The housekeeper and the professor (10 page)

I thought it was a wonderful idea, but Root's reaction surprised
me: "He probably won't want to go," he muttered. "The Professor
hates crowds." He had a point. I'd had trouble convincing the
Professor to go to the barbershop; and a baseball game was the
antithesis of his beloved peace and quiet. "And how are you going
to get him ready? He can't think about it ahead of time." Root always
showed amazing insight when it came to the Professor.
"Everything's a surprise for him. He can't plan ahead, and if you
spring something big on him out of the blue like this, he could die
of shock."

"Don't be ridiculous," I said. "What if we pin the ticket to his
suit?"

"I don't think it'd work," Root said, shaking his head. "Have
you ever seen him remember anything from all those notes?"

"Well, he checks my picture on his sleeve every morning when
I arrive."

"But he couldn't even tell the difference between you and me
from that terrible drawing."

"He's a math genius, not an artist."

"Every time I see the Professor writing a note with that little
pencil, I feel like crying," Root said.

"Why?"

"Because it's sad!" he said. He was almost angry now. I just
nodded, unwilling to argue further. "And there's one more problem,"
he added, in a resigned tone of voice. "None of the players
he knew are still on the Tigers. They all retired."

He was right again. If the players on his cards did not appear in
the game, he would be confused and disappointed. Even the team
uniform had changed since his day. The baseball stadium itself
was bound to upset the Professor as well—with the fans drinking
and shouting and screaming, it was the very opposite of a tranquil
mathematical theorem. Root's fears were all justified.

"I see what you mean, but I've already bought the tickets. Forget
about the Professor for a moment; would you like to see the
Tigers play?"

He looked down for a moment, perhaps trying to preserve his
dignity, but he soon began to squirm and finally, unable to contain
himself, he danced all around me.

"Yes!" he shouted. "More than anything!" He danced and
danced and then hung on my neck. "Thank you!" he said.

It was rainy season, and we'd been worried about the weather, but
June 2 dawned bright and sunny. We set out on the four-fifty bus,
while there was still a good bit of light in the sky. Some of the
other passengers seemed to be heading to the game as well.

Root carried a plastic megaphone he had borrowed from a
friend, and, of course, he wore his Tigers cap. Every ten minutes
or so, he asked me if I'd remembered the tickets. I was carrying a
basket of sandwiches in one hand and a Thermos of tea in the
other; but his constant questions made me uneasy, and I found
myself slipping my hand into the pocket of my skirt just to be
sure.

The Professor was dressed as always: a suit covered with notes,
moldy shoes, pencils in his breast pocket.

I'd told him about the baseball game at three thirty, exactly
eighty minutes before the bus was due to depart. Root had already
arrived from school, and we tried to bring up the game as casually
as possible. At first, the Professor didn't understand what we
were saying. I don't think he was even aware that professional
baseball was played at stadiums all over the country and that anyone
who wanted to could buy a ticket and go to a game—not that
this was especially odd, since he had only recently learned that you
could listen to a game on the radio. Until now, baseball had only
existed in the form of statistics and as illustrated cards.

"You want me to go?" he asked, sounding apprehensive.

"You certainly don't have to if you don't want. But we'd like
you to come with us."

"To the stadium ... on a bus?" Thinking about things was the
Professor's special talent, and if we'd left him alone, he might have
considered the matter until long after the game had ended. "And
will we see Enatsu?" He'd struck us where we were most vulnerable,
but Root gave the answer we'd agreed on.

"Unfortunately, he played against the Giants at Koshien the
day before yesterday, so he won't be pitching today. I'm sorry,
Professor."

"You don't have to apologize. But it is a shame.... Did he win
the other day at least?"

"Sure he did. His seventh win of the season."

At the time, in 1992, the pitcher who wore number 28, Yoshihiro
Nakada, played only rarely due to a shoulder injury. It was
hard to know whether it was lucky or unlucky that no one in the
dugout would be wearing number 28. If the player wearing
Enatsu's number wasn't a pitcher, the Professor would have realized
something was wrong, but if he had seen number 28 throwing
in the bullpen, perhaps he wouldn't be able to tell the difference.
He'd never seen Enatsu play, so he wouldn't recognize his
windup. But if the Tigers decided to play Nakada, there would
have been no mistaking him from the mound and the Professor's
shock could have been terrible. Nakada was not even a lefty, like
Enatsu. It would have been easier all around if there were no 28
at all.

"Let's go!" Root urged. "It'll be more fun if you come, too."
And that was enough—the Professor decided to go.

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.