Kishibe looked closely at the two characters, comparing them. At a glance they seemed identical, but then she saw it. “So the two tiny horizontal lines in the middle are supposed to slant down.”
Now she remembered that sometimes in an article for Belle, the proofreader would correct the form of a character. Two things counted in a fashion magazine: whether product colors were printed correctly and whether shopping information was up to date. She had never really thought about the meaning behind those proofreading corrections, never realized they had to do with writing the character in its proper form.
“But when you write the character by hand, the variant is fine.” Majime looked down at the hieroglyphics in his lap. “Japanese has so many homonyms that it’s easy to write the completely wrong character, and those mistakes creep in, too. Seiji means not merely the correct character, but the correct form of that character for print. Dictionaries have to put priority on using seiji, although characters in the joyo or jinmeiyo kanji tables are listed in their new forms.”
Joyo or jinmeiyo kanji tables? She didn’t know what those might be, but she got the point: dictionaries were made by following detailed rules and lavishing extreme care on each character’s form.
I wonder if I can make a go of it here. Her head was spinning. Perhaps because Majime had yanked out a piece of paper before, the pile of papers on his desk chose to collapse, burying his hands.
Kishibe sneezed five times. She wanted to blow her nose, but she had a feeling it was going to take a while before she located a box of tissues in this office.
Before unpacking, Kishibe decided to do some cleaning and tidying.
Since it was early July, she feared they wouldn’t be selling flu masks at the convenience store, but they were—probably because new strains of pandemic influenza popped up regardless of season. She found just the ones she wanted, of nonwoven fabric. She bought work gloves, too, and as soon as she got back she set to work, wearing two masks as protection from the dust. Majime offered to help, but she politely declined. They had only just met, so it was a bit presumptuous of her, but somehow one look told her he wouldn’t be much use.
Majime backed off, returned to his desk, and resumed work. What he might be doing, she had no idea. He had his nose in that book about hieroglyphics and was taking notes. She took a casual look and saw scribbles such as “The king’s bird flies toward night.” Could he really be reading hieroglyphics?
The cleaning was more satisfying than she had expected. She arranged books with books, papers with papers, galleys with galleys, and piled them on the big work desk. Once they were organized, she asked Majime to decide what could be discarded. Books went over on the bookshelves, papers she filed in the filing cabinets, and everything that had been judged waste she tied in string and set out in the corridor.
The galleys, which had to be stored, were more trouble. Apparently to make a dictionary, galleys had to go back and forth between the editorial department and the printer five times. After the first proofs had been corrected, they were returned to the printer, and when the next batch reflecting those corrections came back, they had to be checked again, the process repeating five times in all.
When she had worked on the magazine, if there was no particular problem, they only checked the proofs a single time. At most they would check a second proof. So when she saw “fifth proof” stamped on the galleys, she was floored. Printing up galleys wasn’t free. So that’s why a dictionary requires an inordinate amount of time and money, she realized.
Paper was piled up all over the place because they were checking galley proofs for a revised edition of the character dictionary Wordmaster. Organizing them was tricky because third, fourth, and fifth proofs were mixed together. She separated them by proof, put the pages in order, and bundled them together. The proofs formed such thick piles that she divided them at arbitrary points and fastened them with clips.
She spent almost her entire first day working like this and succeeded in clearing only the immediate area around her desk. Piles of unorganized Wordmaster proofs still covered the work desk.
She was pleased with her handiwork, however, and having looked at so many proofs she now had a fair idea of the kinds of editorial changes being made. Satisfied, she turned to the cardboard boxes containing her things and opened them. She put her writing things, files, and computer on a desk as far away from Majime’s as possible. Unpacking took far less time than cleaning up. She was the type who couldn’t relax unless everything was in its place; that was partly why she had brought so little with her.
At a little past five thirty, Majime stood and stretched. “Shall we be off?” He looked around, nodding. “It looks a lot better. You even put the reference books in their proper places.”
She took off her mask and said proudly, “I worked in the library all the way from kindergarten through high school. You develop a feel for it. But be sure to let me know if I got anything wrong.”
“Miss Kishibe, I can tell you’re suited for dictionary work.”
Majime sounded so impressed that she quickly waved her hands in protest. “Oh, no. I don’t know anything about seiji, and I’ve always left proofs to proofreaders.”
“All that sort of thing you can learn.” He smiled. “It may sound obvious, but working on a dictionary differs considerably from working on a magazine. If someone asked me to check the colors on a color proof for a magazine, for example, I wouldn’t have the foggiest idea what to do.”
“What makes you think I’m suited for dictionary work?” she ventured to ask, eager for any boost to her self-confidence.
“Because you’re so efficient at putting things away.”
“Oh.” She was disappointed. She wished he had found something to praise that sounded a bit more professional. And if this department was full of people suited for dictionary work, then why hadn’t things been put in their proper places to begin with? It made no sense.
Majime picked up on her misgivings. He gave an embarrassed laugh. “Usually things are more organized here. The problem is that just as we were finishing up Wordmaster proofs, we had to start editing the Sokéboo Encyclopedia, so everything’s been at sixes and sevens.”
At sixes and sevens? He actually uses that expression? The oddness of it struck her. As she was pondering it she stood with a stupid expression on her face and failed to reply. Then she realized he had just said something even stranger than “sixes and sevens.”
“Sokéboo?” she parroted, thinking she might have misheard him.