The Great Passage Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2011 Shion Miura

  Translation copyright © 2017 Juliet Winters Carpenter

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  First published as (Fune o amu) by Kobunsha Co., Ltd. in Japan in 2011. This English edition published by arrangement with Kobunsha Co., Ltd. Tokyo through Tuttle Mori Agency, Inc., Tokyo. Translated from Japanese by Juliet Winters Carpenter. First published in English by AmazonCrossing in 2017.

  Published by AmazonCrossing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and AmazonCrossing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781477823071

  ISBN-10: 1477823077

  Cover design by Adil Dara

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  A Love Letter from Majime to Kaguya (The Complete Edition)

  BIBLIOGRAPHY

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR

  CHAPTER 1

  Kohei Araki had devoted his entire life—his entire working life—to dictionaries.

  Words fascinated him, always had.

  He had learned early on that dog contained other meanings besides the four-legged animal. Once when his father had taken him to the movies, a blood-spattered gangster, betrayed and dying on screen, spat out the words “Damn that dog!” So an enemy spy was a dog. The gang boss, upon receiving word of the gangster’s demise, jumped up and shouted, “What are you all standing around here for? Polish your daggers! Don’t let him die a dog’s death!” So the word could also mean “pointless.”

  Dogs were faithful partners—trustworthy, intelligent, endearing—yet dog could also refer to a traitor or a condition of meaninglessness. How strange! In his child’s mind he tried to work out how this could be. Faithfulness to the point of servility, devotion going pathetically unrewarded—all the more pathetic as it increased in intensity. Perhaps such canine traits were responsible for the negative associations attached to the word.

  Despite his precocious interest in words, Kohei Araki’s first real encounter with a dictionary came later. His working-class parents, busy stocking their hardware store and waiting on customers, had been little inclined to buy him a dictionary or urge him to study. Their educational philosophy was “If a boy is healthy and stays out of trouble, that’s good enough.” Araki, for his part, had been less interested in studying than in playing outdoors with his friends. The lone dictionary in his elementary school classroom had failed to impress him. It was simply there, an object whose spine occasionally entered his field of vision.

  Everything changed with his first dictionary, the Iwanami Japanese Dictionary, a present from his uncle to celebrate the start of junior high. From the moment he took the book in his hands, he was hooked. The pleasure of opening up a dictionary of his own and leafing through it was indescribable. The entrancing shiny cover, the closely printed lines on every page, the feel of the thin paper. Most of all, he liked the concise definitions.

  One night, as he and his younger brother were romping in the living room, their father had scolded them: “Keep your voices down!” As an experiment Araki had looked up the word koe (voice). This was the definition:

  koe (noun) 1. sounds people and animals make using a special organ in the throat. 2. a sound resembling vocal utterance. 3. the approach of a season or a time of life.

  Examples of the word’s usage were also listed. Some were familiar, like koe o ageru (to raise one’s voice) or mushi no koe (the cry of an insect). Others would never have occurred to him: to sense the approach of autumn was to “hear the voice of autumn,” to be nearing one’s forties was to “hear the voice of forty.” The idea was novel to him, but he realized it was true: koe could definitely convey “the approach of a season or a time of life.” Just like dog, the word contained a range of meanings. Reading the dictionary could awaken you to new meanings of commonly used words, meanings of surprising breadth and depth.

  Still, that bit about “a special organ in the throat” was cryptic. Forgetting his father’s scolding, forgetting even his kid brother clamoring for attention, Araki looked up tokushu and kikan, the words for “special” and “organ.”

  tokushu (adj.) 1. qualitatively different from the ordinary; having a particular nature. 2. (philosophy) that which is individual, as opposed to universal.

  kikan (noun) a constituent part of an organism that has a fixed morphology and carries out a certain physiological function.

  It wasn’t all that helpful; it was rather confusing, actually. Since he knew that the “special organ in the throat” could only be the vocal cords, Araki dropped the matter. But anyone ignorant of vocal cords would be left in the dark as to what the “special organ in the throat” might be.

  Far from dampening Araki’s interest, the discovery that his dictionary wasn’t perfect only fanned his ardor. If some definitions weren’t quite successful, he liked the way they at least made a good effort. The dictionary’s very flaws made the exertions and enthusiasm of its compilers real to his imagination. The vast array of words—entry words, definitions, examples—was cold and impersonal at a glance, yet the book as a whole was the result of people puzzling over their choices. What patience they must have, what deep attachment to words!

  Araki began saving up his allowance for trips to the used bookstore. When a new edition of a dictionary came out, a copy of the earlier edition could usually be purchased on the cheap. Little by little he collected a variety of dictionaries from different publishers and compared them. Some were tattered and worn. Others had annotations and underlining in red. Old dictionaries bore signs of the linguistic struggles of compiler and user alike.

