“Ren’ai.” (Love. Romantic attachment.)
Nishioka’s sharp eyes had caught the entry Majime had been examining, and he proceeded to read the definition aloud: “‘Love (noun): a feeling of special affection for a particular member of the opposite sex that causes exhilaration and the desire to be alone with that person and share a sense of emotional intimacy, including, if possible, physical intimacy, so that one fluctuates between a state of despair when unfulfilled and, on rare occasions of fulfillment, one of delight.’”
“Oh, I know this one!” said Nishioka. “It’s from The New Clear Dictionary of Japanese, right?”
“Yes. Fifth edition.”
“The one that’s famous for its quirky definitions. So what’s the story?”
“Beg your pardon?”
“You can’t fool me!” Nishioka rolled his chair closer and laid an arm across Majime’s shoulder. “You’re in love! Fess up.”
“No, I was just thinking.” Majime straightened his glasses and pushed them back to the top of his nose, where they’d been before Nishioka jostled him. “It’s certainly a unique definition, but I wonder if it’s appropriate to limit the object of romantic love to ‘a particular member of the opposite sex’?”
“Whoa.” Nishioka removed his arm and slid his chair back to his own desk. “Are you by any chance one of those people?”
What people? What was he talking about? Letting Nishioka’s comment pass, Majime began to thumb through the various dictionaries on his desk. They all had an entry for ren’ai, but in every case it was defined as an emotion between a man and a woman. In light of reality, such an explanation was hardly accurate.
On the example collection card, he drew a double circle to signify “a word of high importance that should definitely be included.” In the column for comments he wrote, “Just between men and women? Check foreign dictionaries as well.”
Only then did the significance of Nishioka’s question penetrate his brain.
“No, I don’t think so,” he said. “Probably not.”
“What are you talking about?”
“So far everyone I’ve ever felt a desire to ‘share a sense of emotional and physical intimacy with’ has been a member of the opposite sex. But I’ve yet to experience a state of delight on a ‘rare occasion of fulfillment,’ so in that sense I haven’t yet had a complete experience of love, which is why I qualified my statement by saying ‘probably not.’”
Nishioka digested this for a few seconds, then burst out, “Are you telling me you’re a virgin?”
Mrs. Sasaki, who had just then entered the office, shot them a frosty look and raised her voice: “Professor Matsumoto and Mr. Araki are here.”
Weekly staff meetings were held to hammer out the editorial policy for The Great Passage. The planned number of entries was around 230,000, making it a medium-sized dictionary similar in scale to Wide Garden of Words and Great Forest of Words. Some ingenuity would be needed to make The Great Passage, a latecomer to the field, attractive to users.
“We need to come up with definitions in line with contemporary sensibilities,” Professor Matsumoto was fond of saying.
Araki, though now officially retired, came to the meetings as overseer. He advised, “Let’s put in all the proverbs, technical terms, and proper nouns we can. Our dictionary should function as a mini-encyclopedia, too.”
To meet these demands, Majime busied himself day and night, checking file cards. First, he searched for words included in existing dictionaries and marked those cards with a double circle. These words represented the basic building blocks of the Japanese language. Words found in small dictionaries got a single circle; those in medium-sized dictionaries, a triangle. The marks provided a rough guideline for whether or not to include a word in The Great Passage. Those with a double circle could not be omitted without a strong reason, whereas those with a triangle could conceivably be left out. Naturally, the data acquired from existing dictionaries was only for reference. Ultimately the team would make its own selection based on The Great Passage editorial policy. They would gather every kind of word—archaisms, neologisms, loanwords, technical terms—and sift through them one by one.
Majime divided up the cards with Mrs. Sasaki. Together they flipped through dictionaries of every description until their fingertips had been worn so smooth they had trouble picking up things. In the meantime, Nishioka mostly goofed off, taking breaks in nearby coffee shops and going to singles parties.
At one of their weekly meetings, Majime looked around at the assembled faces and made an announcement: “I think one potential problem is that we’re conspicuously lacking in terms from the fashion world.”
“I think so, too.” Nishioka folded his arms and leaned back in his chair so it squeaked. “We should include the biggest designers or at least the top three collections.”
“Then why are there no file cards for them?” demanded Araki.
“Forgive me.” Professor Matsumoto fingered his bolo tie in evident embarrassment. “That’s beyond my field of expertise.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean you, professor,” said Araki hastily. “I meant this nitwit Nishioka.”
With a sideways glance at Araki, Majime wondered aloud, “What would be the top three collections? Stamps, cameras, and . . . the envelopes that chopsticks come in? No, I guess netsuke carvings would be more common.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” said Nishioka. “Everybody knows the top three fashion shows are in Paris, Milan, and New York. Envelopes for chopsticks? What are you talking about, Majime? God only knows how your brain works. It’s a mystery, for real.”
Nishioka looked at him as if he were some unusual bug, but Majime paid no attention. Something else had caught his interest. Nishioka had used the phrase riaru ni—for real—an expression based on English that was new to him. Was it often used? Then and there he filled out a new file card, marking it with the day’s date. First occurrence in writing, unknown. In the comments column, he wrote, “Spoken by Nishioka.”
Seeing Majime engrossed in making a new file card even in the middle of the meeting, Mrs. Sasaki sighed. “I’ll get right on it and draw up a list of fashion experts,” she said. “I’ll ask them to help with selecting entry words and writing definitions.”
“Dictionaries do tend to be written from the male perspective,” Professor Matsumoto said mildly. “They’re mostly put together by men, so they often lack words having to do with fashion and housework, for example. But that approach won’t work anymore. The ideal dictionary is one that everyone can join in using together, men and women of all ages, interested in all matters of life.”
“Come to think of it,” said Araki, nodding, “we’ve never had a young woman here in the editorial department.” He was quick to add, “Though of course, Mrs. Sasaki here is still quite young.”