“What a relief!” said the head of sales. “After all, how paper feels is something sensuous. Urabe here was very concerned about how to convey your wishes to the development team. Isn’t that right, Urabe?”
“Um, yes,” the man called Urabe answered with a weak smile. Compared to the dynamic, open-hearted head of sales, he seemed much quieter.
“So I told them flat out,” said the head of sales. “I said, ‘Make a paper that’s like a beautiful woman you love but have to leave.’ What do you think? Doesn’t that sum it up perfectly?”
Not really, thought Kishibe, but she let it go with a smile. A comparison so hard to make heads or tails of must have caused the workers even more trouble.
“Well,” he said, “as soon as you know the exact size of the first printing and the number of pages, let us know.”
Miyamoto came over, perhaps worried that the man’s previous remark could be construed as sexual harassment. He sent Kishibe a glance that said, “Sorry about that.”
“We should be working on the fourth proofs of the second half by the rainy season, so when that happens I’ll be sure to let you know.” At the same time her eyes signaled to Miyamoto, “It’s okay, no problem.”
“Our papermaking machine is standing by, ready to go,” the head of development said with enthusiasm.
The project chief smiled and gave her a sample of the “ultimate” paper to take with her. There were about a hundred sheets, cut to dictionary size. She was glad to have them, just in case her judgment was off somehow. She could show these sheets to Majime and get his final approval.
Carrying the paper in a bag, Kishibe decided it was time to leave Akebono Paper Company. Everyone trooped out to the elevator to see her off.
“Is it heavy?” asked Miyamoto worriedly, eyeing the paper bag.
“No, it’s fine, thanks to the lightness of the paper you all made.”
He scratched the tip of his nose in embarrassed pleasure. “I’ll see her down,” he told the others, and got into the elevator with her.
“Good idea,” said the division head. “Well, thank you very much, Miss Kishibe. It’s been a pleasure.”
“Likewise. Thank you all very much.” She bowed her head politely, and the elevator doors closed. No one was in the elevator but the two of them. She was acutely conscious of being alone with Miyamoto in an enclosed space.
“I’m so relieved, I hardly know what to do with myself.” Miyamoto moved his shoulders up and down.
“Thank you for all you’ve done,” she said. “Now it’s up to us at Gembu to make the content as good as we possibly can, to match the quality of the paper you’ve given us.”
“Miss Kishibe.” The elevator reached the first floor, and they walked toward the entrance. “Would you have dinner with me tonight? To celebrate.”
“Just us?”
He nodded. “Is that a bad idea?”
“Oh, no. But please let it be on me.”
There was some back-and-forth, but in the end he yielded. “I’ll go get my coat and things. Wait here. I’ll be right back.” He turned and ran up the stairs, as if he couldn’t be bothered to wait for the elevator.
While he was gone, Kishibe called the office.
“Mr. Majime? This is Kishibe. The paper couldn’t be better.”
“That’s good. One less headache.”
“They gave me a sample, but . . .” She paused. “Would it be all right if I went straight home tonight?”
“Absolutely. If you think the paper will do, I don’t even need to see the sample.”
“Oh, no, I’ll bring it in tomorrow. And one more thing . . .” She hesitated, then plunged on. “May I take Miyamoto to dinner and charge it to the company?”
“Of course. I was just leaving for Seven Treasures Garden with Professor Matsumoto. Shall we meet there?”
Majime could on occasion be considerate after all, but this time his consideration was wasted. Kishibe wanted to dine with Miyamoto alone. She politely declined the offer and telephoned a restaurant she had in mind to make a reservation.
The darkness of night around Kagurazaka always had a kind of moist radiance.
Making her way down a cobblestone lane, Kishibe led Miyamoto to Back of the Moon and slid open the lattice door. From behind the counter Kaguya called out a welcome. She seemed to be making an effort to exude warmth, but her smooth cheeks barely moved as she spoke. Though she could wield a knife with amazing dexterity, she was clumsy at such ordinary things.
Miyamoto looked around with apparent interest at the restaurant’s interior, a remodeled traditional house. Kaguya seated them at the counter and handed them towelettes. The young man who worked for her was home with a cold, she said.
Perhaps because it was still early, they were the only customers. They had an appetizer of monkfish liver with ponzu sauce garnished with grated radish and red pepper. Before eating, they clinked glasses of cold beer. When they tried the monkfish liver, it melted in their mouths.
Kaguya continued working behind the counter, scowling with concentration. She served them a selection of sashimi, prepared with evident attention to temperature and thickness, followed by dishes such as deep-fried tofu stuffed with fermented soybeans and lightly oven toasted. The timing of the presentation was excellent.
“This is really good,” said Miyamoto, eating with gusto. “Nice place. I have deep-fried tofu and natto at home, but it never comes out crisp and delicious like this.”
Finishing her beer and switching to distilled shochu, Kishibe agreed. Kaguya bowed her head slightly, shyly pleased. Again tonight she was cool, like a female version of actor Ken Takakura.
“I came here once before, for the welcome party the department gave me.” She glanced at Kaguya, but as Kaguya gave no sign of wanting her to keep it secret, she went on. “Kaguya here is married to Mr. Majime.”
Miyamoto choked on his drink and quickly wiped his mouth with the towelette. He looked back and forth at the two women, and seemed to grasp that Kishibe was not pulling his leg. “He’s married! That’s a surprise.”
He seemed less surprised that Majime’s wife was Kaguya than that the man had a wife at all.
“Tell me, how did you two, uh . . .?” Before he had finished saying the words, he apparently decided it was an ill-mannered question and let it dangle, unfinished.
Kaguya, unconcerned, answered, “We lived in the same building.”
Kishibe was feeling elated. The paper for The Great Passage had been selected, and she was here having dinner with Miyamoto. The alcohol was taking effect a little more rapidly than usual; her cheeks were already warm and flushed. She decided to take advantage of the opportunity to sound out Kaguya a little more.
“What attracted you to him?” This sounded vaguely rude, so she hastened to add, “I’m sure there were lots of things . . .”
“It was his total commitment to the dictionary.” Kaguya kept a watchful eye on the grilling chicken as she replied. She swiftly took it off the fire and served it with yuzukosho, a fermented condiment made from chili peppers, citrus peel, and salt. The chicken skin was crisp and savory, the meat juicy, dissolving on the tongue like a precious fruit.