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He left two photographs   In the first, his eldest brother balances him on a knee It must be summer, for Manshoor wears only a diaper He has startlingly green eyes The older Jalaluddin boys — the one who holds Manshoor in place, and the middle son, who clasps his younger brother’s hand — look away from the lens Meanwhile, Manshoor laughs at the camera Although he is barely a toddler, his head is rich with long, loosely curling hair It’s easy to suppose he is the darling of his parents   For the second picture, the photographer stands at the entrance to a living room or den Manshoor, at seven, lies on the couch with his head in his mother’s lap Shirtless, he sprawls across the cushions His mother, in a sweat-ringed salwar kameez, her scarf fallen to her shoulders, smiles down at his face Manshoor’s expression is dull but there’s every sign that he’ll grow into a handsome teenager He must be staring at a television screen outside the frame Given his age, and the afternoon light that warms the picture, one might suspect that Manshoor is watching a cartoon or a syndicated situation comedy — a cartoon or comedy that can’t inspire even a little boy to laugh, though he’ll watch through endless hours   Past conjecture, there’s history The Berlin Wall has crumbled, the United States has tidily expelled the Iraqis from Kuwait, and genocide is only an ember in the darkest dreams of the Hutu radio apostles Slaughter and tragedy are as foreign to a boy in Somerville, Massachusetts, as an outbreak of the bubonic plague     A TIGER IN THE GRASS   At 16, and the outset of his junior year of high school, Manshoor had the proud teeth and jaw of a young American who’d been treated by an orthodontist His hair had darkened from brown to black; its curls had relaxed into waves His eyes, though, remained as green as a shallow sea Two weeks into the school year, al-Qaeda completed its attacks on the World Trade Center and Pentagon Although Manshoor of course saw the images of the burning towers,