The Gift of Numbers Read Free

the Professor never gave me instruction of
any kind, as though he did not mind what I did.
    On that first day, it occurred to me that I should simply follow
what the old woman had said, and start by fixing the Professor's
lunch. I checked the refrigerator and the kitchen cupboards, but I
found nothing edible except for a box of damp oatmeal and some
macaroni and cheese that was four years past its expiration date.
    I knocked at the study door. There was no answer, so I knocked
again. Still no answer. I knew I shouldn't, but I opened the door
and spoke to the Professor's back as he sat at his desk.
    "I'm sorry to disturb you," I said.
    He gave no sign of having heard me. Perhaps he's hard of hearing,
or wearing earplugs, I thought. "What would you like for
lunch?" I continued. "Are there ... things you like or dislike? Do
you have any food allergies?"
    The study smelled of books. Half the windows were covered by
bookshelves, and piles of books drifted up the walls. A bed with a
worn-out mattress was pressed against one wall. There was a single
notebook lying open on the desk, but no computer, and the Professor
wasn't holding a pen or pencil. He simply stared at a fixed
point off in space.
    "If there's nothing particular you want, I'll just make something.
But please don't hesitate if there's anything I can get for
you."
    I happened to glance at some of the notes pinned to his suit:
"... the failure of the analytic method ... ," "... Hilbert's thirteenth
... ," "... the function of the elliptical curve...." Shuffled
in among the fragments of obscure numbers and symbols and
words was one scrap that even I could understand. From the stains
and bent corners of the paper and the rusted edges of the binder
clip, I could tell that this one had been attached to the Professor
for a long time: "My memory lasts only eighty minutes," it read.
    "I have nothing to say," he said, turning suddenly and speaking
in a loud voice. "I'm thinking at the moment. Thinking. And to
have my thoughts interrupted is like being strangled. Don't you
know that barging in here when I'm with my numbers is as rude
as interrupting someone in the bathroom?"
    I bowed and apologized repeatedly, but I doubt he heard a
word of what I said. He had already returned to his fixed point
somewhere off in space.
    To be shouted at like that on the first day could be a serious
problem, and I worried that I might become the tenth star on his
file card before I'd even started. I promised myself that I would
never disturb him again while he was "thinking."
    But the Professor was always thinking. When he came out of
the study and sat at the table, when he was gargling in the bathroom,
or even when he did his strange stretching exercises, he
continued thinking. He ate whatever was set in front of him, mechanically
shoveling the food in his mouth and swallowing almost
without chewing. He had a distracted, unsteady way of walking.
I managed to find the right moment to ask him about things I
needed to know—where he kept the wash bucket or how to use
the water heater. And I avoided making any unnecessary noise,
even breathing too loudly, as I moved about that unfamiliar house,
waiting for him to take even a short break from his thinking.
    I made a cream stew for dinner, something with vegetables and
protein that he could eat with just a spoon—and that he could eat
without removing bones or shells. Perhaps it was because he'd lost
his parents at such a young age, but he had less than perfect table
manners. He never said a word of thanks before he started eating,
and he spilled food with almost every bite. I even caught him
cleaning his ears with his dirty napkin at the table. He did not
complain about my cooking, and he remained silent as he ate.
Each time he plunged the spoon into the stew, he looked as if he
might lose it in the bowl.
    "Would you like some more? I've made plenty." It was careless
of me to speak up suddenly like that, to take such a familiar tone,
and all I got by