In his senior year, Shogakukan began to put out its Great Dictionary of Japanese. It was a massive achievement, a twenty-volume behemoth over a decade in the making, with some 450,000 entries by as many as 3,000 contributors. Such a marvel was far beyond the means of a penniless student. As he surveyed the tomes on the college library shelf, Araki trembled at the thought of the passion and time involved in creating them. There in the dusty library stacks, the dictionary seemed to emit a light as pure as the beams of the moon.
The name Kohei Araki might never lend scholarly cachet to the cover of a dictionary, but another path remained open to him: he could serve as an editor. His mind fastened on the idea. What else but dictionaries could he pour his passion and time into without the least regret? He applied himself to job hunting and was hired by a prominent publishing house, Gembu Books.
“From then on, for thirty-seven years, all I’ve done is make dictionaries.”
“Really? That long?”
“Easily. It’s been more than thirty years since I first met you, you know. Back then you were a little, shall we say, shaggier.” Araki cast his eyes on the bald pate of Professor Matsumoto, who was sitting across from him.
Professor Matsumoto laid down the pencil he was using to write on a file card and laughed, his thin body shaking like a crane. “You’ve gathered quite a bit of hoarfrost on top yourself.”
Their orders arrived—soba noodles, accompanied by a pungent dipping sauce. It was lunchtime, and businessmen and women on their breaks crowded the shop. The two men were quiet for a while, concentrating on their meals. As he ate, Professor Matsumoto, always on the lookout for unusual vocabulary or usage, kept an ear cocked to the stream of words coming from the television on the wall. As usual, Araki kept his eyes fixed on the professor’s hands, knowing that when the professor became engrossed in word collecting he was apt to reach for a mouthful of noodles with his pencil or to attempt to scribble with a chopstick.
When they had finished eating, they sipped cold barley tea and relaxed.
Araki said, “What was your first dictionary, may I ask?”
“One I inherited from my grandfather, Fumihiko Otsuki’s pioneering Sea of Words. When I found out Otsuki compiled the whole thing himself, overcoming a slew of challenges, child as I was it made a great impression on me.”
“I’m sure it did, but I’m just as sure you must have tried looking up a few dirty words.”
“Certainly not.”
“Oh, no?” Araki said. “As I mentioned, my first was the Iwanami Japanese Dictionary, the one I got when I entered junior high school. I went thumbing through it, looking up every indecent word I could think of.”
“But that dictionary is extremely refined and proper. I can only imagine how disappointed you must have been.”
“I was. For chinchin, the only meanings listed were ‘sit up and beg’—the dog’s trick—and ‘the sound of a kettle boiling.’ Not a word about peckers . . . You do realize you’re admitting you looked them up, too?”
Professor Matsumoto chuckled.
The lunch hour was almost over. The noodle joint was nearly empty now, and the proprietress came over and refilled their glasses.
“You know,” said Araki, “I’ve had the privilege of working with you for a long time now, but we’ve never traded memories about dictionaries like this.”
“We certainly have made a lot of them together,” said Professor Matsumoto. “No sooner would we finish one than we’d start right in on revisions and amendments. There was never time to chat. First Gembu Dictionary of Modern Japanese, then Gembu Student’s Dictionary of Japanese, then Wordmaster. Ah, what memories!”
“I deeply regret that I can’t be of any more assistance on our latest project.” Araki placed both hands on the tabletop and lowered his head until it nearly touched the surface.
Professor Matsumoto, who was bundling up his file cards, seemed to deflate. For once his shoulders slumped. “Then you weren’t able to postpone your retirement?”
“The rules are the rules,” said Araki.
“You could stay on part-time.”
“I intend to come into the office when I can, but my wife isn’t well. So far I’ve spent our marriage up to my ears in dictionaries and never done anything for her. I’d like to spend my retirement at her side.”
“I see.” Professor Matsumoto let his head drop momentarily to his chest, then said in a clear show of bravado, “Yes, that’s what you should do. It’s your turn to be there for her.”
If I sap his motivation, thought Araki, what kind of an editor does that make me? He leaned forward. “Before I retire, I’m determined to find someone to replace me. Someone who can offer you all the assistance you need, take charge of the editorial department, and carry our plan forward. Someone young and promising.”
“Editing a dictionary isn’t like editing any other book or magazine,” the professor pointed out. “It’s a peculiar world. You need extreme patience, a capacity for endless minutiae, a love of words bordering on obsession, and a broad enough outlook to stay sane. What makes you think there are any young people like that nowadays?”
“There’s got to be someone. If I can’t find the right person among our company’s five hundred employees, I’ll go headhunting. Promise me that you’ll continue to give Gembu Books the benefit of your wisdom in the coming years.”
Professor Matsumoto nodded and said quietly, “I’m blessed to have been able to make dictionaries with you, Araki. No matter how hard you try to find a successor, I know I’ll never encounter another editor of your caliber.”
Moved, Araki bit his lip to keep from emitting a small sob. He had spent more than three decades alongside Professor Matsumoto, immersed in books and galleys, and now that shared time seemed like a beautiful dream. “Thank you, sir.”
It tore at Araki to have to leave just as they’d completed plans for a new dictionary. Dictionaries were in his blood and had been his lifelong passion; he now felt the stirrings of a new, related mission. The affection, loneliness, and anxiety he read on Professor Matsumoto’s face inspired him. Until now he’d assumed his role before retiring was to shepherd the plans for the new dictionary to completion, but he’d been wrong. My task is to find someone who loves dictionaries as much as I do—no, more. He would do it for the professor’s sake. For the sake of all those who used or were learning to use Japanese. And most of all, for the sake of that hallowed book-to-be, the dictionary itself.
Araki went back to the office keen to carry out his last great task.