“I wonder who invented a ride like this,” Kaguya said, looking out the window. “It’s fun but a bit lonely, I always think.”
Majime had just been feeling the same thing. Even though they were thrown together in this narrow space—or rather, because the space was so narrow—he was keenly aware of the impossibility of touching her or looking her in the eye. Even away from the confines of earth, the two of them were still separate. They saw the same scenery and breathed the same air, but they could not come together.
“Sometimes when I’m preparing food, I feel like it’s a Ferris wheel ride.” She put her elbow on the edge of the window and rested her cheek up next to the pane.
“What do you mean?”
“Because no matter how fine a dish I make someone is, it goes around once and then out.”
Strange notion, comparing a Ferris wheel ride to the ingestion and excretion of food. Yet the kind of emptiness and loneliness she’d described applied no less to lexicography. However many words were gathered, however they were interpreted and defined, no dictionary was ever truly complete. The moment you thought you had captured words in a volume, they became a wriggling mass impossible to catch hold of, slipping by you, changing their shape as if to laugh off the compilers’ exhaustion and passion, and issuing a challenge: “Try again! Catch us if you can!” All Majime could do with a word’s endless motion and vast energy was capture it as it was, in one fleeting moment, and convey that state in written form.
However much food you ate, as long as you were alive, you would experience hunger again, and words, however you managed to capture them, would disperse again like phantoms into the void.
“But you would still choose to be a cook, wouldn’t you?” he said.
Even if no one could ever stay full forever, he was sure she would go on giving her all to her abilities in the kitchen as long as there was even one person who wanted to eat good food. And even if no dictionary could ever be perfect, as long as there were people who used words to convey their thoughts, he would pursue his calling with all his might.
Kaguya nodded. “Yes, I would. I love it.”
Majime looked at the sky, which was changing to evening colors. The little carriage they were riding in reached the top and slowly began its descent toward the ground. Soon they would be back where they’d started.
“Of all the rides in the amusement park,” he said, “this is my favorite.” Despite the loneliness, he liked its quiet, persistent energy.
“Mine, too.”
Majime and Kaguya smiled at each other like conspirators.
“So you didn’t tell her you like her, and you didn’t even get to first base? What the hell did you go to the amusement park for, then?”
Berated by Nishioka at work, Majime sat moaning at his desk.
Nishioka wasn’t the only one fed up with Majime’s deliberateness. That morning, Také had lamented, too. “Then what was the use of my coming down with chronic spasms?” she had demanded.
Lacking any reply, all Majime had been able to do was chew his takuan pickle as quietly as possible. Kaguya had long since left for work.
Now Nishioka wouldn’t let up. “This is no time to play games! She’s probably getting it on with somebody at work, you know.”
“No, she isn’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I asked her if she was seeing anybody, and she said, ‘No, work keeps me busy, and I was never interested.’”
“And you believed her, you stupid ass!” Nishioka was merciless. “She meant she wasn’t interested in you. Wake up! You don’t fold, you tell her, ‘Even so, I want you to be my girlfriend.’ Why do you think they have love hotels next door to Korakuen?”
Kaguya hadn’t said, “I’m not interested.” She’d used the past tense: “I was never interested.” Still, Majime wasn’t so full of himself as to assume this meant she was now interested in him. He wanted to raise various points of objection to what Nishioka was saying, but he held his tongue. This was no time to be sparring.
Although it was still working hours, Majime was busy writing a love letter. He didn’t need Nishioka or Také to tell him he’d dropped the ball. He was painfully aware of this, but in front of Kaguya words wouldn’t come. He’d demonstrated that already. Since he couldn’t tell her how he felt even while riding in the carriage of a Ferris wheel, it wasn’t ever going to happen—not unless a desperado held him at knifepoint and yelled, “Say it! Who do you love? Out with it!”
If he couldn’t say the words, he could write them. Once he’d decided on that, he’d wrapped up the day’s work at top speed and was now bent over a sheet of stationery.
Greetings
Cold winds are blowing, a reminder of the swift approach of winter’s frosty skies. I trust that you are well.
Nishioka had been watching from the side, chin in hand, as Majime penned his love letter. Now he leaned forward. “Too stilted, Majime. Not even corporate apologies are that stiff and wooden.”
“It’s no good?”
“Loosen up a little, make it fun. Who writes letters nowadays, anyway? She has a phone, doesn’t she? Send her a text message.”
“I don’t have her contact information. Even if I did, I’d have to text her from work. That’s pretty unromantic, isn’t it?”
“Your not having a cell phone in the first place is what’s unromantic. Go get one. Otherwise I’ll change your nickname from Majime to Busui.” (Unromantic.)
“Majime isn’t my nickname, it’s my real name.”
As they bickered, a deep voice resounded. “Are you two getting any work done?”
They looked up. Araki stood with his hands on his hips in the office doorway, glowering. “You think we have all the time in the world to get this dictionary finished, is that it?”
“No, boss.” Nishioka sprang up and offered Araki his chair. “We’re hard at work, absolutely.”
Majime swept the unfinished love letter into his desk drawer.
“You’re here even though there’s no meeting today?” said Nishioka.
“I just extracted a commitment from the board.” Araki remained standing and removed his black scarf. “With certain conditions, The Great Passage has been given a green light.”
Majime and Nishioka looked at each other, wary now. No matter what the company said, they were determined to see The Great Passage through to publication. They’d pushed ahead with their plans while the project was in limbo, seeking a fait accompli. What conditions were being imposed now? This could spell trouble.
“First, we have to revise the Gembu Student’s Dictionary of Japanese. Second—”
“We can’t do that,” Majime interjected. “How can we revise another dictionary when we’re in the middle of creating a brand-new one from scratch? We need to focus on The Great Passage and nothing else.”
“Nobody on the board has ever worked on a dictionary,” said Araki. “That’s why they can make such a demand.”