The Gift of Numbers aka The Housekeeper and the Professor

by Yoko Ogawa

  He sat gripping the arms of his seat all the way to the stadium, just as he had at the barbershop. When we had to get off the bus he let go of the armrest and held tightly to Root's hand. We were mostly silent as we walked through the grounds to the stadium and stood in the crowded passageway leading to our seats. The Professor was no doubt shocked to find himself in a place so utterly different from his usual surroundings, and Root was overcome with excitement at the prospect of seeing his beloved Tigers. They both seemed to have lost the power of speech and merely stared around in awe.

  "Is everything okay?" I asked from time to time, and the Professor would nod and grip Root's hand tightly.

  As we reached the top of the stairs that led to the seats above third base, all three of us let out a cry. The diamond in all its grandeur was laid out before us-the soft, dark earth of the infield, the spotless bases, the straight white lines, and the manicured grass. The evening sky seemed so close you could touch it, and at that moment, as if they had been awaiting our arrival, the lights came on. The stadium looked like a spaceship descended from the heavens.

  Did the Professor enjoy the game? Later, when Root and I spoke of that remarkable day, we were never sure. And there was always a part of us that regretted putting this good-natured old man through such an ordeal.

  But those moments we shared, the sights and sounds of the game, haven't faded with the years. If anything, they seem brighter and more vivid as time goes by, indelibly etched in our minds. The cracked, uncomfortable seats, the egg salad sandwiches with too much mustard, the lights of a plane that cut across the sky above the stadium like a shooting star. We remember every detail, and when we talk about that night, we're able to conjure up and bring back the Professor, as if he were sitting right beside us.

  Our favorite part was the Professor's crush on the girl who was selling drinks in the stands. The Tigers had just finished their half of the second inning, and Root, who had already eaten his sandwich, announced that he wanted some juice. I was about to flag down a vendor when the Professor stopped me with a quiet but emphatic "No." When I asked him what was wrong, he refused to answer, but when I started to wave to the next girl, he spoke up again. "No!" For some reason, he seemed to disapprove of Root having a juice.

  "Just make do with the tea I brought from home," I told Root.

  "I don't want that. It's bitter."

  "Then I'll go get you some milk at the concession stand."

  "I'm not a baby! And they don't sell milk here. At a baseball game, you're supposed to have juice in a big paper cup-that's the rule." It was typical of Root to have an ideal vision of how things were supposed to be. I turned back to the Professor.

  "Don't you think we could let him have just one?"

  His expression was still grave as he brought his mouth close to my ear and whispered, "Get it from that girl over there." He pointed to a young woman who was climbing the other aisle.

  "Why?" I asked.

  At first he refused to explain, but Root's pestering finally wore him down. "Because she's the prettiest," he said simply.

  Indeed, the Professor had a good eye. She was by far the most beautiful girl, and she had the sweetest smile. Finally, the girl in question arrived at the row directly below ours, and the Professor called out to get her attention. The fact that his hand was shaking as he passed her the money or that his suit was covered with scraps of paper didn't seem to faze her, and she continued to smile pleasantly as she handed him the juice. Root had complained about how long it had taken to get his drink, but his mood improved when the Professor bought him popcorn, ice cream, and a second juice when the girl came by again. We were so busy scanning the stands for the pretty young vendor and buying treats for Root that we missed the Tigers taking the lead with four hits in the top of the third.

  This unexpected distraction aside, the Professor was still a mathematician at heart. As he sat down and looked around at the stadium, the first words out his mouth were: "The diamond is 27.43 meters on each side." And when he noticed that his seat number was 714 and Root's was 715, he began to lecture again and completely forgot to sit down.

