世の人に似ずあえかに見え給う

Dedicated to Miss Tomiko

So it was written, in two lines. The master wore a faintly mystified expression and for a while gazed at the page in silence, whereupon Meitei peered over from the side, saying, “What’s this, some new-style poetry?” and then, looking closer, praised him warmly: “Ah, dedicated! Kocho, my boy, dedicating it to Miss Tomiko—that’s bold of you.” The master, still looking puzzled, asked, “Kocho, is this Tomiko an actual living woman?” “Why, yes—she was one of the ladies you and Mr. Meitei invited to the reading party last time. She lives quite nearby. As a matter of fact, I only dropped in intending to show you my collection, but unfortunately she’s been away since last month, summering at Oiso.” He delivered this with great solemnity. “Kushami, old man, this is the twentieth century. Don’t look so shocked—go on and read us one of your masterpieces. But Kocho, this dedication of yours is a bit off. This ‘aekani’—do you even know what that elegant word means?” “I took it to be the characters for ‘mosquito-weak’ or ‘frail.’” “Well, it could be read that way, I suppose, but in its true sense it means ‘in a precarious state.’ Now, I wouldn’t have written it like that.” “How would you have written it to make it more poetic?” “Like this, say: ‘Unlike the world’s folk, she appears so fragile—dedicated to the space beneath Miss Tomiko’s nose.’ It’s only a slight change of three characters, but with or without ‘beneath the nose’ makes a world of difference in the feeling.” “I see,” said Kocho, feigning a comprehension he could not quite muster.

The master, still silent, at last turned the page and began to read the opening chapter in earnest.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”