would never be able to extract
something sublime and true from my poor brain cells, no chance of
imagining something that would please a real mathematician.
But then the Professor stood up and began to applaud as
warmly and enthusiastically as if we had just solved Fermat's theorem.
He clapped for a long time, filling the little house with his approval.
"Wonderful! It's magnificent, Root." He folded Root in his
arms, half crushing him.
"Okay, okay. I can't breathe," Root mumbled, his words nearly
lost in the Professor's embrace.
He was determined to make this skinny boy with the flat head
understand how beautiful his discovery was, but as I stood watching
Root's triumph, I secretly felt proud of my own contribution. I
looked at the line of figures Root had written. 5 × 9 + 10 = 55. And
even though I'd never really studied mathematics, I knew that the
formula became more impressive if you restated it in abstract form:
It was a splendid discovery, and the clarity and purity of the solution
was even more extraordinary in light of the confusion it had
emerged from, as if I'd unearthed a shard of crystal from the floor
of a dark cave. I laughed quietly, realizing that I'd praised myself
adequately, even if the Professor's compliments had been directed
elsewhere.
Root was finally released, and we bowed again like two scholars
who had just finished their presentation at an academic conference.
That day, the Tigers lost 2–3 to the Dragons. They had taken a
two-run lead on a triple by Wada, but the Dragons responded
with back-to-back home runs and won the game.
4
The Professor loved prime numbers more than anything in the
world. I'd been vaguely aware of their existence, but it never occurred
to me that they could be the object of someone's deepest
affection. He was tender and attentive and respectful; by turns he
would caress them or prostrate himself before them; he never
strayed far from his prime numbers. Whether at his desk or at the
dinner table, when he talked about numbers, primes were most
likely to make an appearance. At first, it was hard to see their appeal.
They seemed so stubborn, resisting division by any number
but one and themselves. Still, as we were swept up in the Professor's
enthusiasm, we gradually came to understand his devotion,
and the primes began to seem more real, as though we could reach
out and touch them. I'm sure they meant something different to
each of us, but as soon as the Professor would mention prime
numbers, we would look at each other with conspiratorial smiles.
Just as the thought of a caramel can cause your mouth to water,
the mere mention of prime numbers made us anxious to know
more about their secrets.
Evening was a precious time for the three of us. The vague tension
around my morning arrival—which for the Professor was always
our first encounter—had dissipated, and Root livened up
our quiet days. I suppose that's why I'll always remember the Professor's
face in the evening, in profile, lit by the setting sun.
Inevitably, the Professor repeated himself when he talked
about prime numbers. But Root and I had promised each other
that we would never tell him, even if we had heard the same thing
several times before—a promise we took as seriously as our agreement
to hide the truth about Enatsu. No matter how weary we
were of hearing a story, we always made an effort to listen attentively.
We felt we owed that to the Professor, who had put so much
effort into treating the two of us as real mathematicians. But our
main concern was to avoid confusing him. Any kind of uncertainty
caused him pain, so we were determined to hide the time
that had passed and the memories he'd lost. Biting our tongues
was the least we could do.
But the truth was, we were almost never bored when he spoke
of mathematics. Though he often returned to the topic of prime
numbers—the proof that there were an infinite number of them,
or a code that had been devised based on primes, or the most
enormous
something sublime and true from my poor brain cells, no chance of
imagining something that would please a real mathematician.
But then the Professor stood up and began to applaud as
warmly and enthusiastically as if we had just solved Fermat's theorem.
He clapped for a long time, filling the little house with his approval.
"Wonderful! It's magnificent, Root." He folded Root in his
arms, half crushing him.
"Okay, okay. I can't breathe," Root mumbled, his words nearly
lost in the Professor's embrace.
He was determined to make this skinny boy with the flat head
understand how beautiful his discovery was, but as I stood watching
Root's triumph, I secretly felt proud of my own contribution. I
looked at the line of figures Root had written. 5 × 9 + 10 = 55. And
even though I'd never really studied mathematics, I knew that the
formula became more impressive if you restated it in abstract form:
It was a splendid discovery, and the clarity and purity of the solution
was even more extraordinary in light of the confusion it had
emerged from, as if I'd unearthed a shard of crystal from the floor
of a dark cave. I laughed quietly, realizing that I'd praised myself
adequately, even if the Professor's compliments had been directed
elsewhere.
Root was finally released, and we bowed again like two scholars
who had just finished their presentation at an academic conference.
That day, the Tigers lost 2–3 to the Dragons. They had taken a
two-run lead on a triple by Wada, but the Dragons responded
with back-to-back home runs and won the game.
4
The Professor loved prime numbers more than anything in the
world. I'd been vaguely aware of their existence, but it never occurred
to me that they could be the object of someone's deepest
affection. He was tender and attentive and respectful; by turns he
would caress them or prostrate himself before them; he never
strayed far from his prime numbers. Whether at his desk or at the
dinner table, when he talked about numbers, primes were most
likely to make an appearance. At first, it was hard to see their appeal.
They seemed so stubborn, resisting division by any number
but one and themselves. Still, as we were swept up in the Professor's
enthusiasm, we gradually came to understand his devotion,
and the primes began to seem more real, as though we could reach
out and touch them. I'm sure they meant something different to
each of us, but as soon as the Professor would mention prime
numbers, we would look at each other with conspiratorial smiles.
Just as the thought of a caramel can cause your mouth to water,
the mere mention of prime numbers made us anxious to know
more about their secrets.
Evening was a precious time for the three of us. The vague tension
around my morning arrival—which for the Professor was always
our first encounter—had dissipated, and Root livened up
our quiet days. I suppose that's why I'll always remember the Professor's
face in the evening, in profile, lit by the setting sun.
Inevitably, the Professor repeated himself when he talked
about prime numbers. But Root and I had promised each other
that we would never tell him, even if we had heard the same thing
several times before—a promise we took as seriously as our agreement
to hide the truth about Enatsu. No matter how weary we
were of hearing a story, we always made an effort to listen attentively.
We felt we owed that to the Professor, who had put so much
effort into treating the two of us as real mathematicians. But our
main concern was to avoid confusing him. Any kind of uncertainty
caused him pain, so we were determined to hide the time
that had passed and the memories he'd lost. Biting our tongues
was the least we could do.
But the truth was, we were almost never bored when he spoke
of mathematics. Though he often returned to the topic of prime
numbers—the proof that there were an infinite number of them,
or a code that had been devised based on primes, or the most
enormous
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