The Great Passage

by Shion Miura

  “He’s going to be in the hospital for a week of routine tests, he says.”

  “Oh. Still, that’s scary.” The memory of Také’s sudden death cast a shadow. “Let me know if there’s anything special he’d like to eat. I could make it and take it to him. Please ask when you get a chance.”

  “Sure.”

  “He’s getting on now, so make sure he takes his time recovering.”

  “That’s just what’s been bothering me.”

  “What?”

  Majime stopped chewing and sat up straighter. “How old is he? Do you know?”

  “No.”

  They looked at each other, then laughed.

  “I’ve known him going on fifteen years, and he hasn’t changed a bit in all that time,” he said. “He could be in his nineties for all I know, or he could be sixty-eight. Either way, I’d believe it.”

  “Lexicographers are a bit otherworldly.” Seeing Majime nod absently, she added, “I mean you, too, Mitsu. But you know, the professor may actually be surprisingly young. You wait and see, he’ll be better in no time.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  After eating, Majime set off with his travel bag. After he had walked a short way, he turned around. Kaguya was standing in front of the house, waving. Torao, cradled in her arms, gave a big yawn.

  “I forgot to tell you. Miss Kishibe is going out with Miyamoto from Akebono Paper Company.”

  “I’m not surprised. I told you when they came to the restaurant, I had a feeling about them, remember?”

  “You’re so observant. It always amazes me.”

  Majime and Kaguya smiled and waved to each other.

  Gembu Books Hell Camp lasted a full month. Majime and Kishibe slept in the office practically every night. On rare occasions, they went home for fresh clothes but then came right back. For days on end he had no real conversations with Kaguya, nor did she with Miyamoto.

  Majime saw to it that the students and Mrs. Sasaki periodically went home, urging them constantly not to wear themselves out. None of them were eager to leave. They slept at the office for days on end, sometimes for a whole week, and thought nothing of it. Everyone worked hard in near silence.

  Araki’s wife was long dead. “I’ll see to the rest of this,” he would say. “Go on home, everybody!” He took on more than his share of the work and never went home once for the space of a month.

  The problem was the air in the office, which grew fetid. The staff had increased, and the room was now crowded. With windows inaccessible behind bookshelves, the air was increasingly stale—stuffy and dusty and smelling of ink. When they were in the office together, they didn’t notice it so much, but coming back from a meal, they would grimace. Somebody would groan, “The air in here’s so thick you could cut it with a knife!”

  The main building had a small shower, but complaints started to roll in: “The dictionary staff is in the shower morning, noon, and night!” They decided to use the one remaining public bath in Jimbocho. The owner looked delighted at this unexpected boon.

  “But we can’t wash our clothes.” Kishibe sighed after returning from the bath with her wet hair in a towel turban, wearing no makeup. Jimbocho, a center of used bookstores and publishing houses, was supposed to be a students’ quarter, but for some reason there was no coin laundry. She and Mrs. Sasaki talked it over.

  “There are lots of colleges around here, but you know, not that many students actually live in Jimbocho.”

  “I know. And how many people would come here to browse used books and decide to wash their clothes while they’re at it?”

  “People who go for used books are like potted plants anyway. I bet they don’t do much laundry to begin with.”

  Majime protested inwardly. I go for used books, but I’m no potted plant. I’m an omnivore! And yes, when I go to a used bookstore I think about books. What else! Anybody who thought about their laundry while looking at books—anybody that incapable of concentrating on what was in front of them—could never qualify as a true used book lover. He gave his cuff a furtive sniff. He didn’t think it smelled too bad, but he couldn’t really judge.

  Eventually, they designated someone to be in charge of laundry. They threw all the soiled clothes in one big bag, and every few days someone would take it to a coin laundry in Kasuga or Hongo. Those taking advantage of this service split the cost among themselves. Underwear was separate; they made do by buying new ones or washing the old ones out in restroom sinks. The ladies’ room in the annex was newly furnished with a drying rack. Men’s shorts hung on poles between the bookshelves. Needless to say, the women lodged protests about the sight of men’s underwear dangling like the flags of all nations.

