by Shion Miura
Kishibe was impressed. Now that she thought about it, the explanations that came tucked inside boxes of medicine were written on thin, neatly folded paper. She’d never really considered it, but evidently there was ongoing research and development to make all kinds of paper for all kinds of purposes.
Majime, who had been scrutinizing the paper samples, suddenly exclaimed, “There’s no waxiness!”
Kishibe and Miyamoto turned to look at him in surprise, unconsciously drawing close together.
Waxiness?
Majime wore a deep frown, looking like writer Ryunosuke Akutagawa with a toothache.
“Miss Kishibe, would you bring over one of the medium-sized dictionaries? Wide Garden of Words would do.”
As instructed, she brought over the dictionary from the bookshelf and laid it on the table. It was the latest edition.
“See here, Mr. Miyamoto?” Majime turned page after page, using only the ball of his thumb. “This is what I’m talking about.”
Kishibe and Miyamoto peered at Majime’s hands and exchanged puzzled glances.
“I beg your pardon?” Miyamoto said hesitantly.
Majime looked so severe now it was as if Akutagawa, his toothache raging, had turned his back on the world. “Don’t you see how the page clings to my finger as I turn it? And yet the pages don’t stick together, so I never turn more than a single page at one time. See for yourself.” He passed Wide Garden of Words over to them, and they tried turning its pages.
“It’s true!” said Kishibe.
“I see what you mean,” said Miyamoto. “There is definitely a touch of moisture in the paper that allows each page to be turned easily, using only the ball of the thumb.”
Majime nodded benevolently, pleased that Miyamoto had finally seen the light. “That’s what I call waxiness. It’s essential for dictionary pages,” he said. “Dictionaries are bulky and unwieldy to begin with. We want the user to turn pages with as little stress as possible.”
“I apologize.”
Miyamoto looked down, then resolutely took down a copy of Wordmaster from the shelf. He turned page after page, apparently checking something. His expression was so intense, he looked fierce.
Deep down Kishibe was taken aback by all this fuss over mere paper. At the same time, Miyamoto’s determination to help out with The Great Passage was a pleasure to behold.
He left off turning the pages, stepped out into the hall, and began talking to someone on his cell phone. When he came back into the room, he announced, “We’ll redo the samples immediately. These sample pages definitely lack the waxiness of the paper we used in Wordmaster. One of our technicians just explained why.”
Apparently a new paper machine had caused the problem.
“As you may know, making paper for specific uses requires careful adjustments to the pulp ingredients and sizing agents.”
After this explanation, Majime nodded and said, “Yes, I see.”
He hadn’t heard anything he didn’t already know, Kishibe realized, but he wanted to build up the younger man’s confidence. She took note of this demonstration of considerateness. She doubted whether most people knew anything at all about such “careful adjustments,” but she, too, nodded wisely.
Majime’s stern expression softened a bit. “So although you made the appropriate adjustments based on your experience with Wordmaster, because your paper machine was new you weren’t able to obtain the desired quality, is that it?”
“That’s exactly right.” Miyamoto hung his head. “Every paper machine has its quirks. Depending on the machine, the same formulation can produce slight irregularities. Not only that, the technician who supervised the paper for Wordmaster has since retired. I’m afraid we didn’t pay sufficient attention to waxiness.”
The only person on the planet who goes around paying sufficient attention to waxiness is Majime, Kishibe thought wryly.
Majime seemed won over by Miyamoto’s heartfelt apology. “I’m glad you understand the problem,” he said. “I look forward to your next samples.”
“Thank you, sir!” A smile finally returned to Miyamoto’s face. “I promise you we will produce paper that matches your highest expectations.” He swept up the samples and was gone.
“A fine young man.” Majime returned to his seat with a cheerful expression, and as soon as he sat down began writing something. Kishibe peered over his shoulder and saw that he was making a file card for paper machine.
