The next afternoon, she caught a plane for New York with a connecting flight to Boston, where, on the recommendation of M. Maurice Cheverny, and after an interview and a special placement test, she was assured of a place at Harvard for the fall term. She would major in psychology.

Part Six

Part

Six

27. An All- American Boy

An All American Boy

“What happened?” Jenna Sorrel demanded.

“Nothing,” said Karim unconvincingly. His left eye was blackened. A streak of blood had dried under his nose.

“The truth, young man.” “I had a fight, okay?”

Jenna heard shame and pride mixed in her son’s reply. He was nine years old, she reminded herself.

“No, it most certainly isn’t okay. What happened?” “Josh was calling me names.”

“Josh Chandler?” Half of Karim’s fourth-grade classmates seemed to be named Josh, but Jenna recalled the Chandler boy as one with whom her son did not get along well.

“Yes.”

“What kind of names?” “Just … names.”

Jenna remembered the insults thrown at Middle Eastern students during her second year at Harvard, when the hostage crisis had broken out in Iran. Now and then, Karim’s first name and his cafe-au-lait complexion had sub- jected him to similar cruelty from his schoolmates.

“Names are no reason for fighting. You know that, don’t you?” Karim nodded, close to tears.

“Your father always said that most fights happen because someone is afraid not to fight. He said that what takes real courage is to walk away. And he was a brave man.”

Karim nodded again. The father he had never known was his greatest hero. Unfortunately, that father was a lie: Jenna had created him, worrying all the while about the psychological implications of the act and cautioning herself not to build a role model too perfect to emulate. Physically, the man she invented was smaller than average, as Ali was and Karim himself promised to be. In most other ways, he resembled Philippe. He was not a physician, though: Jenna had feared that someone someday might link “French doctor” with “vanished princess.” So Jacques Sorrel was a ship’s captain who had died bringing medical supplies to an epidemic-stricken port in Africa.

“Come on,” she said briskly. “Let’s go solve this problem.”

She knew the Chandlers slightly from school functions. They lived in elegant Beacon Hill, a brisk walk from Marlborough Street.

A maid answered the door and ushered Jenna and Karim in. Carolyn Chandler appeared, tall, blond, tennis-fit, and smiling graciously, if a bit nervously. Behind her, big Cameron Chandler loomed up like a cordial but concerned bear. The Chandlers appeared to be in their mid-thirties.

“I understand there was some trouble,” said Cameron. An indulgent smile indicated that he didn’t think the trouble very serious.

“There was. And I’ve come to get your assurance that there won’t be more.” Jenna did not smile.

“But,” interjected Carolyn, “I think your son hit ours first.”