The Gift of Numbers by Yōko Ogawa

didn't
seem to know. He hadn't practiced, he did it almost without thinking,
and had assumed long ago that it was something anybody
could do.
    "Don't be ridiculous," I told him. "I couldn't reverse syllables
in my head like that. You could be in the Guinness Book , or on
one of those TV shows."
    The prospect of being on TV seemed to alarm the Professor;
and yet, this trick came to him with even greater ease when he was
anxious. One thing seemed clear, however: he was not reading the
reversed syllables from a picture in his head. It was more a matter
of rhythm, and once his ear had caught it, he instinctively flipped
the syllables around.
    "It's like solving a problem in mathematics," he said. "The formula
doesn't just come floating into your head in finished form. It
starts as a vague outline and then gradually becomes clearer. It's a
bit like that."
    "Can you do it again?" Root said, forgetting his homework. He
was completely fascinated by the Professor's ability. "Let's see. Try
Hanshin Tigers."
    "Gersti shinhan."
    "Radio calisthenics."
    "Icsthenisca odira."
    "The cafeteria had fried chicken today."
    "Dayto enchick fried had riateecaf the."
    "Amicable numbers."
    "Bersnum blecaiam."
    "I drew an armadillo at the zoo."
    "Zoo the at lodilmaar an drew I."
    Root and I tossed out sentences for the Professor one after another,
challenging him with longer and tougher ones. At first,
Root wrote out each one and checked it, but the Professor's performance
was flawless, and Root eventually gave up. We simply
said something—anything at all—and the Professor spoke it back
to us in reverse syllables, without a second's hesitation.
    "Unbelievable! It's awesome, Professor! You should show
people. You should be proud. How come we didn't know after all
this time?"
    "I'm not sure what you mean," said the Professor. "What is
there to be proud of?"
    "But you should be proud! It's amazing! People would love to
see this!"
    "Thank you," said the Professor, looking down bashfully. He
placed his hand on Root's flat head—a head oddly suited to supporting
a hand. "This skill of mine is completely useless. Who
needs a lot of scrambled-up words? But I'm glad you find it interesting."
    The Professor thought of a palindrome for Root's assignment:
    "I prefer pi."
     
    The Professor had another talent: finding the first sign of the evening
star in the afternoon sky.
    "Ah!" he said one day from his easy chair, when the sun was
still high up in the sky. Thinking he was talking in his sleep or muttering
something to himself, I didn't answer. "Ah!" he said again,
and pointed with one unsteady finger out the window. "The evening
star."
    He was not speaking to me, but to himself. I stopped what I
was doing in the kitchen to look where he was pointing—though I
couldn't see anything but the sky. Perhaps too many numbers are
causing hallucinations, I wondered; but, as though he'd read my
mind, he pointed once again. "Look, there it is."
    His finger was wrinkled and cracked, and there was dirt under
the nail. I blinked and tried to focus, but I couldn't see anything
but a few wisps of cloud.
    "It's a little early for stars," I said as gently as I could.
    "The evening star means night is coming," he said, as if I'd
never said a word. Then he lowered his arm and nodded off again.
    I don't know what the evening star meant to him, perhaps finding
it in the sky soothed his nerves, or maybe it was simply a
habit. And I don't know how he could see it so long before anyone
else—he barely noticed the food I set right in front of him.
For whatever reason, he would point his withered finger at a
single spot in the vast sky—always the right place, as I eventually
discovered—and that spot had significance for him and no one
else.
     
    Root's cut healed, but his attitude was slower to recover. He behaved
himself when we were with the Professor, but when it was
just the two of us, he became moody and short. One day, when his
clean, white bandage had begun to look dingy,