Everyone connected in any way with dictionaries is daffy, Kishibe thought, vaguely appalled by the level of her new colleagues’ commitment and unsure whether she could keep up with them. For now, she set about clearing off the big desk. Picking up Wide Garden of Words, she remembered the word meren that Majime had used before and looked it up. The definition read: “to drink a great quantity of alcohol; extreme drunkenness.”
Now she understood. Majime had been telling her, “Yesterday you were rip-roaring drunk.” Well, if that’s what he meant, why not come out and say so? She started to get angry.
The definition was followed by an illustrative quotation from Kanadehon Chushingura, The Revenge of the Forty-Seven Samurai—the story of the 1703 vendetta carried out by samurai to avenge their master’s death. But puh-leez! The example was incomprehensible, written in classical Japanese. A period drama, set centuries ago! Who in their right mind used a word like meren in this day and age?
He deliberately used a hard word to test my knowledge. Even though he knows perfectly well that I don’t know much about words and I’m a complete amateur when it comes to dictionaries. That’s just mean!
She felt frustrated and humiliated, on the edge of tears. But to break down and weep at such treatment would only add to her misery, so she fought back her tears and went on cleaning the office.
Majime still did not give her any assignments. He sat hunched at his desk, engrossed in writing something. Maybe he had forgotten she was even there. Maybe she could bawl or sneeze all she wanted, and it wouldn’t make any difference.
She ate lunch, deep-fried horse mackerel, alone in the cafeteria.
She’d felt like talking to someone, so she’d peeked in the reference room on her way out, but Mrs. Sasaki had evidently gone out to eat. And today of all days she saw no one she knew in the cafeteria. Come to think of it, all her colleagues now belonged to an older generation.
She was fond of deep-fried horse mackerel, but today it tasted like sawdust.
When she was on the staff of Belle she’d been surrounded by plenty of editors and writers her own age. And the editorial team, except for the editor-in-chief, had all been women. There’d been some rivalry, but basically they’d looked out for each other, talked to each other, and worked extremely hard. During downtime they would share a laugh over frivolous topics like food and romance.
Only now, on her second day at her new post, did she realize what a needed diversion that had been.
In truth, Majime was really the only person in the Dictionary Editorial Department. It was bad enough that they had nothing in common to talk about, but on top of that he used unintelligible, archaic words when he did manage to talk. What was she supposed to do?
She thought back to what it used to feel like on the first day of classes. Wondering if she would fit in, filled with nervous anxiety, she would pick out as safe a seat as possible—an interim place to be until the homeroom teacher gave out assigned seats.
The biggest difference between the first day of school and now was the absence of any sense that something new was about to begin. Working at the company wasn’t an obligation, but it had none of the freshness and excitement of a new school term. Maybe psychologically people just weren’t built to work only for money. She sighed. The company’s plans, her slipping into sheer habit and inertia—amid the need to reconcile these and other things, losing the pleasure of associating with colleagues was a blow. What could sustain her at work now? She felt herself losing her grip.
Yet she had neither the sense of adventure nor the person
ality to up and quit her job. She polished off her lunch and returned her tray and dishes, reflecting that all she could do was keep on working in the Dictionary Editorial Department with an eye on her winter bonus. She’d gotten her summer bonus just last month, but it was already gone, spent on shoes and clothes. She sighed again.
The moment she returned to the annex, her sighs changed to sneezes. Everything really just had become too much.
The task of straightening up the office finally ended on her third day of her new position. The amount of dust in the air began to decrease.
Kishibe removed her mask and relaxed at her own desk. Sipping on a cup of coffee, she opened a file with a blue cover.
On her way to the kitchenette, she had asked Majime if he wanted a cup of coffee, too, but all she got out of him was an indecipherable mutter. He never looked up from the old-fashioned book he was studying. She decided to let it go.
Next came her big discovery. She found a file on one of the bookshelves right at eye level and so easily accessible to anyone—and yet it was marked in big letters: TOP SECRET: NOT TO BE REMOVED FROM THE DICTIONARY EDITORIAL OFFICE. Certainly a bold way of marking something top secret, she thought, and laughed aloud. Then, full of curiosity, she took the file in hand.
