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

But the simplicity of the calculation only reinforces the enigma of e .

To begin with, what was "natural" about this "natural logarithm"? Wasn't it utterly unnatural to take such a number as your base-a number that could only be expressed by a sign: this tiny e seemed to extend to infinity, falling off even the largest sheet of paper. I could not begin to understand this never-ending number. It seemed as chaotic and random as a line of marching ants or a baby's alphabet blocks, and yet it obeyed its own inner sort of logic. Perhaps there was no fathoming God's notebooks after all. In the entire universe there were only a handful of especially gifted human beings able to understand a tiny part of this order, and then there were the rest of us, who could barely appreciate their discoveries.

The book was so heavy I needed to rest my arms for a moment before flipping back through the pages. I wondered about Leonhard Euler, who was probably the greatest mathematician of the eighteenth century. All I knew about him was this formula, but reading it made me feel as though I were standing in his presence. Using a profoundly unnatural concept, he had discovered the natural connection between numbers that seemed completely unrelated.

If you added 1 to e elevated to the power of π times i, you got 0: e π i+ 1 = 0.

I looked at the Professor's note again. A number that cycled on forever and another vague figure that never revealed its true nature now traced a short and elegant trajectory to a single point. Though there was no circle in evidence, π had descended from somewhere to join hands with e. There they rested, slumped against each other, and it only remained for a human being to add 1, and the world suddenly changed. Everything resolved into nothing, zero.

Euler's formula shone like a shooting star in the night sky, or like a line of poetry carved on the wall of a dark cave. I slipped the Professor's note into my wallet, strangely moved by the beauty of those few symbols. As I headed down the library stairs, I turned back to look. The mathematics stacks were as silent and empty as ever-apparently no one suspected the riches hidden there.

The next day, I returned to the library to look into something else that had been bothering me for a long time. When I found the bound volume of the local newspaper for the year 1975, I read through it a page at a time. The article I was looking for was in the September 24 edition.

On September 23, at approximately 4:10 P.M., on National Highway… a truck belonging to a local transport company crossed the center line, causing a head-on collision with a car… Professor of Mathematics… suffered severe head injuries and is in critical condition, while his sister-in-law, who was in the passenger seat, is in serious condition with a broken leg. The driver of the truck suffered only minor injuries and is being interviewed by police, who suspect he fell asleep at the wheel.

I closed the volume, remembering the sound of the widow's cane.

I still have the Professor's note, though the photograph of Root has long since faded. Euler's formula comforts me-it is a memento that I still treasure.

I've often asked myself why the Professor wrote this particular formula at that moment. Simply by writing out this one equation and placing it between us, he put an end to the argument between myself and the widow. And as a result, I returned to work as his housekeeper and the Professor renewed his friendship with Root. Had he been calculating this outcome from the beginning? Or, in his confusion, had he simply written a formula at random? There was no way to tell.

What was certain was the Professor's affection for Root. Fearful that Root would think he had caused the argument, the Professor came to his rescue in the only way he knew how. After all these years, I'm still at a loss for words to describe how purely the Professor loved children-except to say that it was as unchangeable and true as Euler's formula itself.

My son's needs always took precedence with the Professor, who only sought to protect him. Watching over my son was the Professor's greatest joy. And Root appreciated the Professor's attentions. He never ignored or took these kindnesses for granted, and acknowledged that they should be fully recognized and respected. I could only marvel at Root's maturity. If I was setting out their snack and gave the Professor a larger portion than Root, he would invariably scold me. It was a matter of principle that the biggest piece of fish or steak or watermelon should go to the youngest person at the table. Even when he was at a critical point with a math problem, he still seemed to have unlimited time for Root. He was always delighted when Root asked a question, no matter what the subject; and he seemed convinced that children's questions were much more important than those of an adult. He preferred smart questions to smart answers.

The Professor also showed concern for Root's physical wellbeing and watched over him with care. He noticed ingrown hairs or boils long before I did; he didn't stare or touch him in order to discover these things, he simply knew and he would tell me discreetly, so as not to worry Root. I can still recall him whispering in my ear as I was working in the kitchen. "Do you think we ought to do something about that boil?" he might murmur, as if the world were coming to an end. "Children have quick metabolisms. It might suddenly swell up and press on his lymph nodes or even block his windpipe." He was especially anxious when it came to Root's health.

"Fine. I'll pop it with a needle," I'd say-casually enough to get him truly angry.

"But what if it gets infected?!"

"I'll disinfect the needle first over the stove," I would say, teasing him. His concern for Root delighted me, although I didn't show it.

"Absolutely not! You can't kill all the germs like that!" He refused to let up until I had agreed to take Root straight to the doctor.

He treated Root exactly as he treated prime numbers. For him, primes were the base on which all other natural numbers relied; and children were the foundation of everything worthwhile in the adult world.

I still take out that note sometimes and study it. On sleepless nights, or lonely evenings, when tears come to my eyes thinking about friends who are no longer here. I bow my head in gratitude for that one line.

It was on the day of the Star Festival that the Tigers lost their seventh game in a row, 1-0 against Taiyo.

I'd had no trouble falling back into the rhythm of the job, despite my month away. And because of the Professor's memory problem, he immediately forgot my misunderstanding with his sister-in-law. For him, no trace of the trouble remained.

I transferred the notes to his summer suit, taking care to fasten them in the same positions, and I rewrote those that were torn or faded.

"In an envelope in the desk, second drawer from the bottom."

" Theory of Functions , 2nd edition, pp. 315-372 and Commentary on Hyperbolic Functions , volume IV, chapter 1, § 17."

"Medicine to take after meals in manila envelope, on the left in the sideboard."

"Spare razor blades next to the mirror above the sink."

"Thank for the cake."

Some of the notes were out of date-it had been a month since Root had brought the Professor a little steamed bun he had baked in his home economics class-but it seemed wrong to throw them out. I treated them all with equal respect.

As I read through them, I realized how hard it was for the Profossor to simply get through the day, and how carefully he hid the enormous efforts he made. I tried to work as quickly as possible and not to linger over the notes. When they were all reattached, his summer suit was ready.