We head outside into the backyard. It's surprisingly vast. It seems like the house had been compacted into a little flimsy box on purpose to leave room for a yard. The garden is taken care of very well. Built and arranged in the style of a Japanese garden, stones and ponds snake around the space, swerving up to my feet, in an explicitly simple fashion. Yet at the same time, it's remarkably intricate. Around the borders are alternating shrub trims and bamboo with a delicate stone arch similar to a bridge hovering over a pond. The longer I stare, the more it sinks on me, like being enveloped by a solemn blanket of peace. The balance between proportions reaches its perfection over time and manufactures an absolute meditation. It engages the spirit and clears away the mind. No exceptions. My thoughts begin to slow.

But we press on; the woman doesn't stop to take a look. There's a high wall around on all sides and behind is an alleyway between the houses in the neighbourhood. From here, it doesn't look like anyone would be able to see us. At the far corner, there's a shack of some kind. It's towards this shack we walk, along a narrow, raised wooden pathway through the garden.

Inside the shed, are a few garden tools and bags of fertilizer, soil and round pebbles. She walks right into the middle of the shack and stoops down.

"Mr. Maeda," she says, looking up straight at me, "how do you feel about holes?"

"Excuse me?"

"There are holes of all sizes, and you always enter some kind of hole, whether they are doors into buildings, trains entering tunnels, climbing down a well or during intercourse with a woman. Or maybe if you must enter your own heart or something abstract like that." She pauses half a second. "I'd imagine entering holes of some kind is always a form of travel, literally or figuratively."

I remain silent.

"You did say you would believe, yes?"

I nod.

"There's no other choice but to enter through here at the moment, I'm afraid. The other entrance is inaccessible and quite far from here."

"Is the plantation underground?"

"Yes, it's underground, so we will be entering through a hole. There are no stairs or proper doorway, because we wouldn't normally enter through here and the establishment is somewhat sensitive and confidential. But since you agreed to believe and would like to see it, and I can tell you're not a man who intends harm, I have no choice but to lead you in through here."

"I wouldn't ever dream of harming you or your establishment. I think what you're doing is very noble and ambitious."

"Thank you. But I do believe you know we own the Resso Coffee franchise?"

I nod again. Whenever she speaks, I feel like I am a child speaking to an authority figure. Maybe a teacher or a counsellor. She carries herself with an aura of elegance and wisdom, even as she is stooped over something.

"There are many who intend us harm. But you do not, that's all I need to know. I will have a fresh coffee cherry for you when we enter this place."

"Thank you."

"Well, let us go then." She taps on the ground. Once, twice, three times. The ground looks to be solid, perhaps a little dusty, with no indication or marks of any kind whatsoever. I can't imagine what that is meant to do. She seems to listen for a while, head inclined. Then she knocks again, once, twice, three times. We wait.

To my astonishment, there's a grating sound and a slight rumbling, and then in the ground, a black line begins to appear. It's as if someone had taken a marker and drawn a circle on the floor. She reaches for it and searches the surface with her fingers. After a while, she finds what she's looking for and takes hold of a latch. The entire circle swings upward easily, like a submarine hatch.

She turns and smiles at me. "I hope you find what you're looking for."

We descend through this tight hole in the shack. There are metal footholds arranged like ladder rungs straight down, but they are spaced out far enough for it to be a precarious reach. At first, I had been hesitant to squeeze myself in because of my slight claustrophobia and the deep blackness within reminded me of the bottomless well - this time without the cat or pail for water - but the woman started to climb and I had no choice but to follow. She didn't even bother to look up to see if I was still there.

Obviously no one had been down here for a long time: the lip is caked in moss and the first few rungs are rusted. Each is cold and wet to the touch, like the earth had been trying to eat through the metal and the walls are slippery, laced with condensation. In the beginning, I almost slip a few times but very quickly, every movement becomes mechanical and instinctive. It's remarkable how I know exactly where the next foothold is. I wonder if I had actually slipped if I could stop my fall with the walls - they nearly rub against my shoulders from time to time.