The contents turned out to be about contributors to The Great Passage. Data on university professors and researchers, mostly. For each person, the file listed not only their field of expertise and major published works but also their family structure, favorite foods, and how to deal with any trouble that might arise. A former employee had evidently compiled all this information for the benefit of his or her successor. Some of it was outdated, however. On the list of contributors she spotted the name of a famous psychologist who had been dead for several years. She folded her arms. Who on earth had put this together, and when? The paper was yellowing.
She flipped through the pages and at the very end found this note: “Majime is somewhat out of his element when it comes to interacting with outsiders. You, the newcomer to the Dictionary Editorial Department! Use this file to back him up and bring The Great Passage to completion. Wishing you the best of luck.”
The department had been dreaming of the publication of this dictionary for more than a dozen years, moving forward slowly. In all that time, no additional personnel had been assigned here, she’d heard. That meant this file had been made for her eyes only. It must be the handiwork of whoever used to work here with Majime. When that person was transferred elsewhere, knowing Majime would be left high and dry, he had made this file so whoever replaced him could help deal with contributors. Not knowing when or even if he would be replaced, he had chosen this means of passing on his knowledge to an unknown successor—and that turned out to be Kishibe, who now felt even more daunted than before.
This was heavy stuff. Did being assigned here mean she had to become a fan of dictionaries? Apply herself to dictionary making with love and enthusiasm? Of course, nothing would be better than that, if she could manage it, but she sensed such a commitment might be beyond her. She wasn’t at all sure she could communicate effectively with Majime, either. Could she live up to the expectations of whoever had cared enough about the department and its fate to make this file? Maybe not.
What to do? She looked at the last page, and there it was—the name of the file maker. A final note read: “Worn out by dictionary editing? Ready to be cheered up? Drop Masashi Nishioka a line: [email protected]”
Nishioka? There was somebody by that name in publicity or sales, a guy about Majime’s age. She searched her memory. She’d never spoken to him, but she knew him by sight. She’d seen him sauntering down the corridor in the main building. Belying his goofball air, he had four children and was a devoted father, she’d heard, although she had no way of verifying it.
She could hardly call herself “worn out.” This was only her third day on the job. But she was more than ready to be cheered up, and she would love to have someone to talk to about her bewilderment and anxiety. Nishioka would probably lend a willing ear. Propelled by hope and expectation, she sent off an e-mail.
Dear Masashi Nishioka: Allow me to introduce myself. I am Midori Kishibe, newly assigned to the Dictionary Editorial Department. I don’t know the first thing about dictionaries, but I am willing to learn. I saw the top-secret file you made. Thank you for making what looks like a very useful resource. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, would you mind getting together sometime for a talk? I would love to pick your brain. Yours, Midori Kishibe
Nishioka happened to be at his desk. By the time she had made herself a fresh cup of coffee, he had already written back: “Howdy! Thanks muchly for the email.” Even his writing style was goofy.
But sorry—get together and talk? No can do. You’d only fall head over heels in love. Haha jk. Seriously, I haven’t got anything to teach you about making dictionaries. Just go ahead and ask Majime. Ciao!
What an idiotic message for a man in his forties. Good grief. Now not only her nose but her whole body itched.
P.S. I suggest you take a look at the bookends on the shelves. You’re bound to find something to cheer you up. It’ll show you a way out of your present funk. Now, for real, adios!
His style was the height of frivolity, but she decided to follow his advice.
The office was crowded with bookshelves, and there were bookends galore. What could he be hinting at? She went around shoving books aside and examining bookends one by one. While she did this Majime, quiet as a hibernating squirrel, remained wrapped up in his reading, oblivious to her actions.
On a shelf dedicated to miscellaneous information, she found something promising. Taped to the bottom of a metallic gray bookend—an ordinary one for office use—was a white envelope. The Scotch tape was discolored with age and had all but lost its adhesive strength.