  Araki dreamed of becoming a philologist or a scholar of the Japanese language and getting his name on a dictionary. The summer before his senior year in high school he asked his father to send him to college.

  “Huh? You want to study Japanese? What are you talking about? You already speak Japanese. What do you need to go to college for?”

  “No, that’s not the point.”

  “Never mind. How about helping out around the store? Your mother’s back pain is getting worse.”

  He couldn’t get through to his father, but his uncle, the one who’d given him the Iwanami Japanese Dictionary, pled his case for him. A crewman on a whaling boat, this uncle had learned to appreciate dictionaries on long sea voyages. Within the family he was known as an eccentric. On a rare visit with Araki’s parents, he had interceded on the young man’s behalf: “He’s a pretty smart kid. Why not go ahead and send him to college?” Araki’s father had listened and ultimately agreed.

  Araki studied furiously and managed to pass the difficult college entrance examination. Over the next four years it became clear to him that he lacked the makings of a scholar, but his desire to compile a dictionary stayed strong.

  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 colle
ge 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.

  He swiftly contacted the company’s other editorial divisions to inquire if they had any likely candidates, but the results were discouraging. All anyone seemed interested in was a quick profit. The economic slump meant that every department had its back to the wall. The responses he got were all similar. If he needed help with a magazine where advertisers were sure to flock, say, or with a book with relatively inexpensive content, sure—they would welcome these projects—but they had no one to spare for dictionary work. Araki grew frustrated. Dictionaries are well respected, and they’re immune to market fluctuations. Isn’t there anyone with the balls to aim high and think long-term?

  “Forget it.” Nishioka appeared from between the bookcases and responded to the thoughts Araki had muttered aloud. “Dictionaries cost a vast amount of money and take an enormous amount of time to produce. People have always preferred to make a quick buck, and they always will.” He went over to his desk and sat down.

  Nishioka was right. The Dictionary Editorial Department of Gembu Books had been hit hard by the recession, forced to slash its budget and staff. The plan for the new dictionary had been stalled and was still awaiting approval.

  Araki flipped through Wide Garden of Words and Great Forest of Words, both of which he kept on his desk, checking the difference between vast and enormous. He clucked his tongue as he searched. “Don’t make it sound like this has nothing to do with you, Nishioka. If you did your job right, I wouldn’t have all this trouble, and you know it.”

  “Yes, boss. I apologize.”

  “You’re just not cut out to be a lexicographer. When you’re out picking up manuscripts, your footwork is nice and fast, but that’s about it.”

  “Now, don’t be mean.” Without getting up, Nishioka kicked t
he floor and rolled his chair over. “My footwork just brought in a nice juicy piece of news, I’ll have you know.”

  “What is it?”

  “There’s somebody who’s perfectly cut out to be a lexicographer.”

  “Where?” Araki sprang to his feet.

  Nishioka gave a teasing smile. Then, dramatically lowering his voice even though no one else was around, he whispered, “Sales department. Twenty-seven years old, same as me.”

  “Good grief!” Araki said, whacking Nishioka on the top of the head. “Are you telling me you were both hired in the same year? Why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

  “That’s the thanks I get?” Nishioka rubbed his crown ruefully and rolled his chair back to his desk. “As a matter of fact, we weren’t hired at the same time. This somebody went to grad school. Been here just going on three years.”

  “Sales, eh?”

  “Dashing over there right now won’t do any good. Everybody’s probably making the rounds.”

  But Araki was already out the door.

  The Dictionary Editorial Department was on the second floor of the annex, an old high-ceilinged wooden building with floorboards that had darkened to the color of toffee. Araki’s footsteps rang out in the dim corridor. He raced down the stairs, pushed open the double doors, and was suddenly blinded by the early-summer sun. Squinting, he made out the eight-story main building next door and headed for the entrance.

  He stepped inside the offices of the sales department, to the rear on the first floor, then pulled up short. Damn it, he’d forgotten to ask one crucial bit of information—his potential successor’s name. He didn’t even know if it was a he or a she.

  He calmed himself at the doorway, looking around with a nonchalant air. Fortunately, the sales staff had not all taken off on rounds. Six or seven people were sitting at desks, either facing computers or talking on the phone. Which one is a twenty-seven-year-old with a graduate degree who’s been here going on three years? This’ll be awkward; they all look about thirty. God knows which one I’m after. What’s wrong with the sales department, anyway? Somebody ought to make these people get off their butts and go out to bookstores. All except the one I want, that is.