The Gift of Numbers by Yōko Ogawa Page B

they seemed to resolve into a kind of order,
they would divide again into apparently random strands. They
were punctuated with arrows andand ∑ and all sorts of other
symbols, they covered the paper with dark blotches in some places,
and traced faintly like delicate insect tracks in others.
    Needless to say, I could not understand any of the mysteries
concealed in the notebooks. Yet somehow, I wanted to stay there
forever, just staring at the formulas. Was the proof of the Artin
conjecture that the Professor had spoken of somewhere here?
And certainly there must be some of his work on the beloved
prime numbers ... and perhaps the notes for the thesis that had
won Prize No. 284 were here as well. In my own way, I could sense
all kinds of things from the mysterious numbers and figures—the
passion in a pencil smudge, the impatience of a crossed-out mistake,
the certitude in a passage underscored with two thick lines.
This glimpse into the Professor's world thrilled me deeply.
    As I looked more closely, I began to notice scribbles here and
there in the margins that even I could read: "Define terms of solution
more carefully." "Invalid when only partially stable." "New
approach, useless." "Will it be in time?" "14:00 with N, in front of
the library."
    Though these notes were simply scrawled in the spaces between
the calculations, the handwriting here seemed much more
purposeful than the scribbled notes attached to the Professor's
suit. In these pages, the Professor had walked beyond beaten
paths, looking for truth in a place no one knows.
    What had happened in front of the library at two o'clock? And
who was N? I found myself hoping that the meeting had been a
happy one for the professor.
    I ran my fingers over the lines of the formula, a long chain of
numbers and symbols that flowed from one page to the next. As
I followed the chain, link by link, the room faded and I found myself
in a dark, silent place of numbers. But I felt no fear, certain in
the knowledge that the Professor would guide me toward eternal,
unchangeable truths.
    As I turned the last page of the last notebook, the chain
abruptly broke, and I was left in the shadows. If I could have read
on just a little further, I might have found what I was looking for;
but the chain simply slipped from my fingers and I would never
grasp its end.
    "Excuse me," the Professor called from the bathroom. "I'm
sorry to bother you when you're busy...."
    I quickly put everything back in its place. "Coming," I called,
as brightly as I could.
     
    In May, I bought three tickets for the Tigers game against Hiroshima
on June 2. The Tigers played only twice a season in the
town where we lived and, if you let the chance go by, it was a long
wait until the next game.
    Root had never been to a ball game. In fact, with the exception
of a trip to the zoo with his grandmother, he had never been to a
museum or a movie theater or anywhere at all. From the time he
was born, I had been obsessed with making ends meet, and somehow
I had forgotten to make time to have fun with my son.
    When I'd found the baseball cards in the cookie tin, it had suddenly
occurred to me that a baseball game might be just the thing
for a disabled old man who passed his days wandering in the world
of numbers and a boy who had spent nearly every day of his life
waiting for his mother to come home from work.
    The price of three reserved seats on the third baseline was a bit
more than I could afford—especially since I'd just had the unexpected
expense of our visit to the clinic. But there would be plenty
of time to worry about money later; who knew when the old man
and the boy would have a chance to enjoy a ball game together.
Besides, the Professor had only known baseball through his cards;
if I could show him the real thing—the sweat-soaked pinstripes,
the home-run ball vanishing into a sea of cheers, the cleat-scarred
pitcher's mound—that would be a privilege. Even if I wouldn't be
able to produce Enatsu.
    I