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Report from Shikoku
June 28, 2004
By Solomon Smilack
Shitamachi is a little izakaya
near Muroto Port. The name Shitamachi means
"downtown," though a literal translation would
indicate that the area is "under the castle,"
historically, the place where commoners live. The
restaurant/bar's patrons fit the description, but
in such a rural area it would be hard not to. Izui
Kei, the owner and sole employee, is a jovial
newlywed in his early thirties. Average men and
women from different walks of life pack into Kei's
izakaya to talk, drink, and watch the Hanshin
Tigers battle their way towards another pennant.
Shitamachi is dominated by the bar, made of
polished logs, on which sit huge bowls of fresh
appetizers and a glass-windowed cooler filled with
fresh fish. The bar seats eight people comfortably,
and there are two four-tatami rooms which offer a
little privacy or extra space on busy nights.
On the
night that Kei discovered my passion for go, he dug
into his storage closet for a folding board and two
containers full of plastic stones. He dusted them
off bashfully and insisted on giving me the set,
saying that he only knew how to play go-moku-nanabe
and suggesting that the set ought to get more use.
I accepted the gift, knowing that I could now
return the set that I had borrowed from my school.
Before I left, Kei introduced me to Izui Yasuhisa
(no relation). Yasuhisa is the president of a local
ironworks, and has a daughter who is currently
studying English in the United States. He has a
humble and honest attitude, and a face that makes
his balding-pattern look quite dignified. He was
more eager to practice his English than he was to
play go, but we arranged to meet again at
Shitamachi to do both.
Yasuhisa had
said that we would use his board, but I was not
prepared for what he brought. When he took off the
wooden cover, the biggest kaya goban that I had
ever seen was revealed. The board was well worn
and, looked at from an angle, the lines vanished,
leaving just the grain of the wood visible.
Yasuhisa set the board on the floor between us in
one of tatami rooms, and Kei brought us glasses of
beer and plates of food. Yasuhisa offered me white,
and my eyes widened as I took a handful from the
dark bowl. The stones were a pleasant cream color,
and the grain of the clamshell had turned
chestnut-brown from age. Each move felt special
because every stone had its own personality. I was
thrilled to play with them.
From our low
cushions, the height of the board made viewing the
game slightly uncomfortable, and I soon found
myself winning, which put me further ill at ease.
Our skill level seemed almost equal, but three
games made clear what Yasuhisa never mentioned: he
hasn't played go in years. We arranged another
get-together, though he might opt for us to play at
his home instead of in Shitamachi's noisy
atmosphere. I have been unable to attend the local
go club for several weeks, so we might be on level
ground by the time we play again. But I'll
willingly give him a handicap, rather than risk
losing the clamshell stones during nigiri.
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