By Colum McCann
“Apeirogon,” she says, mumbling, unsure how to pronounce it and not wanting to get caught out. Beit Jala, a village near Bethlehem, appears on page one, and she feels oddly validated, like her childhood actually happened and then her eyes catch the words Talitha Kumi, which means “little girl rise up” and she feels her chest contract and feels chilled for this was her nursery school.
Countably infinite number of sides, the definition reads and she wonders, not being math literate, how that works. Does the story never end? Even when the last page is turned and the book is closed?
Facts. Grown, her kids still use the word when in agreement and she finds herself whispering the word “facts” to herself. High in the branches of the large oak outside her window she hears the song of a bird she can’t identify. “I should really learn to bird,” she says aloud to no one but herself. Jays, she thinks, maybe blue jays and returns to the book in hand.
“Kim,” she greets her sister, dialing her number after reading a bit more, “this book…” Listening to the wind whistle through the phone, she knows she’s caught her on a walk. “Maybe we can both read it so we can talk about it?” Not pausing for Kim’s response, she gives her a jacket-sized synopsis.
Of course she knows that her sister understands more about the region than she does and is instantly uncomfortable with her own suggestion. Polygons and an infinite number of sides and the shape of this narrative had her all excited.
“Question for you,” Kim said. “Reading this book make you want to go back?”
“Somedays I do,” she replied, “but it scares me for all kinds of reasons and anyways, can’t with COVID and all.”
Thinking like this had led her to doubt that she could finish the book she was writing. Ultra self-critical, she had pondered throwing in the towel, especially when she didn’t get into the writing program she had applied to. Virtually everything came back to the village near Bethlehem, though, so abandoning her manuscript was akin to leaving herself.
When asked why a countably infinite polygon was so compelling as a narrative structure, she pointed to her manuscript, about to be published. Like the heart of an exploding fractal, the story comes back to a girl who grew into a woman who rose up despite all the boxes she inhabited.
You can go back without losing yourself and yes, please, I’ll have some of that.
Zaatar on my pita with cucumbers and sliced tomatoes and olives soaked in brine.