  "The home run record Babe Ruth set in 1935 is 714. On April 8, 1974, Hank Aaron broke that record, hitting his 715th off of Al Downing of the Dodgers. The product of 714 and 715 is equal to the product of the first seven prime numbers: 714 × 715 = 2 × 3 × 5 × 7 × 11 × 13 × 17 = 510510. And, the sum of the prime factors of 714 equals the sum of the prime factors of 715: 714 = 2 × 3 × 7 × 17; 715 = 5 × 11 × 13; 2 + 3 + 7 + 17 = 5 + 11 + 13 = 29. A pair of consecutive whole numbers with these properties is quite rare. There are only 26 such pairs up to 20,000. This one is the Ruth-Aaron pair. Just like prime numbers, they are more rare as the numbers get larger. And 5 and 6 are the smallest pair. But the proof to show that those pairs are infinite in number is quite difficult… The important thing is that I'm sitting in 714 and you're in 715, instead of the opposite. It's the young who have to break the old records. That's the way the world works, don't you think?"

  "That's great, Professor. But look, there's Tsuyoshi Shinjo!" Root always listened carefully to these speeches, but he showed little interest in the significance of his seat number.

  The Professor talked about numbers throughout the game- just as he always did when he was nervous. His voice grew louder and louder with each inning; he would not be drowned out by the crowd.

  The starting pitcher, Nakagomi, was greeted with a tremendous cheer as he was announced and headed out to the mound. At the same moment, the Professor said, "The height of the mound is 10 inches, or 25.4 centimeters. The infield slopes at a rate of one inch per foot for the first six feet toward the plate."

  He noticed that the first seven men in the order for Hiroshima hit left-handed: "Left-handed hitters against left-handed pitchers have a cumulative batting average of.2568. Right-handed hitters hit.2649 against right-handed pitchers." Or, when Nishida, on the Hiroshima team, stole a base and the crowd booed: "It takes 0.8 seconds from the time the pitcher begins his windup to the time he releases the ball. In this case, the pitch was a curveball that took 0.6 seconds to reach the catcher's mitt, and then 2 full seconds for the catcher to throw it to second base, which means the runner had 3.4 seconds total to run the 24 meters from first to second base without being thrown out, running at more than 7 meters per second, or 25.2 kilometers per hour."

  Fortunately, his commentary did not cause us any trouble, since the group to our left politely ignored him, while the man sitting to our right was amused. He helped us to keep the Professor calm.

  "You seem to know a lot more about it than that lousy announcer," he said. "You'd make a great scorekeeper. Why don't you figure out how the Tigers can win the pennant?" When he wasn't cheering for the players on the field, he appeared to listen carefully to everything the Professor said, even though I doubt he could understand it. Thanks to this kind man, the Professor's mathematical commentary moved beyond the level of farce and, in some sense, revealed a kind of logic to the game. For that, the man shared his peanuts with us.

  The Tigers held their lead through the fifth inning on hits from Wada and Kuji. The sun had gone down and the evening grew chilly, so I made Root put on his jacket and I handed the Professor his lap robe; then I was busy wiping everyone's hands before we ate, and by the time we were properly settled, I was amazed to see that two more runs had been scored. Root, beside himself with happiness, was screaming through his megaphone, while the Professor, resting his sandwich on his lap, applauded awkwardly.

  He had become completely absorbed in the game. The angle of the ball flying off the bat would leave him marveling, squinting at the field and nodding. From time to time he would peek into the picnic basket of the people sitting in front of us, or glance up at the moon shining between the branches of the poplars just outside the stadium.

  Hanshin fans seemed to dominate the stands behind third base. The area was blanketed in yellow jerseys, and the cheers for the Tigers were loud and long. Even if
the Hiroshima supporters had wanted to answer, they had little to cheer about as Nakagomi struck out one batter after another.

  The Tigers fans roared each time Nakagomi threw a strike; and when a run came in, the stadium erupted. I had never in my entire life seen so many people united in celebration. Even the Professor looked positively elated-and here was a man who only seemed to have two facial expressions, the one he wore when he was thinking and the one he gave me when I interrupted those thoughts. You might even say that he, too, had been transported by the cheers.