  “This is an emergency situation. Please bear up.” Majime went around with his head bowed and smoothed over the situation as best he could by extracting promises that the offending garments would be taken down as soon as they were dry.

  While overseeing the final check of the fourth proofs, Majime had to visit the printing company frequently, accompanied by Miyamoto and his technicians. Dictionaries had large numbers of pages and high initial print runs, using that ultrathin paper, so the printing required meticulous care and expertise. Numerous test runs were made with Akebono’s “ultimate” paper.

  Subtle changes in the ink affected the color and shading of the characters. Which ink was best suited to this paper? How should the presses be adjusted for maximum readability? Representatives of the paper company and the printing company met with Majime to hash it out. Sometimes he went to the factory for consultations with experienced printers.

  When he had made the necessary decisions about the printing, he was next summoned by the in-house designer, a man in his midforties whose nickname was “Redshirt,” as he always wore a red T-shirt regardless of the season. Unlike the character of that name in Natsume Soseki’s novel Botchan, however, he was, although eccentric, frank and cheerful.

  Thanks in part to Nishioka’s efforts, the publicity campaign for The Great Passage was unusually extensive. An advertising agency had contributed, helping to work out a strategy to unify the image of the dictionary in prepublication train station posters and bookstore pamphlets. Redshirt had been put in charge of production, the most crucial aspect of presentation, and was full of enthusiasm.

  No sooner did Majime set foot in the design department office than Redshirt would come running up.

  “Mr. Majimeee! It’s ready! Come see the final mock-up!” He dragged Majime over to his desk, where the final design plan had been laid out with the help of a high-power printer: there before them was the box, the wraparound band for the box, the dust jacket, the cover, the inside cover, and even a sample of the cloth for hanagire, the flower-patterned material used to bind the ends of the spine.

  “When people start to use a dictionary, they usually throw away the box and the wraparound band and the dust jacket. It’s a shame. Anyway, I went all-out in the design.”

  Only half-listening to Redshirt’s proud declaration, Majime was drawn to the design package spread out before him. The box, dust jacket, and cover were all a deep ultramarine blue, the color of the sea at night. The band was a pale cream, the color of moonlight. The inside cover was the same cream color, and the hanagire was the silver of the moon itself, shining in a dark sky. The title lettering was also silver, standing out boldly against the cover’s dark blue. Closer examination showed a narrow, wavelike pattern in silver along the base of the box and dust cover. On the spine was the outline of an ancient sailing ship, just cresting a swell. The front and back covers were marked unobtrusively with a crescent moon and ship.

  Redshirt had perfectly captured the intentions of The Great Passage. Filled with gratitude, Majime stood and studied the design package a long time in silence.

  “Well?” Redshirt blurted out anxiously, unable to wait any longer.

  Majime organized his thoughts. “It has both sharpness and warmth. I think it’s terrific. What did the sales staff say?�
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  “I haven’t shown it to them yet. I wanted you to be the first to see it.”

  “Thank you. One thing—is this die-stamped with silver leaf?”

  “Don’t worry. Printing technology is advancing all the time. It’s only going to look as if it’s die-stamped with silver leaf. Of course, the front cover will be real silver leaf, but I’ll keep it well within budget.”

  “I should have known.” Majime was embarrassed. “Go ahead with your plan, then. If Sales raises any issues, I’ll do all I can to fend them off.”

  Now the packaging was settled. That was one burden off his shoulders. He returned to the office with a lighter step. On his desk lay the checked fourth proof. This would go back to the printers, and then they would send the fifth proof.

  Peak after peak to climb.

  Majime squared his shoulders and picked up his red pencil. Next he would go through the page proofs and make sure none of the changes affected the number of lines.