There's this damp chill that seeps in through my skin the further I go like bugs crawling along and making tiny bites wherever they are. It gets colder and colder. I can't fathom how coffee plants would be able to survive underground while I'm here shivering through my jacket. Swelling up in concentration and lethality, the darkness also consumes me whole like a hungry mouth. I can almost see its tongues and many arms reaching up for me. Soon, it becomes total and I can no longer make out anything in front of me. Not my hands or the rungs. Blind, the descent becomes rhythmic - the sound of my shoes tapping against metal and the rustle of Shirayuki's clothing above are the only things left. Kaneko below us on the other hand, moves without any noise, quite at home, while I am once again invading a new world, a disturbance to its unseen inhabitants.

At some point, I've lost all sense of direction; I can no longer understand whether I am climbing down or up, sideways or maybe upside down. Time drifts on such that like in the dream, I can only judge how long has passed by my quaking muscles. Suddenly, it occurs to me that this might also have no bottom, that I would climb in and in, to nowhere in particular. I would lose all feeling of my feet and at some point slip with some finality, falling into a purgatory between dimensions at the edge of the world like one of those rifts in theoretical physics. Or maybe it's a trap designed to imprison intellectual criminals and conspiracy theorists. Even if it isn't, I can hardly imagine how I would get out when I had to leave. Would I have to climb back up or find the other exit?

I think about asking her but no one speaks: it doesn't feel appropriate to. Only the sound of our rough clambering down the ladder and the whispers of the dark remains. If I look up I suspect I can see the open hatch above, but without any degree of certainty as it's barely any brighter. It's the illusion of a dark eclipsed moon stealing away into nothing.

When we reach the bottom, there is a strong gust of air that billows up and through the chute. As if we are caught in a pipe full of the hot and humid steam of someone's breath and my continual exertion immediately starts to make me sweat. Light gradually enters the shaft and mixes in, turning things muddy grey and then eventually a hue of yellow. It's funny how darkness would never prevail in a fight against light. What had been near total is melted away as easily as a drop of milk in tea.

I feel a flood of relief when my feet finally settles onto solid ground. For a while, my muscles tremble and I am unable to keep my back straight. Shirayuki seems to have the same sentiment, her hair in disarray, looking both exhausted and unnerved. Her eyes look darker than before. Only the middle-aged Kaneko looks unperturbed, posture still relaxed and dignified.

"Welcome to Resso Coffee Farming Technologies," she says.

We have arrived in a bright sterile laboratory of some kind. I'm impressed; I could hardly conceive the likings of such a great structure deep beneath the surface. It appears to be a well-lit lobby where a few potted trees stand sentry next to leather lounge couches. A wide receptionist's desk stretches out at the front. Above the desk is a magnificent mounting of three dimensional letters spelling RESSO COFFEE AGRICULTURAL TECHNOLOGIES. The walls are unblemished white and the floor made of an industrial grey corrugated rubber so that it would be safe to walk even if water is spilt on the floor. The ladder we had emerged from are simple rungs moulded into the corner. These reach up to the ceiling where an access hatch, still open, hangs down like a dangling legs. Brackets of arching wooden beams cross over like the ribs of a gigantic underwater beast. They don't appear to be supporting any weight - they're too thin and sinuous, probably only there to mitigate the cold, lifeless atmosphere. Though it's silent here, in the distance behind a double set of thick steel sliding doors I can hear a hum of electricity or some kind of equipment. Through the door's windows are rows of fluorescent lights.

"We don't get visitors much at this time of the year so there's no need for a receptionist. This lobby is entirely for show or formality's sake. No one would really want to come down through a hole. We have another where the main entrance is. It's much bigger and nicer, with a coffee bar." She presses her thumb against a black device mounted on the doorframe and after reading what I assume is her fingerprint, both slide open sluggishly. They are massive doors, maybe standing at nine feet, looking like they're designed to protect biohazardous operations of some undisclosed government facility instead of a coffee farm. There is a formidable sense of severity with every deliberate movement. She leads us through. "Private business visits are arranged for April through summer and October to December," she continues on, "since that is the best time for our harvest. However as you will see soon, we have several plantation chambers running at different climate schedules to emulate the seasons and elevations of Colombia and Brazil, but in an alternating system, so that summer will take place for a select group in December or January for example, keeping up the peak production. It is sort of like changing the flow of time. Time in human hands. Not that they will ever be aware of it."