  But the prize for the most original way of expressing enthusiasm went to the Kameyama fan clinging to the wire fence of the backstop. In his early twenties, he wore a Kameyama jersey over his work clothes and had a transistor radio clipped to his belt. His fingers were wrapped tight around the backstop and he hung there throughout the game. When Kameyama was out in left field, the young man's eyes never left him, and when he appeared in the on-deck circle, he grew agitated. When Kameyama was up at bat, he called out his name in one continuous chant that went from joy to despair. In order to get a few millimeters closer to his hero, he had pressed his face against the fence, so that the mesh pattern had become imprinted on his forehead. He wasted no energy booing the other team, nor did he complain when the great man himself struck out. Instead, he poured his whole heart and soul into repeating that one word: Kameyama.

  As we watched him, we began to wonder what would happen if Kameyama actually got a hit; and when, in the middle of the fourth inning, he knocked it into left field, the spectators sitting behind him reached up out of their seats, as if expecting him to faint dead away. Kameyama's ball shot between second and third and bounced into the outfield. It glowed white against the grass, and the outfielders scurried after it. The young man screamed for a long time, and even after his lungs were empty, he sobbed faintly and writhed against the fence. Paciorek was up next, and this ecstatic display continued well into his warm-up. By comparison, the Professor's reaction to the game was reserved and respectful.

  He didn't seem to care that none of the players were familiar from the cards he had collected. Perhaps he was so busy trying to connect the rules and statistics stored in his head with the game on the field that he forgot to worry about the names of the players.

  "What's in that little bag?" he asked Root.

  "That's the rosin bag. It has pine tar to keep their hands from slipping."

  "And why does the catcher keeping running toward first base like that?"

  "He's backing up the throw, in case it gets away from the first baseman."

  "But it looks like some fans are sitting in the dugout…"

  "I think those are the interpreters for the foreign players."

  The Professor turned to Root with his questions. He could tell you the kinetic energy of a pitch traveling 150 kph or the relationship between ball temperature and the distance a hit would travel, but he had no idea what a rosin bag was. He had loosened his grip on Root's hand, but he still kept close and relied on him for reassurance. He talked throughout the game. From time to time he bought something from the pretty woman selling concessions, or ate a few peanuts. But he never stopped glancing over in the direction of the bullpen, hoping to catch a glimpse of number 28.

  The Tigers took a 6-0 lead going into the seventh inning, and the game seemed to be moving along quickly. But all attention soon shifted from the game itself to Nakagomi, who by the final inning was pitching a no-hitter.

  Though their team had been ahead all along, the mood among the Tigers fans behind third base had grown more tense with each pitch. As the Tigers' last batter struck out and they took to the field, murmurs and moans could be heard from here and there in the bleachers. If the team had continued to rack up runs, it might have been easier to bear, but they had not scored since the fifth inning and there was no change on the scoreboard. Like it or not, the game was an intense duel and we were all focused on Nakagomi.

  As he headed for the mound in the bottom of the ninth, someone in the stands finally gave voice to the thought that was on everyone's mind: "Three more outs!" A murmur of disapproval went through the bleachers, as though this encouragement was the surest way to jinx the no-hitter; but the only comment came from the Professor:

  "The odds of pitching a no-hitter are 0.18 percent."

  Hiroshima sent in a pinch hitter for the leadoff batter. No one had ever heard of him, but no one was paying attention anyway. Nakagomi threw his first pitch.

  The ball cracked off the bat and sailed into the midnight blue sky, tracing a graceful parabola. It was whiter than the moon, more beautiful than the stars. Every eye was focused on that one point; but at the instant the ball reached its apogee and began to fall, the elegant arc vanished and it became a meteorite, hurtling toward us in a blinding streak.

  "Watch out!" the Professor cried in my ear. The ball grazed Root's shoulder, struck the concrete floor, and bounded off behind us. I turned to find the Professor with his arms spread out to cover Root, shielding him with his entire body to keep him from harm.

  Even after the ball had rolled to a stop, the Professor remained frozen for some time, with Root pinned beneath him.

  "Please watch out for foul balls," the stadium announcer reminded us.

  "It's okay now," I whispered. Peanut shells scattered down from the Professor's hand.

  "A baseball weighing 141.7 grams… falling from a height of 15 meters… an iron ball weighing 12.1 kilograms… the force is 85.39 times…" the Professor whispered his incantation, huddling over seats 714 and 715. My son and the Professor shared a secret bond now that no one could break, just as the Professor and I were linked by 220 and 284.

