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

Nor was he like this only with numbers. When he had carried the injured Root to the hospital, or when he had protected him from the foul ball, it had been difficult for him to accept our gratitude-he was not being stubborn or perverse, he simply couldn't understand what he had done to deserve our thanks.

He discounted the value of his own efforts, and seemed to feel that anyone would have done the same.

"We'll have to celebrate," I said.

"I don't think there's anything to celebrate."

"When someone has worked hard and won first prize, his friends want to celebrate with him."

"Why make a fuss? I simply peeked in God's notebook and copied down a bit of what I saw…"

"No, we're going to celebrate. Root and I want to, even if you don't." As usual, I played the Root card. "And now that you mention it, we could combine this with Root's birthday party. He was born on the eleventh. He'll be delighted to share the celebration with you."

"And how old will he be?" My stratagem had worked. He was finally beginning to show some enthusiasm.

"Eleven," I said.

"Eleven." He sat up and blinked, then ran his hand through his hair.

"That's right. Eleven."

"An exquisite number. An especially beautiful prime among primes. And it was Murayama's number. Truly wonderful, don't you think?" What I thought was that everyone has a birthday once a year, and that was far less interesting than a mathematical proof that had won a major prize; but of course I held my tongue and nodded. "Good! Then we should have a party. Children need to celebrate. Nothing makes them happier than some cake, some candles, and a little applause. That's simple enough, isn't it?"

"Yes, of course," I said. I took a marker and drew a big circle around the eleventh on the calendar, big enough to catch the attention of someone as distracted as the Professor. For his part, he made a new note-"Friday, September 11, Root's eleventh birthday party"-and found a spot for it just below his most important note.

"There," he said, nodding in satisfaction as he studied the new addition. "That should do."

Root and I talked it over and decided that we would give the Professor an Enatsu baseball card at the party. So, while he was napping in the kitchen, we crept into the study and I showed Root the cookie tin. He was immediately fascinated and seemed to forget we were keeping a secret from the Professor. Sitting on the floor, he began to examine each card, reverently admiring their every detail.

"Be careful with them," I fussed nervously. "They're important to the Professor." But Root hardly seemed to hear me.

It was the first time he had really had a chance to look at baseball cards. He knew that people collected them-his friends had shown him theirs-but it was as if he had avoided developing an interest in them. He was not the sort of boy who would ask his mother for something frivolous.

But once he had seen the Professor's collection, there was no going back. Another part of the world of baseball had opened up before him, and it held a very different appeal from that of the real game. Each card was a talisman of an imaginary game that was separate from the one he saw played out on the field or heard on the radio. A photograph capturing a crucial moment, an inspiring story, and the historical record inscribed on the back-all captured on a rectangular card in a clean plastic case you could hold in the palm of your hand. Everything about the cards fascinated Root, and this particular collection was all the more delightful because it belonged to the Professor.

"Look at this Enatsu! You can even see the sweat flying off him." "And this one of Bacque-look how long his arms are." "And this one's unbelievable! When you hold it up to the light, you get a 3-D picture of Enatsu!" He stopped to show me every new discovery.

"I know," I said at last. "Now put them back." I'd heard a creak from the easy chair in the next room. The Professor would be getting up soon. "You can ask him to show them to you sometime soon. But be sure you put them back in the right order; he's got a very special system."

Whether from excitement or because the cards were heavier than he'd thought, Root dropped the tin. There was a loud crash, but the cards were so tightly packed together that the damage was minimal-only a few of the second basemen had scattered across the floor.

We retrieved them quickly, and fortunately there were no bent corners or cracked cases. The only difference was that we'd spoiled the Professor's incredibly precise order.

I was worried that the Professor could wake up at any moment. I knew he would have been happy to show Root his collection had we simply asked, so I wasn't sure why I was sneaking around like this, or why I was hesitant to raise the subject of the cookie tin. For some reason, I had convinced myself that the Professor would not want other people to see the cards.

"This is Shirasaka, so 'shi' should go right after Kamata Minoru."

"How do you read this one?"

"It's written next to the characters in the syllabary-Hondo Yasuji. So it goes back here."

"Do you know who he is?"

"No, but he must have been important to have a card. We can't worry about that now, we've got to hurry."

As we concentrated on putting the cards back in order, I suddenly noticed something: the tin had a second layer underneath the one holding the cards. I was about to file a Motoyashiki Kingo when I realized that the tin was slightly deeper than the height of the card.

"Hang on a second." Stopping Root for a moment, I wiggled my finger into the space where the second basemen had fallen out. There was no doubt about it: the tin had a false bottom.

"What?" said Root, looking puzzled.

"Nothing," I said. "Just hold on a minute." I had Root fetch a ruler from the desk and I very carefully slipped it under the row of cards. "Look, there's something down there. If I hold them up like this, can you pull it out?"

"Yep, I see it. I think I can get it." Root's small hand slipped into the narrow opening, and in a few seconds he extracted the contents of the hidden compartment.

It was a thesis of some sort. It had been typed in English and was bound with a cover page bearing what looked to be a university seal-a hundred-odd-page mathematical proof. The Professor's name was printed in Gothic letters and the work was dated 1957.

"Is it a problem the Professor solved?"

"It seems to be."

"But why would he hide it here?" Root said, sounding thoroughly mystified. I did a quick mental calculation: 1992-1957-the Professor had been twenty-nine. Since the noises from the next room had stopped, I began to flip through the thesis, the Motoyashiki card still in my hand.

This paper had been handled with as much care as the baseball cards. The paper stock and the type were showing signs of age, but there was no trace of dirt or damage from human hands, no folds or wrinkles or spots-mint condition. The high-quality paper was still soft to the touch and the typist had made no mistakes. The binding, too, was perfect, with the pages neatly gathered at the corners. An edict left by a noble king could hardly have been more carefully produced or preserved.

Taking my cue from those who had handled it so gingerly in the past, and remembering Root's recent mishap, I held it with the greatest care. The paper smelled faintly of cookies, but it still looked impressive, in spite of being pressed down at the bottom of a tin for years under rows of baseball cards.

As for the content, the only thing I could decipher on the first page was the title: Chapter 1. But as I flipped through the pages that followed, I came across the name Artin, and remembered the Artin conjecture that the Professor had explained with a stick in the dirt on the way home from the barber-and the formula he had added when I'd brought up the perfect number 28, and how the cherry blossoms had fluttered to the ground.