Jenna looked up from her meal to glimpse Jacqueline and Karim exchanging secret smiles—like matchmakers. Oh no, she thought, almost laughing aloud. Professor Hamid was going to be dangerous, but not in the way she’d imagined. Mercifully, the conversation broke off as a popular Syrian recording star appeared on the makeshift stage. His voice was clear and pure as he sang a clas-sical qasidah, an elaborate technique with sustained floating vocal and instrumental improvisations that dated back a thousand years. The crowd stamped and cheered. Jenna smiled at the eclectic musical heritage of the East: it would be as if the Rolling Stones were to dazzle a crowd with a medieval chanson. The next performer was Hanan, a singer who had starred in some of Lebanon’s earliest films, and who now belted out a medley of traditional songs in a rough-edged voice that suggested years of sorrow and hard living. Hakki Obadia, from Iraq, played a short, classical-style taksim improvisation on the violin, and Abdul Wahab Kawkabani sang and accompanied himself on a beautifully inlaid oud.

When there was a break in the music, Hamid resumed his attempt to charm Jenna. She tried to be pleasant, but not too pleasant. Polite, but not encouraging. Luckily, he seemed to have forgotten his desire to hear all about her—perhaps that had been no more than a well-practiced line. Instead, he wanted to talk about people and places he knew in Egypt. She tried not to wince as he waxed eloquent about the “decadent charm” of Alexandria, the “mystic grandeur” of Sakkara. Why on Earth, she wondered, had he spent most of the last dozen years in America?

When the professor paused—to make a second trip to the buffet—Karim whispered, “Isn’t he a great guy, Mom? I can tell he likes you.”

“Mmm.” Careful, she told herself, be very careful. Karim likes these people.

Now the musicians launched into a rhythmic village folk song created for dancing. Karim took Jacqueline’s hand and led her into the center of the room. Jenna watched, amazed, as they led an ever-growing group in the dabka, a popular circle dance.

“Nabila, is that you?” It was a woman’s voice, and it came from the next table.

“Excuse me?” Jenna said, panic-stricken, though she had no idea who Nabila might be.

“Nabila Ajami,” said the woman, who seemed to be about Jenna’s age. “From Horns. My name is Fadwa Kabbash. We grew up in the same neigh- borhood, don’t you remember?”

“No,” Jenna protested, “no, you must be mistaken. My family is Egyptian. I’ve never been to Syria. I’m very sorry.”

The woman seemed unconvinced, as if Jenna’s failure to be her old neighbor was somehow a personal affront. She stalked over to a crowd of laughing, eating people and began to speak with great animation, pointing in Jenna’s direction.