  A cry went up in the stadium. Nakagomi's second pitch had been hit into right field, and we watched as it rolled across the turf.

  "Kameyama!" the man at the fence cried one last time.

  6

  It was nearly ten o'clock when we reached the Professor's cottage. Root was still excited, but he was now fighting back yawns. I had intended to see the Professor home and then head to our apartment, but he seemed so exhausted that I decided we should stay until he was safely in bed.

  Perhaps the crowded bus on the way home had been too much for him. He had almost panicked as the waves of people swayed against him, obviously terrified that they would tear off his tags. "We're almost there," I'd told him again and again. But he gave no sign that he heard, and he twisted and squirmed the whole way home in an effort to avoid being touched.

  He hastily undressed, which I suspect was his habit. He threw his socks, coat, tie, and trousers on the floor, and slipped into bed in his underwear without brushing his teeth. I pretended to myself that he had brushed them very quickly when he'd disappeared into the bathroom.

  "Thank you," he said before he closed his eyes. "It was great fun."

  "Even though he blew the no-hitter," said Root, kneeling by the bed to straighten the Professor's quilt.

  "Enatsu threw a no-hitter," murmured the Professor. "That one went to extra innings. It was on August 30, 1973, and the Tigers were battling the Giants for the pennant right up to the last game of the season. They were playing the Chunichi Dragons, and Enatsu himself hit a walk-off home run in the bottom of the eleventh to win the game 1 to 0. He did it all himself-offense and defense. But he wasn't pitching today, was he?"

  "No, we'll have to check the rotation next time before we get tickets," said Root.

  "But they won," I added.

  "That's right," said the Professor. "A fine score, 6 to 1."

  "They moved up to second place, and the Giants lost to Taiyo, so they're in the cellar. It doesn't get much better than that, does it, Professor?"

  "No, it doesn't. But the best part was going to the game with you. Now listen to your mother and get home and go right to bed. You've got school tomorrow." He smiled faintly, but his eyes closed even before Root could answer. His eyelids were red, his lips were cracked, and he had begun to perspire. I felt his forehead and r
ealized he had a high fever.

  I hesitated a moment, but soon decided that Root and I would have to stay the night with him. I could never ignore a sick person, much less the Professor. Rather than worry about the terms of my contract or the agency rules, it was easier simply to stay and take care of him.

  Not surprisingly, a search of the house failed to turn up anything that might be useful for treating a fever-no ice pack, thermometer, gargle, or medicines. I peeked out the window and saw a light still on in the main house, and for a split second I thought I saw a shadowy figure standing near the hedge. It occurred to me that I could use some help from the Professor's sister-in-law, but then I remembered my promise not to involve her in any difficulties that might occur in the cottage. I drew the curtains.

  Realizing that I would have to manage for myself, I crushed some ice into a plastic bag, wrapped it in a towel, and set about trying to cool the Professor's neck and back. Then I covered him in a heavy winter blanket and made tea to hydrate him. This was my usual routine when Root had a fever.

  I put Root to bed on the sofa in the corner of the study. It had been covered with books, but when I cleared them away it proved to be comfortable enough. Root was still worried about the Professor, but he fell asleep almost immediately, his Tigers cap perched on a stack of math books.

  "How are you feeling?" I asked the Professor. "Are you in pain? Are you thirsty?" He did not reply, and as he was sleeping soundly I assumed the fever would pass. His breathing was a little irregular, but there was no sign that he was in any pain. He looked almost peaceful. Even when I changed the ice packs or wiped down his damp arms and legs, he remained limp and did not open his eyes.

  Out of his note-covered suit, his body was surprisingly thin and frail. His skin was pale and soft, the flesh on his arms and thighs and belly was wrinkled and slack. His fingernails seemed old and tired. I remembered something the Professor had told me, something a mathematician with a difficult name once said: "Math has proven the existence of God, because it is absolute and without contradiction; but the devil must exist as well, because we cannot prove it." The Professor's body had been consumed by the devil of mathematics.