Babel

by R.F. Kuang

‘Very good,’ said Professor Lovell. ‘One more thing. It occurs to me you need a name.’ ‘I have a name,’ said the boy. ‘It’s—’ ‘No, that won’t do. No Englishman can pronounce that. Did Miss Slate give you a name?’ She had, in fact. When the boy turned four, she had insisted he adopt a name by which Englishmen could take him seriously, though she’d never elaborated which Englishmen those might be. They’d chosen something at random from a children’s rhyming book, and the boy liked how firm and round the syllables felt on his tongue, so he harboured no complaint. But no one else in the household had ever used it, and soon Miss Betty had dropped it as well. The boy had to think hard for a moment before he remembered. ‘Robin.’* Professor Lovell was quiet for a moment. His expression confused the boy – his brows were furrowed, as if in anger, but one side of his mouth curled up, as if delighted. ‘How about a surname?’ ‘I have a surname.’ ‘One that will do in London. Pick anything you like.’ The boy blinked at him. ‘Pick . . . a surname?’ Family names were not things to be dropped and replaced at whim, he thought. They marked lineage; they marked belonging. ‘The English reinvent their names all the time,’ said Professor Lovell. ‘The only families who keep theirs do it because they have titles to hold on to, and you certainly haven’t got any. You only need a handle to introduce yourself by. Any name will do.’ ‘Then can I take yours? Lovell?’ ‘Oh, no,’ said Professor Lovell. ‘They’l...