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!”