The New Names

Letter 11 of the Book of Forgetting

That afternoon I was at my bench fitting a new lens to the rangefinder when Noa came in without knocking, her blue sweater bright against the grey pressing at the window.

“Fernando,” she said. “Efrat and Shiloh.”

I set down the lens. “Who?”

“The Segal babies. Nitzan had a boy. Elam had a boy. Both named today.” She held her river stone in both hands. “And both of them said it. ‘The fog is just fog.’ Same voice as all the others.”

I stood and reached for my jacket. “Let’s go see Nitzan.”

Nitzan Segal’s house was at the end of Bellflower Lane, the windows open to the warm air. She sat in a chair by the bed, a baby in her arms, her dark hair loose, her face tired but calm. She was the nurse, the same small woman who had timed the stone at the well.

“Fernando,” she said. “You came.”

“I came to see Efrat.”

She looked down at him. “He woke an hour ago and said it. Then he went back to sleep.” She shifted him, her thumb stroking his cheek. “He’s the eleventh one, Fernando. Eleven babies, same words, same voice.”

“Eleven,” I said.

“Eleven.” She looked at me. “I’ve been counting. Eleven born since it started. And eighteen old ones died in their sleep.” She paused. “The numbers don’t balance anymore.”

“They balanced yesterday,” I said. “Three and three.”

“They balanced yesterday.” She looked down at Efrat. “Today they don’t. And Elam’s boy said it too. Same words, same voice. I was there. I heard him.”

“You were there?”

“Elam asked me to come. She was afraid.” Nitzan’s voice was flat. “She held Shiloh and he opened his eyes and said it, and then he went back to sleep. She asked me what it meant.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I told her I didn’t know.” She looked at me. “But I’m a nurse, Fernando. I’ve seen babies wake and cry, wake and smile, wake and stare. I have never seen a baby wake and speak a sentence. Not once. Not until this month.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

When I left, I walked past the mill. Adah Gilad and Leah Navon stood by the water, talking low. Adah was the miller now, a woman of about forty with flour in her hair. Leah was the surveyor’s daughter, thin and watchful. They nodded as I passed, and I nodded back.

The plaza was busy. Joel Gefen sat on a bench with Leah Sharon, a piece of paper between them covered in numbers. Joel was the farmer, a heavy man with sun-darkened arms. Leah was the teacher, small and precise, her glasses perched on her nose.

“Fernando,” Joel called. “Come look at this.”

I walked over. The paper was covered in measurements. Distances. Times. The rangefinder readings from the north and east lines.

“Two hundred twelve going out,” he said. “One hundred ninety-six coming back. Same line. Same instrument.”

“Zipporah measured that,” I said.

“Zipporah measured that. And I measured it myself this morning. Same answers.” He looked at me. “The instrument isn’t wrong. The line is wrong.”

“The line isn’t wrong,” Leah said. “The instrument is wrong.”

“The instrument was calibrated last week.”

“Then it’s uncalibrated now.”

They looked at me, both of them, waiting.

“I calibrated it myself,” I said. “It held against the survey standard. The standard isn’t moving.”

“Then what’s moving?” Joel said.

I didn’t have an answer. I stood there a moment, the paper between them, the numbers strange and steady.

“I don’t know,” I said.

I walked back to my workshop and wrote the day in the Book of Forgetting. Two sons born, speaking the sentence. Eleven now. Old ones dying. Distances that would not hold still. Two people on a bench who did not agree.

I did not know what any of it meant. But the babies had said the words, and the numbers had moved, and I had told a farmer and a teacher the truth: I did not know.