"Well, of course not, they are plants," I say.

"They're no ordinary plants however." But she doesn't add anything more.

We enter a hallway and reach a glass viewing area, built the same way as in an aquarium, where an entire ocean of tall and proud coffee trees fill our vision. They stand still and effortless yet something about them seems lifeless. As if they're made of plastic. The leafy green reflects against Shirayuki's face. There is a look of awe smothering her but surely Kaneko isn't aware there's a third person here. As far as I can see, this particular chamber stretches on like an enormous aircraft hanger. There's no visible end to it. It must be at least the size of a football field - likely more. The ceiling is high but not as high as I expected. Above is a terrific array of cords and cables, all sorts of tubes, irrigation sprayers and machinery I couldn't even begin to guess what they're for. They look like spaghetti and meatballs. From this ceiling hang heat radiators and lamps, and closer to the plants are glass domes like the incubators in Jurassic Park. But they are raised. In the distance a few workers inspect the trees systematically, dressed in white shirts, gloves and sanitary face masks. Robotic, stiff, faceless. The glass in front of us is a bit foggy with the level of humidity.

"This is Section 6 of our nine current bays, Colombian Arabica, set at 1600 meters above sea level. This system is also specifically tuned to provide the variations in day and night time temperature and the changes between the dry and wet season. The month is approximately May for this particular batch. There are air-tight doors accessible elsewhere, but of course we won't be entering the plantation."

"This is impressive."

She smiles again. But I have a feeling she is holding something back. All her words are spoken formally and courteously, without any hint of personal opinion, as if she had memorized a brochure.

She leads us down the hall and around a corner, where there are smaller windows overlooking the drying process of coffee cherries. The room is significant in size but much smaller than one of the orchards. First, there are large metal water tanks with belts feeding in and out of it like giant insects with splayed legs. Cherries rattle, rumble and bounce down the racks. These have a few attendants around, supervising the process. From where they stand they can see the water and the beans inside. Some lighter ones will float to the top, bobbing driftwood, while others settle to the bottom like shipwrecks. Beyond this point, a segment of a few massive tumbling machines are running. Inside, they're glowing red and yellow, and holes in them glare out. Beans would have to reach the moisture content of 11 percent before they are moved onwards.

"Our workers hand pick our cherries meticulously at its peak ripeness to ensure quality," she explains, "at each step, there are many cherries that don't pass our quality control and will have to be thrown out. Even though our conditions are so well monitored, it's still a difficult task. Cherries still fall to decay and some form of malady. In fact there is a strange new illness going on recently."

I ask her what it is.

"It might be some sort of parasite among some of the plants, but it appears coffee cherries are trying to split into two."

"Split? Like cell division?"

"Yes, but oddly enough, the split version is significantly different than the original. It isn't an arabica, but a mock species, as if there's a parasite hiding in the tree waiting to be born."

"Two is better than one," Shirayuki says.

I say nothing.

"It isn't robusta or anything we recognize either. Either way, we tested these versions and they are quite exquisite. They have an aftertaste of honey and butterscotch if roasted right. It needs quite a light roast, if it's even slightly more burnt, they taste like burnt plastic and copper. Not pleasant at all." She takes something out of her pocket and hands it to me. I peer at it. It's a coffee cherry, deep purple in colour sitting in my palm. "It's slightly overripe but they tend to take on a purple tinge. It might be a new species of plant we discovered, but we have no idea how to control or trigger its growth. They simply appear at whim. The trees definitely are planted from genuine Arabica from Colombia and Brazil. But yet some trees will have them, some trees won't. Some cherries will split while others won't. There aren't any differences in the trees themselves. It isn't in a limited area or under certain conditions. The seeds of the Colombian ones and the Brazilian ones both can have this ailment. We've had a few select scientists document the phenomenon and study this process but there haven't been any findings yet. Some contacted the farms in Colombia but they never had experienced this either."

"Strange," I say.

"Yes." She closes her lips and says nothing else.