Read Online The Gift of Numbers by Yōko Ogawa - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Yōko Ogawa
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clear
water...."
The rays of the setting sun stretched far into the room. Root
traced the circles around the twin primes as the steam from the
rice cooker floated in from the kitchen. The Professor stared
through the window as if he were looking out at the desert,
though all he could really see was his tiny, neglected garden.
The thing the Professor hated most in the whole world was a
crowd, which is why he was so reluctant to leave the house. Stations,
trains, department stores, movie theaters, shopping malls—any
place people gathered in large numbers was unbearable for
him. There was something fundamentally incompatible between
crushing, random crowds and pure mathematical beauty.
The Professor wanted peace, though that didn't necessarily
mean complete silence. Apparently, he was not disturbed by Root
when he ran down the hall or turned up the volume on the radio.
What he needed was internal calm uninterrupted by the outside
world.
When he had solved a contest problem from one of his journals
and was making a clean copy to put in the mail, you could often
hear him murmur, "How peaceful ..." He seemed to be perfectly
calm in these moments, as though everything were in its rightful
place, with nothing left to add or subtract. "Peaceful" was, to him,
the highest compliment.
When he was in a good mood, he would sit at the kitchen table
and watch me making dinner; and if I were making dumplings,
he would look on with something approaching wonder. I would
take a dumpling skin in the palm of my hand, spoon on a bit of
filling, and then pinch up the edges before setting it on the platter.
A simple process, but he was completely absorbed by it, watching
me until the last dumpling had been stuffed. I have to admit
that the scene struck me as so funny that I hardly could keep from
laughing.
When I was done at last and the dumplings were neatly arranged
on the plate, he would fold his hands on the table and nod
solemnly. "How peaceful ..."
On the sixth of May, at the end of the spring holidays, Root cut
himself with a kitchen knife. The Professor did not take it well.
After the four-day break, I arrived at the Professor's house only
to discover that the sink had been leaking and a puddle had
spread into the hall. By the time I'd called to have the water shut
off and hired a plumber to come in, I was probably a bit out of
sorts. To make matters worse, the Professor had seemed more
remote than ever, and no matter how often I pointed out my picture
among the tags on his coat, he seemed confused or oblivious. By
evening he had still not come out of his shell. While my irritation
might have contributed to Root's accident, the Professor was in no
way to blame.
Shortly after Root arrived from school, I realized that I'd run
out of cooking oil. I was uneasy leaving the Professor and Root
alone, so I talked to Root before I left.
"Do you think it's okay?"
"Is what okay?" he replied, almost curtly. It is hard to say
exactly what worried me, I had no premonition, I was simply
anxious about leaving the Professor in charge.
"I've never left you alone with the Professor and I was just wondering
if that's okay—"
"Don't worry!" Root said, running off to the study to have his
homework checked.
I was gone no more than twenty minutes, but when I opened
the door, I knew immediately that something was wrong. I discovered
the Professor, sobbing and moaning, crouched on the kitchen
floor, holding Root in his arms.
"Root ... Root ... his hand!"
He could barely speak, and the more he tried to explain what
had happened, the more incoherent he became. His teeth chattered
and sweat poured down his face. I pried Root loose from his
arms.
Root wasn't crying. He may have been trying to keep the Professor
calm, or he may have been afraid I would be angry with
him, but whatever the reason, he had been lying quietly in the
Professor's arms, waiting for me to return. Their clothes were
smeared with blood and the cut on Root's hand was still
water...."
The rays of the setting sun stretched far into the room. Root
traced the circles around the twin primes as the steam from the
rice cooker floated in from the kitchen. The Professor stared
through the window as if he were looking out at the desert,
though all he could really see was his tiny, neglected garden.
The thing the Professor hated most in the whole world was a
crowd, which is why he was so reluctant to leave the house. Stations,
trains, department stores, movie theaters, shopping malls—any
place people gathered in large numbers was unbearable for
him. There was something fundamentally incompatible between
crushing, random crowds and pure mathematical beauty.
The Professor wanted peace, though that didn't necessarily
mean complete silence. Apparently, he was not disturbed by Root
when he ran down the hall or turned up the volume on the radio.
What he needed was internal calm uninterrupted by the outside
world.
When he had solved a contest problem from one of his journals
and was making a clean copy to put in the mail, you could often
hear him murmur, "How peaceful ..." He seemed to be perfectly
calm in these moments, as though everything were in its rightful
place, with nothing left to add or subtract. "Peaceful" was, to him,
the highest compliment.
When he was in a good mood, he would sit at the kitchen table
and watch me making dinner; and if I were making dumplings,
he would look on with something approaching wonder. I would
take a dumpling skin in the palm of my hand, spoon on a bit of
filling, and then pinch up the edges before setting it on the platter.
A simple process, but he was completely absorbed by it, watching
me until the last dumpling had been stuffed. I have to admit
that the scene struck me as so funny that I hardly could keep from
laughing.
When I was done at last and the dumplings were neatly arranged
on the plate, he would fold his hands on the table and nod
solemnly. "How peaceful ..."
On the sixth of May, at the end of the spring holidays, Root cut
himself with a kitchen knife. The Professor did not take it well.
After the four-day break, I arrived at the Professor's house only
to discover that the sink had been leaking and a puddle had
spread into the hall. By the time I'd called to have the water shut
off and hired a plumber to come in, I was probably a bit out of
sorts. To make matters worse, the Professor had seemed more
remote than ever, and no matter how often I pointed out my picture
among the tags on his coat, he seemed confused or oblivious. By
evening he had still not come out of his shell. While my irritation
might have contributed to Root's accident, the Professor was in no
way to blame.
Shortly after Root arrived from school, I realized that I'd run
out of cooking oil. I was uneasy leaving the Professor and Root
alone, so I talked to Root before I left.
"Do you think it's okay?"
"Is what okay?" he replied, almost curtly. It is hard to say
exactly what worried me, I had no premonition, I was simply
anxious about leaving the Professor in charge.
"I've never left you alone with the Professor and I was just wondering
if that's okay—"
"Don't worry!" Root said, running off to the study to have his
homework checked.
I was gone no more than twenty minutes, but when I opened
the door, I knew immediately that something was wrong. I discovered
the Professor, sobbing and moaning, crouched on the kitchen
floor, holding Root in his arms.
"Root ... Root ... his hand!"
He could barely speak, and the more he tried to explain what
had happened, the more incoherent he became. His teeth chattered
and sweat poured down his face. I pried Root loose from his
arms.
Root wasn't crying. He may have been trying to keep the Professor
calm, or he may have been afraid I would be angry with
him, but whatever the reason, he had been lying quietly in the
Professor's arms, waiting for me to return. Their clothes were
smeared with blood and the cut on Root's hand was still
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