  After the monthlong, all-hands-on-deck, round-the-clock proofreading marathon, it became clear that apart from blood, no other entry words were missing. Of course, through the extracareful check they did uncover typographical errors no one had caught before, as well as a few questionable definitions, so it hadn’t been a total loss.

  “A hue and cry about trifles,” said Araki.

  The deflated, exhausted expressions in the room echoed the sentiment.

  “Everyone, I am sorry to have put you to so much extra effort for nothing. My apologies.” Majime was sincerely contrite.

  “No, no,” said a student. “You know what they say: ‘Make assurance doubly sure.’”

  “Right,” said another. “I can finally relax, knowing we left no stone unturned.”

  Despite their exhaustion, they seemed to have a great sense of accomplishment.

  The Great Passage was blessed to have a devoted crew. Majime stood to one side in the office doorway and formally saw the students off as they filed out.

  The camp may have been hell, but it greatly increased Majime’s confidence in the dictionary. Dozens of pairs of eyes had checked the proofs from stem to stern and only uncovered a typographical error or two. The omission of blood had been a painful mistake, but they had escaped the awful fate of publishing The Great Passage with that glaring omission. All the other entry words were accounted for, and Majime was reassured that the definitions were meticulous. The dictionary would be balanced and precise, a pleasure to use or to browse through.

  He saw that Kishibe was still there. “Thanks so much for all you’ve done, Miss Kishibe. Now go home and get a good night’s sleep.”

  “Thank you. What about you?”

  “Araki and I are going to go call on the professor.”

  Supposedly the week in the hospital had been for the purpose of a routine checkup, yet even after his release, not once during their “hell camp” had Professor Matsumoto come by. His wife had called once to say apologetically that he wasn’t quite himself yet—that was all. The professor’s health was worrisome, but during the past month their hands had been tied. Now that the proofreading was back on track, he and Araki had decided to pay the professor a visit at home. Kishibe looked as if she would like to join them, but she was clearly exhausted. He told her he and Araki would have a look first. They discussed what time to show up the next day and parted with her in front of the annex.

  The professor lived in Kashiwa City, Chiba Prefecture. Neither Majime nor Araki had ever been there before. They got on the subway and headed east, taking adjoining seats. They were ahead of the evening rush hour. Besides his briefcase, Majime held a box of éclairs on his lap. The professor was fond of the éclairs from a bakery near the office. While Majime had bought them, Araki had been silent, but now he began to talk.

  “When I called before to say we were coming over, the professor answered the phone.”

  “How did he sound?”

  “Fine, I thought. But I’m concerned that he never came by the office last month.”

  They were unsure how to get to his house, so they took a taxi from the station. A five-minute ride brought them to the door of a snug-looking wooden home.

  They rang the doorbell, and Mrs. Matsumoto quickly welcomed them and showed them into the parlor. As they might have expected, the little house was overflowing with books. Bookshelves lined every wall, and the floor in front of them was piled high with more books. The hallways and stairs had so many books there was barely room to get by.

  Did Mrs. Matsumoto and the children put up with this hodgepodge uncomplainingly? Even Majime was taken aback. But perhaps all the paper in the room absorbed sound; the atmosphere was peaceful and quiet.

  Mrs. Matsumoto brought out tea and éclairs for three. “Thank you for this lovely gift. You’ll have to excuse me for turning around and offering you what you brought us.”

  The door opened, and the professor came in.

  “Thank you both for coming.”

  At the sight of the professor, Majime was dumbstruck. Always thin, the professor had lost considerable weight. He was wearing a suit and bolo tie as usual, but his shirt collar, though buttoned, hung loose. Apparently he had gotten out of bed and dressed himself just to come out and see them.

  Araki nudged Majime, who recovered his wits and apologized for the sudden visit.

  The professor’s wife left the three men to themselves, and the professor sat down on the sofa across from his visitors. When he saw the éclairs, he broke into a smile. “Thank you for the lovely gift.”

  Majime couldn’t help noticing that he and his wife used the same words to express their appreciation. They were clearly in perfect harmony.

