“Yes, I’m talking about the l-l-l—” Majime choked, his nervousness at a peak, but managed to get the words out. “Love letter.”
She froze, looking back at him, and made a sound somewhere between “mwa” and “nha.” Her cheeks reddened, she said softly, “I’m sorry,” then she turned and went up the stairs.
An apology. Was that a rejection? Then why blush? Why not break his heart with gut-wrenching words and actions?
She’d looked adorable.
Perversely, he couldn’t stop thinking of the look on her face when she’d said she was sorry. Sad, anguished, adorable. Maddeningly adorable. Flooded with emotion, he stood stock-still in the hallway, oblivious to the cold.
Considerable time went by. Clad only in pajamas, he was chilled through, but when she came back down carrying a bath towel and a change of clothes, he was still there. Seeing him standing frozen at the bottom of the stairs, she looked surprised.
“I’m sorry, I have to take a bath,” she said quickly and slipped past him.
That made two apologies. Majime finally began to recover his power of movement. Slowly he went back to the stacks, picked up Sea of Words from the floor, and returned it to the shelf. Then he retreated to his room, opened the window, and slid onto his futon, under the covers. He pulled the lazycord and turned off the light. The wind coming through the window rapidly lowered the room temperature.
“Tora,” he called.
No answering meow.
He’d been staring up at the dark ceiling. Now, overcome, he closed his eyes. Even that wasn’t enough, so he covered his eyes with an arm. No darkness, however black and dense, could blot out the way he felt now.
“Tora, Tora.” He gave a sigh ending in a little sob. The name he really wanted to call out was different.
The bell at the end of the lazycord tinkled. He must have dozed off. So many things at work and at home had shaken him emotionally that, without his realizing it, fatigue had built up inside him, and he’d let go of consciousness as if to escape.
Through the comforter he felt a faint pressure and warmth. Tora. He reached out to stroke the cat’s fur, groping with the arm that had lain across his eyes.
“So you came.”
His fingertips sensed something quite different from cat fur.
“Yes, I came.”
Majime made a strangled sound of surprise and hurriedly tried to get up, but could not. Kaguya was actually lying across his stomach. She crawled forward, brought her face near his. Letting his fingers stroke her hair, damp from the bath, she smiled in the dim light.
“After getting a letter so carefully written and so heartfelt, how could I not come?”
Shot through the heart, Majime was incapable of coherent speech. Was he dreaming? He swallowed several times and finally managed to work the muscles of his throat. “I gave it to you a pretty long time ago.”
“I know. I’m so sorry. I wasn’t sure if it really was a love letter or not.”
Kaguya’s fingers traced his cheek. Perhaps because she always did the washing up, her fingertips felt rough.
“My boss said, ‘Who reads Chinese? Forget it,’ and my coworker just laughed.”
“You showed it to them?”
He hadn’t written it in Chinese, but perhaps his style had been a bit stiff and ornate. It embarrassed him to think any eyes but hers had seen that letter containing everything in his heart, words that had gone in empty circles and been needlessly abstruse.
“Grandma kept saying, ‘Go ask him in person.’ But you seemed the same as ever, so I just couldn’t be sure.”
Of course he’d been the same as ever—nerve-racked. From the moment he’d first met Kaguya, he’d been nerve-racked. All because of his feelings for her. His next words were the most heartfelt of his life: “I love you.”
“At the amusement park, there were any number of times when I thought maybe you cared.” She laid her forehead against his chest and let out a breath of relief. “But you never said or did anything to show it.”
“I’m sorry. I’m not used to this.”
“Don’t apologize. I thought I’d just wait and see what happened. It was mean. I came to make amends.”
“Amends?
“Yes.”
Kaguya looked up and their eyes met. Hers were smiling; Majime smiled, too. His heart was racing, but fortunately it didn’t burst or stop. Her face came nearer, soft lips touched his. Cautiously, taking care not to make a sound, he breathed in the sweet scent of her hair. This was no dream.
“Why are you so tense?”
“Sorry,” he said again. “I’m not used to this.”
“Do you need to be?” she asked in a tone of wonder.
At that, Majime worked up his courage and took action. His whole body, including his brain, told him he wanted her, not only with his passion but also with his intellect.
He sat up, bringing her with him, and then had her move to one side while he pushed back the comforter. He reached for her hand, and without his needing to pull, she came of her own accord and covered him. He put his arms around her. She felt lithe and soft.
“By the way,” she said, “next time you write me a love letter, make it a bit more modern, will you? That one took too long to decipher.”
“I’ll work on it.”
He remembered he’d forgotten to close the window, but soon the cold no longer concerned him.
As if to erase the mood spilling from the room, Tora’s meow sounded over the canal. His majestic roar that made all the neighborhood cats fall in line. It was a moonlit night.
Kaguya’s eyes, shining with a moist blue light as she gazed at him, were incomparably beautiful.
CHAPTER 3
Aha. The minute he entered the office and saw Majime’s face, Nishioka knew.
“Morning, Majime. Something good happen?”
“No, nothing special.”
Majime didn’t look up and kept correcting manuscripts for The Great Passage with a red pencil.
Written contributions to a dictionary are a rather special case, editorially speaking. Unlike in those for magazine articles or short stories, an author’s unique voice or style of writing gets little respect. That’s because in a dictionary, concision and precision are what count most. Dictionary editors freely alter submissions to unify the style and enhance the accuracy of explanations. They confer with contributors as much as possible, but contributors enter into the project understanding that what they write is subject to change. The burden and responsibility weighing on editors is all the greater as a result.
Majime looked impressive as he sat at his desk wielding his red pencil, seemingly deep in concentration—but more likely he was just embarrassed. This was the conclusion Nishioka reached after observing him from the neighboring desk. Majime was putting on a show of single-minded focus, but now and then his mouth twitched and he bit his cheek as though suppressing a smile. His eyes were bloodshot, suggesting he was short on sleep, and his skin had an unwonted glow.
No doubt about it.