“Fine. Then let your Majime write all the entries. I’m washing my hands of the whole thing. It’s not my work anymore.”
“Sir!” Nishioka rushed over to the desk. “Please don’t say that. Majime is someone you can trust. After I leave the editorial department, he’ll work with you in absolute good faith. All we had to do was make stylistic changes once we had your text in hand. He and I are both grateful.” Of course, rather than simply stylistic changes, it had been more of a complete overhaul. Unlike Majime, Nishioka could lie like a trooper. He lowered his voice and said confidentially, “To tell you the truth, contributions from other people have had to be much more drastically revised.”
“Is that so?” The professor’s attitude softened a little. With a sidelong glance at Nishioka, who maintained a humble stance, he wrapped a handkerchief around his lunch box—packed not by a loving wife but by his mistress. “Anyway, it’s most unpleasant having one’s writing tampered with.”
What kind of literary genius does this guy think he is? Despite the thought, Nishioka remained a smiling statue, determined to ride out the professor’s displeasure. If the professor backed out now, they would be up a tree.
Dictionaries, like any product, needed name recognition as a guarantee of quality. Having Professor Matsumoto’s name on the cover as chief editor was one example. Of course, Professor Matsumoto was genuinely involved in the compilation of The Great Passage, but often people like him just lent their names without actually doing any work. Contributors had to be trusted scholars in their respective fields. Since their names were listed at the end of the dictionary, people in the know could tell at a glance whether the selection was appropriate or not. One measure of a dictionary’s precision and rigor was the roster of contributors.
This particular professor might not have been such a great choice, Nishioka now realized, and yet he was a recognized authority on Japanese medieval literature. His name would add cachet. If he would just leave the editing of his manuscripts to Majime, all would be well.
“Well, as long as you properly apologize I’m prepared to accept the suggested revisions,” the professor said, sipping his tea. “I’m not saying you have to prostrate yourself.”
“Prostrate myself?”
Dogeza, the most abject form of apology in the book—getting down on all fours and striking the ground with your forehead. Damn.
A smile hovered on the professor’s lips. He knew Nishioka was in no position to resist what he said and was enjoying badgering him. Nasty. Nishioka looked down at the dusty floor. He’d just gotten this suit back from the cleaners, too. But if dogeza was what it took to make the professor happy, he’d do it all day long.
Just as he had resigned himself to kneeling down and his muscles began to respond, a bolt of reason went through him. He froze. Was The Great Passage such a shabby dictionary? What was the point of his prostrating himself in abject apology if he didn’t even mean it? With Majime, Araki, and Professor Matsumoto knocking themselves out to make a first-rate dictionary, how could humiliating himself in front of this jackass make any difference? The dictionary was above such shenanigans.
Nishioka reconsidered. Hell no. He wasn’t going to let the professor get his kicks. Instead of kowtowing he laid a hand on the professor’s desk. Right next to the lunch box. He bent down, put his face close to the professor’s ear, and said, “Oh, that was a good one, sir.”
“Wh-what do you mean?” The professor faltered, flustered at having his personal space invaded, and tried to push his chair back. To keep him from escaping, Nishioka laid his free hand on the back of the chair, fixing it in place.
“I get it,” he said. “You’re not the type of man to go around putting people’s sincerity to the test. You only mentioned me prostrating myself as a joke, isn’t that right?”
“I never—” Sensing that something ugly had come over Nishioka, the professor mumbled a disclaimer.
“But I don’t much care for such jokes. I don’t think people should put each other to the test.” Okay, he had tested Majime’s knowledge about Saigyo, but never mind. He continued in as deep and threatening a voice as he could muster. “Now, let’s suppose you had a lover.”
“What?” The professor almost jumped out of his chair.
“Just for fun.” This was kind of fun. Nishioka let a sly smile play about the corners of his mouth. “Why so jumpy?” Casually he slid his hand over and laid it on the lunch box. “Actually, I happen to know that you do have a lover. I know who and where she is, and all you’re doing for her, too.”
“But how?”
“Making a dictionary requires help from all sorts of people. Knowing how to gather information is part of my job.”
Nishioka hadn’t just randomly made the rounds from one professor’s office to the next. He’d made a point of visiting the lounges where the research assistants hung out and being generous with little gifts. Now his thoroughness was paying off.
“But I’m not going to use that information to make you accept the revisions. I would never do such a thing. Like you, I understand the meaning of dignity.” Nishioka lifted his hand off the lunch box and straightened up. “I hope I’ve made my meaning sufficiently clear.”
The professor nodded silently.
“Thank you. Then we will proceed with the revised version as planned.”
His business here finished, Nishioka did an about-face and headed for the door, maneuvering around piles of books. As he grabbed the doorknob, a sudden thought came to him and he turned around.
“Sir.”
The professor looked at him, quailing like a small animal.
“Majime is going to make a dictionary that people will love and trust for years to come. Your name will be on it—but he’ll be the one who really writes your entries.”
The professor couldn’t let this pass. Hearing the truth spelled out, he turned pale. “How dare you!” he blustered, his voice shaking with anger. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that you just made a very wise choice, going for appearance over substance. Good day.”
Nishioka closed the door behind him without a backward glance and started down the corridor. That parting shot might have been too much, he thought, but he couldn’t keep from laughing as he walked along.
Damn, he felt good. He didn’t give a flying frittata now whether the professor stormed into the office or even quit the project. Either way, The Great Passage would sail along, steady on its course. The determination of Majime and the other editors was firmer than the earth’s core, hotter than magma. Even if they and the professor argued, they would take it in stride and charge ahead toward completion of the dictionary.