenity,” for a drink that went down easy without being too heavy, too sharp, or too uncomplicated.
Next came the process of correlating these three concepts—joy, levity, and serenity—to specific flavors and aromas such as “light” and “bitter” on a chart, then conducting a series of sensory and taste tests to further substantiate the chart, and in the end a half a year was spent harnessing the vague idea of the flavor they hoped to achieve into a workable technology. At which point the trials began, but Shiroyama had ordered that the selection of the barley, the processing of the grains, the creation of the wort, the selection of the yeast, and the fermentation conditions all be reassessed from zero. The trial process—selecting the best yeast from among hundreds of varieties and fine-tuning myriad possible conditions during fermentation while checking the results of each—was akin to searching for an undiscovered one-horned beast on the immense African continent, or like reaching out and grabbing a cloud. Over the course of a year and a half, Shiroyama had visited the plant where the trials were taking place once a week, listened to each and every member of the development team, and whenever a prototype was ready he tested it with the executives from product planning and Sales, asking for their feedback.
Shiroyama’s duty, as it was, had been to watch over, believe in, and entrust this difficult challenge to the thirty full-time engineers and fifteen full-time members of the product planning division, and to wait. This product eschewed the mainstream; its point was to pursue a lasting strategy in the beer business, whose long-range outlook remained uncertain, and to survive the structural shifts of Japanese society that awaited them in the future. As such, Shiroyama had concerns about how it would be received by the market. Moreover, the pursuit of a new product launch had not necessarily been the consensus of the board members. And yet, he held fast to his singular and indomitable ambition: to secure the future of Hinode—that the beer that had been consumed for the past half century would still be the beer of the next century.
Last February, when the development team came back with a sample product, saying they might have finally created a beer that came close to a unicorn, Shiroyama had assembled not only the executives but also the entire planning and sales divisions and had them participate in the tasting. At the time, everyone agreed that the beer “wasn’t too heavy or too light, with a mellow body and a refreshing aftertaste,” but they decided that its aroma had room for further improvement, especially if it were to live up to the concept of “levity.” This time, Shiroyama lit a fire under the development team by setting a strict deadline and telling them to have a completed product by September; he also instructed Seigo Kurata, general manager of the beer division, to outline a strategy to sell fifty million cases in the first year, and set out to draft a product name as well as sales and marketing plans.
On schedule, as soon as September came around, the finished product was delivered to the executive conference room in an unlabeled brown glass bottle. After everyone had sampled the beer together, Shiroyama turned to the board members and asked, “What do you think?” A few of them nodded at first, and as soon as Sei’ichi Shirai sparked the initial comment, “It’s delicious,” the others followed one by one with “Such a fragrant, mild taste,” and “The aroma is superb.” After carefully ascertaining everyone’s expression and tone of voice, Shiroyama made a call on the spot to the plant at the Kanagawa factory where the trials were taking place and consecutively thanked each and every engineer on the development team.
The entire staff of the beer division had spent the next six months immersed in preparations for the product launch. The product name had been finalized in November, but since the announcement of their new product was, after all, their biggest trade secret, they withheld the name and instead their salesmen ran around to each of their six hundred distributors across the country with a large bottle of the product sample in hand. Their reaction wasn’t bad. At the annual New Year’s gatherings of distributors held around the country, they had conducted tastings and laid the groundwork, publicizing the scale of their sales promotion that was planned ahead of the national launch on April 1st. Ordinarily, they would give a presentation of their new product at a distributors’ conference and dive right into selling the product, but this time their strategy had been to arouse curiosity from both within and outside the company by taking such clandestine steps. As they built up the anticipation for April 1st, Shiroyama waited with bated breath for the numbers that were soon to arrive.
The beer division revised their order projections on a daily basis, and at the end of January when the orders started coming in at once, the numbers far exceeded their expectations, quickly climbing to 20 percent of their April target of six million cases. At the time, Shiroyama, alone in his office, had raised his hands in the air again and again in a solitary “Banzai!”
In preparation for the high-demand summer season, they had also decided to increase the production line for the new product in every factory by mid-February. At the same time they planned to rearrange their production lines, they also took initiatives toward their mid-term plans to both streamline and differentiate their products by discontinuing their regional products that competed with microbreweries, instead advancing their consignment production. Such steps were meant to pave the way for abandoning their multiproduct strategy, which Shiroyama had decided upon even before he took over as president. For the future, Hinode would have to transform itself into the trunk of a strong tree, trimmed of all unnecessary branches and leaves, with the Lager, Supreme, and their new product as its three main pillars. These last few days, Shiroyama had just begun to savor the feeling of taking the very first step toward the realization of his vision.