  “It turns out,” the professor went on, “I have cancer of the esophagus.”

  What had he said? Majime heard the words without registering their significance. He felt Araki gasp beside him and sensed that something serious had happened, but he was unable to respond.

  Araki asked discreet questions, and the professor answered them. He was taking anticancer drugs now and undergoing radiation therapy. The tumor had shrunk a bit, but side effects made it hard for him to get out of bed most days. His doctor was monitoring his progress, and he might possibly be readmitted to the hospital.

  Majime and Araki were resolute and daring with words, but when it came to sickness, they were at a complete loss. Even words failed them. You’ll be fine. Hang in there. Unable to bring themselves to utter such platitudes, they fell silent.

  Seeing their stifled anxiety and concern, the professor adopted a determinedly cheerful tone and inquired about the dictionary’s progress. Without touching on the hell camp, Majime reported that everything was proceeding in good order. He had brought the mock-up and took it out to show to the professor.

  “It’s perfect for our ship,” he said.

  The professor spread out the samples on his knees, tracing the silver waves with a finger. “I can’t wait for it to be finished. As soon as I feel able, I’ll drop by the office again. In the meantime, if you have any questions or problems, don’t hesitate to call me.”

  “We will always seek your judgment.” The Great Passage was the professor’s alter ego. Forcing the professor to maintain distance from the final editing process would be like forcibly separating him from a part of himself.

  Majime and Araki decided to walk back to the station, and left the professor’s house before sundown. The professor and his wife came out to the front gate and waved them off. When they reached the corner and turned to look back, he was still standing there, his frail silhouette waving lightly good-bye.

  The three éclairs sat untouched on the parlor table.

  When the fifth proofs arrived, fear of not finishing in time drove Majime.

  What if something happened to the professor before he could see The Great Passage completed? Don’t be morbid, don’t think negative thoughts, Majime reminded himself, but the outlook was hardly positive. Shortly after they had visited him, the professor
had been hospitalized again. He was released at the end of the year and spent New Year’s at home with his wife, but no sooner were the decorations put away than he was back in the hospital. Araki visited him there frequently and received valuable advice on various problems that arose during the check of the fifth proof.

  At this rate, they wouldn’t make the March deadline. This very real and pressing possibility also sent Majime into panic. At year’s end, students went home for the winter break, and there were not nearly as many as in the summertime. Finding enough people to carry on the work was difficult. To make up for time lost during the monthlong work camp, Majime, Araki, Kishibe, and Mrs. Sasaki had taken work home on New Year’s Eve and worked there the first three days of the New Year.

  Now it was mid-January. The students were all back, and they were proceeding with the final check fully staffed. The dictionary had so many pages and the initial print run was so huge that printing would take time. As each page was approved, they had to send it off so the printing process could get underway. If the printing press didn’t start up by the end of January, there was no hope of finishing on time.

  Night after night Majime got home around midnight, just as Kaguya was arriving home after closing the restaurant. She would make a midnight meal for the two of them. Normally Majime made supper and put Kaguya’s share in the refrigerator for her, covered in plastic wrap. After she ate she would wash the dishes and make the next day’s breakfast. This was the relay system they had worked out to knit their lives together, since they kept such different hours.

  They rarely had dinner together at home, and so Majime was happy to share the time with her, but their conversation lagged. He was exhausted, for one thing, and for another the state of Professor Matsumoto’s health weighed on his mind. Concerned, Kaguya made dishes to give him energy: grilled eel on rice or cubed steak with plenty of garlic. He was sorry to put her to the extra trouble, knowing her work kept her busy, too. She sat across from him, silent and reliable, as he gratefully polished off every bit of the food.

  Eating these rich foods in the middle of the night was giving him a bit of a paunch, he thought. If he kept this up, he shuddered to think what he would look like in a few years. Her loving midnight meals gave him renewed determination to finish The Great Passage with all possible speed.