The Gift of Numbers (11 page)

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.

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?"

Before I'd finished, he pushed me away and turned his back;
and as he did, I realized I had made the most basic mistake: he no
longer remembered the baseball game, or even who I was. He sat
on the bed staring down at his lap, his back more hunched over
than it had been the day before. His tired body remained still, his
mind wandered in a fog. All passion had deserted him, and even
the affection he showed toward Root was gone.

A moment later, I realized he was sobbing quietly. At first, I
couldn't tell where the sound was coming from him—it sounded
like the stuttering of a broken music box. These sobs were very
different from the ones he'd cried when Root cut his hand; they
were private, desolate, and for no one other than himself.

The Professor was reading the note clipped in the most prominent
spot on his jacket, the one he could never avoid seeing as he
got dressed. "My memory lasts only eighty minutes." I sat down
on the edge of the bed, unsure whether there was anything more I
could do for him. My mistake had been the simplest one—and
perhaps the most fatal. Every morning, when the Professor woke
up, a note in his own hand reminded him of his affliction, and that
the dreams he'd dreamed were not last night's but those of some
night in the distant past back when his memory had ended—it
was as though yesterday had never happened. The Professor who
had shielded Root from the foul ball last night was gone. Somehow,
I had never quite understood what it meant for him to wake
up alone each morning to this cruel revelation.

"I'm your housekeeper," I said, when the sobs had subsided for
a moment. "I'm here to help you." He looked up at me through his
tears. "My son will come this evening. We call him Root, because
his head is flat. You gave him that name." I pointed to the picture
of me on his jacket, grateful it had survived the bus ride home from
the ballpark.

"When is your birthday?" he said. His voice was weak from the
fever, but I was relieved to hear a sound other than sobbing.

"February twentieth," I said. "It's an amicable number, 220,
good friends with 284."

His fever lasted three days, and he slept nearly the whole time. He
didn't wake up for meals or show any interest in the snacks I left
by his bed, so finally I was forced to feed him bite by bite. I would
prop him up in bed and pinch his cheeks, and when he opened his
mouth, I was ready with the spoon. He could barely stay awake for
a full cup of soup, nodding off before I'd managed to feed half of
it to him.

In the end, he recovered without seeing a doctor. Since going
out had caused his fever in the first place, I felt that the best thing
was to keep him at home in a peaceful place. Besides, it would
have been all but impossible to get him up and dressed and out to
the clinic.

When Root arrived from school, he would go straight to the
study and stand by the Professor's bed, watching him sleep until I
told him he had to do his homework.

On the morning of the fourth day, the fever finally broke, and he
soon made a quick recovery. He started sleeping less, and his appetite
returned. Soon, he was well enough to sit at the dinner table,
and then to tie his own tie; and before long he was back in his easy
chair reading his math books. He even resumed working on his
puzzles. I knew he was fully recovered when he began scolding me
for interrupting his work, and when he started greeting Root at the
door again with a hug. They took up their math drills, the Professor
rubbed Root's head—everything was normal again.

Not long after the Professor had recovered, I received a message
summoning me to the office of the Director of the Akebono
Housekeeping Agency. It was a bad sign to be called in when it
wasn't time for a regular performance review. It could mean that a
client had complained and you were going to be reprimanded, or
that someone was demanding a formal apology, or that you were
about to be fined for some transgression or for damage to the
client's property. But I knew that the Professor's limited memory
made a complaint from him unlikely, and I had kept my promise to
his sister-in-law to avoid bothering her; so, I reassured myself that
the Director probably just wanted to know how I was managing
with a client who had nine blue stars from previous housekeepers.

"I'm afraid this is serious," he said almost before I'd taken my
seat, bursting my little bubble of self-delusion. "There's been a
complaint." He was rubbing his high forehead and looking terribly
pained.

"What sort of complaint?" I stammered.

I had been the subject of complaints before, but in each case
the Director had seen immediately that it was the result of a misunderstanding
or some eccentricity on the part of the client, and
he had simply told me to make the best of the situation. But this
time was different.

"Don't play dumb with me," he said. "You spent the night at
your client's house?"

"I've done nothing wrong. Who made such a ridiculous, disgusting
suggestion?"

"It's not a 'suggestion.' You stayed there, didn't you?"
I nodded meekly.

"You know perfectly well that you must let the agency know if
you plan to work overtime, and in the case of an emergency, you
have to get the client's written approval for overtime pay."

"Yes, I know," I said.

"Then you broke the rules, and the accusation is not 'ridiculous.'"

"But it wasn't overtime. I was just taking care of my client ...
though I might have gone a little overboard."

"If it wasn't overtime, what was it? If you weren't working
when you stayed the night at a male client's house, I think you'll
agree it sounds a little suspicious."

"But he was ill! He had a fever and I couldn't leave him alone.
I was wrong to ignore the rules, and I'm sorry. But I was only doing
what any good housekeeper would do."

"And what about your son?" The Director changed tack, tracing
the edge of the Professor's client card with his finger. "I made
a special exception for you. I'd never allowed anyone to take a
child along to work, but since it seemed as though it was the
client's wish, and it was an unusually difficult situation, I decided
to let it go. But I immediately started getting complaints from the
other girls that I was playing favorites, so I needed you to be beyond
reproach on this job."

"I'm sorry, really I am. I was careless. And I'm grateful for your
help with my son...."

"I'm taking you off the job," he said. I started to object but he
went on. "You're done there. Take today off, and then tomorrow
you'll go for an interview at a new place." He turned over the Professor's
card and added a tenth blue star.

"Wait a minute. This is all too quick. Who wants me fired? Is it
the Professor?"

"It's the client's sister-in-law."