Yôko Ogawa - The Gift of Numbers aka The Housekeeper and the Professor

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.

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 realized 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.

As the night wore on, his fever seemed to worsen. His breath was hot, sweat poured off him, and the ice packs melted quickly. I began to worry-should I run out to the drugstore? Was it wrong to have forced him to go to the game? Would the fever do more damage to his brain? Eventually I consoled myself with the thought that he was sleeping peacefully, and I decided everything would be all right.

I wrapped myself in the lap robe that we'd taken along to the stadium and lay down by the bed. Moonlight shone in through a crack in the curtains. The game seemed a distant memory. The Professor was asleep to my left, Root to my right. When I closed my eyes, the world was filled with sound. The Professor's soft snoring, the drip of melting ice, Root muttering in his sleep, the creak of the sofa. The sounds comforted me, allowing me to forget about the Professor's crisis, as I drifted off to sleep.

The next morning, before the Professor woke up, Root left for school. He took the Tigers megaphone to return to his friend and promised to stop at the apartment to collect his books. When I went to check on the Professor, he was still in a deep sleep, but he seemed less flushed and his breathing was steady and calm. I began to worry that he had been asleep for too long. I gently touched his forehead and rolled back the blanket. I tried tickling him on the neck and chest and under his arms. I even tried blowing in his ear. But there was no response, other than a slight twitching of his eyes under their heavy lids.

Around noon, as I was working in the kitchen, I heard a noise from the study, and when I went to see, he was sitting on the edge of the bed dressed in his usual suit, his chin drooping down on his chest.

"You shouldn't be up," I told him. "You have a fever and you need to rest." He looked at me for a moment without saying anything and then looked down again. His eyes were full of sleep, his hair was wild, and his tie was badly askew. "Let's get you out of that suit and into some clean underwear. You were all sweaty last night. I'll go and buy you some pajamas later. You'll feel better when we get you fixed up and change the sheets. You were exhausted-from the long ball game. I'm sorry we tired you out, but I think you'll be fine now. If we keep you warm in bed and properly fed, you'll be as good as new in no time. That always works when Root has a fever… So, let's start by getting something in your stomach. Would you like some apple juice?"