As he thought about Hinode Meister, the second lager he had dreamed about since he became president, Shiroyama’s anguish briefly lessened, and a warmth filled his heart.
A Japanese beer for the 21st century. Introducing the Hinode Meister.
This was the copy that was to run across their full-page ad in the national newspapers tomorrow, Sunday the twenty-sixth. Their trademark seal of a phoenix, until now always golden, had this time been tinted azure blue to express a subtle vivacity, while the words “Hinode Meister” were rendered in a rounded, handwritten brush font that was majestic yet gentle, and colored indigo. The letters were set against an ecru background, slightly uneven, like the texture of handmade Japanese paper. The same design also adorned the canned beer.
Perhaps he would never see the product again, but the advertising campaign that had cost the sum total of five billion yen would go on, even without him. The disappearance of the president was an unforeseen int
ernal crisis for the company, but there was nothing to stop the release of the product now. I have done all that I could, Shiroyama told himself over and over. I have done all that I could for the future of the company. But then he’d think, And yet—
Shiroyama could not imagine what effects an unexpected situation such as the abduction of its president would have on the operations of the company. Once the matter became known to the public, what was the extent of the damage—both tangible and intangible—that the company would suffer? What impact would it have on sales of the recently launched Hinode Meister?
Ah, and the shareholder meeting is around the corner—Just as this occurred to him, Shiroyama was thrown into a brief panic. No, at this very moment, the executives would surely be discussing which of the two vice presidents would take over in his place. Whether it would be Sei’ichi Shirai, manager of business development, or Seigo Kurata, manager of the beer division, who stood at the front was a significant issue within the company, but seen from a broader vantage point of the company’s future, it did not seem to matter to Shiroyama. Part of him felt that Hinode’s long-term course had already been set and that, no matter who assumed leadership, things would not change dramatically. On the other hand, he was hopeful and yet skeptical that if someone who possessed a more ingenious character—someone unlike him—were to take charge, he might be able to take control of the lumbering giant that was Hinode.
Shiroyama asked himself, when it came down to it, had he or had he not fulfilled his duty? With regard to his yearly responsibilities, his achievements clearly showed that he had met them, but what about the long-term obligation to stabilize and strengthen the management infrastructure of the company?
Shiroyama did not have confidence in this. He felt sure that Hinode Meister would meet their short-term goals, but who knew if it would really lay a solid foundation for the company in the coming century? Any mistakes he had made would become clear in half a year, but his success would only be evident half a century from now.
As he pondered such things, it seemed to Shiroyama that now, in this present moment, there wasn’t much left of himself as an individual. Though he did not feel especially regretful, he came to the conclusion that his corporate life had been far from satisfying. And if he were asked about his development as a person, the fact was that he had never broken free from the impertinent worldview he had held at twenty-two, and even now he had still not repented for the original sin of self-doubt that he had committed at the age of eight.
It’s all well and good for you to act blasé, but what are you going to do now that you’ve been kidnapped at your ripe old age? It seemed as if his life would be spared, but once the ransom was paid and he was released, how could he ever return to face the world again? As he quashed these reflections, which he had taken pains to collect in his mind, he came to the realization that, even if he were to survive, he would no longer have a place in society, and Shiroyama was again plunged into confusion.
Shiroyama was awakened abruptly. The quilt was torn away and he was made to sit directly on the tatami floor. The men made noises as they moved around him: the sound of the futon and blankets being shaken and patted down; the drone of a motor like that of a vacuum; footsteps back and forth on the tatami; and the sound of wastepaper being stuffed into a garbage bag. He figured that cleanup had begun.
After a while, with the vacuum still going in the background, one of the men sat back down in front of Shiroyama.
“Right now, it’s 2:16 a.m. on Monday, March twenty-seventh. You’ll be released soon.” The man spoke slowly, as if he were reading something aloud. “I will now go over what you need to know. Listen carefully, and keep it all in mind. First, our demand is two billion. Hear that? Two billion in old, ten-thousand-yen notes. Cash.”
The amount—two billion—did not immediately register. Reciting the number over and over in his mind, Shiroyama told himself that this, at last, was their ransom.
“Come up with a slush fund within one month, and wait for further instructions,” the man’s voice continued. “You will be released, so you take the lead in coming up with the money. You have one month to get the board to agree to it.”
Shiroyama, weighed down by grave doubts, was jounced ever so slightly—both mentally and physically—by the word “released.” He could not immediately grasp the motive of a captor who demands money after promising to release his hostage.
