But for an American it was utterly, absolutely unthinkable.
Yet Wade Pupule had done it. He had become sumo. Becoming sumo, of course, was only the beginning. A first step. And as difficult as it might seem, it was in fact the easiest step.
For Wade, born on Oahu, Hawaii, an American by nationality but of Hawaiian parentage, it was just a matter of reaching his goal weight, which in this case was a well-rounded 350 pounds.
This was accomplished by eating prodigious quantities of fermented bean paste and a thick stew flavored with raw sugar called chanko-nabe, washed down with Sapporo beer.
And beef. Whole sides of steer-which was criticized severely. Not even Kobe beef, raised in Japan-which every Japanese knew was vastly superior to Hawaiian beef and especially Texas beef. Every Japanese, that is, who had never sampled any beef other than Kobe beef.
But the real secret of Wade Pupule's success was a simple one: his mother's meat loaf. It couldn't have been more fattening if it was deep-fried in liquid lard.
When Wade petitioned one of the great sumo stables for acceptance, he sent a grainy photograph that concealed his Hawaiianness and was granted an audience.
"But you are not Japanese," the stable master sputtered upon meeting him. They had just exchanged bows. Wade had gotten down on hands and knees, prostrating himself in a full bow. The sumo stable master had barely nodded his head.
"So sue me," Wade shot back angrily.
To his surprise, the stable master allowed his face to acquire a faint smile of surprise. "Ah, last name Sosumi. You are half-Japanese, no?"
"Yes," Wade lied, immediately adopting the Japanese name of Sosumi. And he was in.
They laughed when Wade Sosumi entered the Jifubuki Sumo Academy. They called him Wahini Boy and Pearl Harbor and Beef Brain. They made him shower last and eat after everyone else was through, even though he had cooked the very food he was forced by his lowly rank to eat cold. They hit him in the head with glass bottles to show their contempt for the Hawaiian-American who would be sumo. And to show his humility, Sosumi was forced to say "Domo arigato" in thanks.
After a while they were calling him Beef Blast because that was the way it seemed when his 350 pounds of solid body fat collided with the shuddering bulk of his worthy opponents. He began to best true sumo in the ring. Japanese sumo. It was unthinkable.
When Sosumi had worked his way up to ozeki-champion-they began calling him Beef Blast-san. Still, they insisted it was impossible for a gaijin to become yokozuna-a grand champion. Culturally impossible, that is. Because in the tournaments there was no one greater or stronger or more agile than Sosumi, a.k.a. Beef Blast-san.
But he had done it, winning the prestigious Emperor's Cup. Japan was rocked. Internally it was a scandal of the highest order. But because the Japanese had been so long vilified as xenophobic, they dared not deny Beef Blast-san what he had rightfully earned in the circle of sumo.
Sosumi Beef Blast-san had fame, women and, most important in Japan, a large house with a spectacular view of Mount Fuji's snowcap-which one certainly required when one weighed 350 pounds.
But having achieved the pinnacle of success in his chosen field, Sosumi still ate his mother's meat loaf every Saturday to keep his strength up. It was overnighted from Honolulu in a heat-retaining box the size of a small safe.
Wade was thinking that hundred-pound meat loafs just didn't get him through the week the way they used to as he wolfed chanko-nabe from a bamboo wok the size of a garbage-can lid while straddling a ceramic throne designed for his special needs when the tiny little man appeared before him.
"You a priest?" Sosumi asked.
"No," said the little man, who wore a scarlet-and-lavender silken kimono. It was not Japanese. Too gaudy. Maybe Chinese.
"Because if you are, I'm no Buddhist. Though I'm sometimes mistaken for him on the street." Sosumi chuckled. His big Buddha belly shook.
Not a wrinkle moved on the old man's papery face-and that was a lot of wrinkles.
"I am no priest," he repeated.
"What, then?"
"I offer you a challenge."
"I'm king of the hill, pal. I don't need any challenges."
"You will fight my son."
"How much does he weigh?"
"Nine stone."
"Give that to me in pounds. I don't know from stones."
"He weighs 155 pounds."
"Never heard of a sumo that skinny."
"He is not a sumo."
"I kinda figured that. What is he, then-suicidal?"
"No."
"You looking to have him bumped off, I'm not your man. I'm a wrestler. All I'd have to do is sit on a 155-pound guy and every bone would break, his internal organs would liquify and I'd be up on manslaughter charges faster than I could say, 'So sorry san.' Which would be my name if it ever happened."
"My son is not sumo. He is Sinanju."
"Never heard of it. Is it like jujitsu? I've seen jujitsu men do amazing things."
"Such as?"
"Saw one once walk up to a guy and just tap him in the clavicle. The other guy went flying backward like he'd been zapped by a live wire."
"I can do that."
"You a jujitsu man?"
The little old man bowed formally. A ten-degree bow. The smallest, most meager bow. As a grand champion, Sosumi had earned a forty-five degree bow. Minimum. Anything less was an open insult.
"I am Sinanju. I am a Master."
"Just a second," said Sosumi, polishing off his chanko-nabe and tossing the empty wok aside. Reaching behind him, he tapped a solid silver handle. From under the rolls of fat spilling over the seat of his ceramic throne came a loud flush.
"Gotta maintain my weight," Sosumi said, standing up and pulling up his cotton britches, which he drew snug with a drawstring. "The Nagoya tournament is this month."
"That is disgusting."
"That's the price I pay to keep my title. In one orifice and out the other. Sometimes I feel like a human shit processor."
"You were bred to battle my kind."
"No, I was bred to battle other sumo."
"That is now. In the past it was different. My kind defeated yours, and you turned your might against others because what else was there for you monsters to do?"
"Hey, I don't appreciate being called a monster. Have you know I'm a god in these parts. I devoted my entire life to sumo. I don't need your crap."
"You obviously possess sufficient crap of your own," the old man said, voice dripping with disdain.
"More than sufficient," said Sosumi, giving the silver handle another bat. "Takes two, sometimes three flushes to do the job. Wonder if they got a Guinness world-record category for turd size?"
"If they did," said the little man, "you would be both immortal and undefeated."
Sosumi smacked his meaty paws together. "Okay, bring on your boy."
"Tonight at midnight."
"Hope he's insured."
REMO TOSSED AND TURNED on his tatami mat in his suite at the Tokyo Bay Grande Sheraton Hotel.
In his dream he sat facing a Korean of indeterminate age who wore the formal silk kimono and topknot of the unified Shilla Dynasty. He was very lean, as if he ate only straw.
The Korean had kindly eyes, and when he spoke, his voice was like water rippling along the stones of a clear brook.
"'The bee sucks,'" he said.
"So?" said Remo.
"No. Now it is your turn. I have said the bee sucks. What do you say?"
Remo shrugged. "The bee sucks eggs."
The Korean's kindly eyes grew troubled. "Bees do not suck eggs."
"This isn't word association?"
"No. I have provided the first line of a poem. You must provide the second line."