“You must tell me all about yourself,” he said. “I’m afraid there’s very little to tell.”

“I don’t believe you. My friend Naguib Mahfouz once told me that behind every truly beautiful woman’s face is an interesting story. Your story must be very interesting indeed.”

“You’re very kind.” An acquaintance with Naguib Mahfouz, the Nobel Prize-winning Cairene writer, was certainly something to be proud of, but Hamid’s compliment would have held more charm if he hadn’t been so eager to name-drop.

“Are you enjoying our little mahrajan?”

“It’s wonderful,” Jenna answered honestly. The mahrajan—folk festival—was being held in a Veterans of Foreign Wars post near the North End. Despite the somewhat incongruous setting, Jenna had been floating in a near-trance of nostalgia from the moment she and Karim had entered. The sound of spoken Arabic warmed her, and the pungent fragrances of lamb and allspice and cinnamon drifted through the crowded hall. My God, how long had it been since she had last savored these familiar sensations?

Even the attentions of Professor Hamid seemed rather pleasant—up to a point.

“I understand you’re quite a cook yourself,” he was saying now. “Adas biz-ruz and ruz bel shaghia—all the good things from home.”

“My son has been talking,” said Jenna, flicking a mildly accusatory glance at Karim. It was true that she had tried her hand at some of the popular Egyptian dishes that supposedly had been the food of her childhood.

She had done it as a way of reaching out to Karim in his newfound interest in all things Arab. For the same reason, she had bought some cassettes— the old songs of Asmahan and Abdul Wahab—from a small downtown shop and played them for him.

Her gestures pleased Karim, and when Professor Hamid had invited them both to the mahrajan—he was one of the organizers—there had been no way of begging off.

“It’s good that the boy should know his heritage,” said Hamid. “Speaking of which, you must tell me more about yourself. Perhaps we have mutual friends.” “Mmm,” murmured Jenna, digging into the plate of food before her, using the pita bread to scoop up the hummus and tabbouleh, as she’d been taught as a child.

She caught Karim looking at her. “What?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he said. “I’ve just never seen you use anything but a knife and fork.” “You’ve never seen me eat a hamburger or a pizza?”

But …

I mean …

“I know what you mean. When in Rome, as they say.”

“I find your way with food charming,” interjected Hamid. “Utterly charming.”