“Listen carefully. Our demand is two billion, but give the police a different story. Tell them that we demanded six hundred million, and that we will communicate the method of delivery to you later. Got it? You’ll understand soon why you’re telling them six hundred million instead of two billion. You’re going to convince the police that first we demanded six hundred million, then we abandoned you and disappeared. It’s for your own good.”
The man paused as if to give Shiroyama time to reflect on this. Shiroyama was nothing if not confused after being told two billion, then six hundred million, then to lie to the police, but of one thing he was sure—that what was happening to him now was not a reckless unplanned crime. This just made the situation all the more eerie.
The man’s voice droned on. “After all, you are the president, so you had better think carefully about whether to cooperate with the police investigation and destroy the company, or to pay us with the slush fund and save the company. Once we have the two billion, we promise not to make any further demands whatsoever. Our hostage is three point five million kiloliters of beer. If the money is not paid, the hostage will die. Got it? We’ll be in touch before Golden Week. That’s all.”
The reason he had been kidnapped slowly became clear to Shiroyama. This was done in order to force the company to pay the kind of money that would have been impossible for an individual to pay. The kidnapping victim was not Shiroyama the president, but Hinode the beer itself. Shiroyama had only been detained so that he could reliably communicate their demands. These criminals were taking as their hostage beer that could be purchased anywhere, anytime, by anyone, and if their demands were not met, they intended to launch an attack on the product. As soon as he realized this, he envisioned a sinister shadow blotting out the azure phoenix of Hinode Meister, which was just about to line store shelves. His eyes and mouth were still covered, and without his being aware of it Shiroyama’s teeth began to chatter, and he almost fainted in agony.
It took a while longer for Shiroyama to notice that the bonds around his ankles had been removed. His wrists were untied and then bound again with duct tape. He also felt a man’s hand touch the front of his vest and his back, but Shiroyama could not tell what had been done to him. He was pulled to his feet but he could not walk right away, and he was practically carried away, his shoes put back on his feet. Then all at once there was a creaking sound, and a rush of cold outdoor air engulfed him.
Just as when he had been carried inside, snow fell from the tree branches, and he heard the sounds of footsteps crunching on ice or earth. However, this time the walk continued for a while longer. The ground was uneven, and whenever his feet caught on something and he stumbled, he was dragged up from under his arms. All around him the heavy reverberations of snow falling were overlapped by the sound of feet trampling over frozen earth, snow, and grass. He had no idea how far they had walked, but their early dawn march soon ended, and Shiroyama found himself standing on a flat road. He was then led by the arm and turned to face a particular direction, after which he heard the older man’s voice.
“We’ll release you here. Your attaché case is behind your heels. Take the duct tape from around your wrists and the blindfold off yourself. Once you take the blindfold off, you won’t be able to see anything until your eyes adjust, but don’t panic. Your vision will return after a little while. Until then, do not move from this spot. You are standing on a road. If you walk in the direction that your toes are pointing, you will find a fire station on your right. If you walk the opposite way, t
here are no houses. Follow the direction you’re facing now. Do you understand?”
They left Shiroyama with these final words: “There is a photograph in the interior pocket of your jacket. Before you start walking, make sure you look at it. You’ll have a lot to think about before you dash to the fire station.”
After a brief pause, he heard the two men take off running. Their footsteps faded into the distance behind Shiroyama, until the soft echoes of a door opening and closing and an engine revving reached Shiroyama’s ears.
Those noises were soon replaced by a near total silence that descended upon him like a force, and Shiroyama’s knees buckled and he sank to the ground. He moved his bound wrists behind him furiously, and once he had ripped apart the duct tape, his unfettered hands slipped the ring of cloth around his eyes off his head. Unconsciously he jammed it into his pocket, along with the duct tape, without even taking the time to notice the material he now touched for the first time.
The muscles around his eyes, having been constricted for more than two days, hurt intensely, and though he was able to open them, his eyeballs had been under an abnormal amount of pressure and at first could not withstand the external stimulation. As he blinked his eyelids open and closed, his eyes and nose ran to ease the pain. In the meantime Shiroyama ripped off the duct tape covering his mouth. Touching his chin and cheeks, his frozen hands felt the coarseness of his beard, which had grown long; when his fingertips touched the deep hollows of his cheeks, he could hardly believe they belonged to his own face; and as he felt his hair, which stood on end and refused to let his fingers pass through, terror overcame him.
Lady Joker, Volume 1 Page 38