Apparently the envelope had lain there for years, unnoticed and untouched. Nishioka must have hidden it. What could be inside? Driven by curiosity Kishibe opened the envelope on the spot. It contained a thick bundle of stationery. Xeroxed stationery, to be precise.
Greetings
Cold winds are blowing, a reminder of the swift approach of winter’s frosty skies. I trust that you are well.
Who wrote this letter? To whom was it written? Was it something she should be reading? Worried, she checked the signature at the end—and in so doing realized there were fifteen sheets of stationery. A magnum opus, for a letter. At the end of the fifteenth sheet, she read, “to Kaguya Hayashi from Mitsuya Majime. November 20xx”
Holy cow. Stifling her excitement she returned to her seat. Kaguya Hayashi was the chef at Back of the Moon—and Majime’s wife. Then this was what, a love letter? It sure didn’t start out like one.
Casually she sneaked a glance at Majime, who was still in hibernating-squirrel mode. Only his unkempt head of hair showed between the stacks of books on his desk. Kishibe settled back in her chair and began to peruse the pages.
It was a love letter all right, at once earnest and ridiculous, and chock full of Chinese characters, making it hard to read. The sentences were awkward; Majime must have been extremely nervous when he wrote it. His very desperation to find some way of conveying his feelings led him around and around in circles so that he never got to the point.
There is the example in the ancient tale of a radiant princess named Kaguya (Shining Night) who descended to Earth from the moon, and indeed from the night I first encountered you I have felt such pain in my chest and found breathing so difficult that it is as if I myself were living on the moon.
She read this sentence over several times and decided it meant, “I have loved you from the day I met you. You give me butterflies.” Probably. But all he’d really needed to write was “I love you.” What a lot of beating around the bush!
Reflecting Majime’s fluctuating emotional state, the letter kept on rising and falling until it entered the climax.
If I were to write my present feelings in plain terms, I would
sum them up this way: “Kaguya Kaguya, what shall I do with you?”
What on earth was this? Wasn’t this a reference to that poem by Xiang Yu, the ancient Chinese rebel? From the famous one he had written in desperate straits, surrounded by the enemy? Kishibe remembered reading it in high school in her classical Chinese class. The last line was addressed to his lover and started out: “Gu ya Gu ya”—which meant “Oh, Yu, oh, Yu.” And, as she recalled, the whole line went: “Gu ya Gu ya, what shall I do with you?” Should he keep the one he loved with him in this time of imminent peril, or release her and allow her to live, knowing that a fate crueler than death might await her? The line conveyed the agony of a man at the limit of endurance, torn by his love for a woman. A powerful, unforgettable poem.
But what of Majime’s love letter? He had probably congratulated himself on his cleverness in substituting Kaguya Kaguya for Gu ya Gu ya—but no! It wasn’t clever. It was god-awful! She felt a rising tide of emotion, a confused mix of anger and hysterical laughter.
There was just too much of a gap between Xiang Yu, on the boundary of life and death, and Majime in the Dictionary Editorial Department, his hair sticking out every which way. The words “what shall I do with you?” couldn’t help but differ in meaning and weight. She wanted to go back in time and wring Majime’s neck for writing such a thing. It sounded as if he were taking on the persona of Xiang Yu only to insinuate “Kaguya, baby, I want to do something to you!”
After all that, he ended the long missive with these words:
This is all I have to say. Or no, this is not all I want to say, but if I tried to say it all, even if I lived 150 years it wouldn’t be enough, and I would use up so much paper they would need to cut down every tree in the rain forest, so I will rest my pen here.
I would be very grateful if after reading this you would let me know what you think. Whatever your response, I am prepared. I will take it solemnly to heart.
Do take care of yourself.
After undulating waves of hyperbole, beseeching, and declamation, the letter ended abruptly with a plea for her to take care of herself. Asked what she thought, Kaguya must have been at a total loss.