EAST JERUSALEM, THURSDAY, 9.40 AM

For the second time in a week she was entering a house of mourning. This was a new development for her, though she knew of others for whom it was a standard ploy in the mediator’s repertoire. At a critical week in the Northern Ireland peace talks, for example, two young men, good friends–one Protestant, the other Catholic–were shot dead in a pub. The killings were designed to halt the peace process, but they did the opposite, reminding everyone why they were sick to the back teeth of war. The negotiating teams visited the bereaved families and came out with their resolve doubled. Maggie remembered it well: she had followed it all on a crackling shortwave radio, deep in southern Sudan. And when London and Dublin announced the Good Friday Agreement she had sat in her tent with tears rolling down her cheeks.

These killings in Jerusalem lacked the moral clarity of the Belfast deaths. Truth be told, they had no bloody clarity at all. Shimon Guttman might have been shot simply because he appeared to be threatening the life of the prime minister; Ahmed Nour could have been a collaborator, executed for his crime; Rachel Guttman might have killed herself; the kibbutz up north might have been firebombed by angry Palestinian teenagers. Only the murder of Afif Aweida, claimed by some fringe Israeli group, seemed to be a clear attempt to sabotage the peace talks. But no one could be sure.

So Maggie’s visit to the Aweida mourning house didn’t quite carry the emotional weight of the equivalent journey in Belfast all those years ago. She wasn’t there to mourn two lads, a Jew and an Arab, who had been shot dead while drinking together. In truth, she wasn’t there to mourn at all. She had come to find out what the hell was going on.

The house was full, as she had expected. It was noisy, with a piercing wail that rose and fell like a wave. She soon saw the source of it, a group of women huddled around an older woman, swathed in shapeless, embroidered black. Her face seemed to have been worn away by tears.

A path formed for Maggie as she made her way through the mourners. There were women constantly brushing their cheeks with the palms of their hands, as if trying to banish a dust that would never clear. Some were crouched low, pounding the floor. It was a scene of abject grief.

Eventually Maggie reached the front of the room where she found a woman whom she guessed was around her own age, dressed in simple, Western clothes. She was not crying but seemed simply stunned into silence.

‘Mrs Aweida?’

The woman said nothing, staring past Maggie, into the middle distance. Her eyes seemed hollow.

‘Mrs Aweida, I am with the international team in Jerusalem trying to bring peace.’ Something told Maggie ‘American’ was not the right word to use here. ‘I came to pay my respects to your husband and to offer my condolences on your terrible loss.’

The woman still stared blankly, seemingly oblivious to Maggie’s words and the noise all around. Maggie stayed there, crouching down, looking at the widow as long as she could before eventually placing a hand on hers, squeezing it and moving away. She would not intrude.

A man materialized to steer Maggie away. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Please, you to know we thank America. For you to come here. Thank you.’

Maggie nodded and smiled her weary half-smile. But he hadn’t finished speaking.

‘He was a simple man. All he did was sell tomato and carrot and apple. He no kill anyone.’

‘Oh, I know. It’s a terrible crime that happened to your—’

‘My cousin. I am Sari Aweida.’

‘Tell me. Do you also work in the market?’

‘Yes, yes. All of us, we work in market. For many year. Many year.’

‘What do you do?’

‘I sell meat. I am butcher. And my brother he sell scarf, for the head. Keffiyeh. You know what is keffiyeh?’

‘Yes, I do. Tell me, are you all called Aweida?’

‘Ah, yes. Yes, we are all Aweida. Aweida family.’

‘Tell me. Is there anyone in your family who sells old things. You know old stones, pots. Antiquities?’

He looked puzzled.

‘Jewellery perhaps?’

‘Ah! Jewels! I understand. Yes, yes. My cousin, he sell jewel.’

‘And antiques?’

‘Yes, yes. Antique. He sell in the market.’

‘Can I see him?’

‘Of course. He live near to here.’

‘Thank you, Sari.’ Maggie smiled. ‘And what is his name?’

‘His name also Afif. He is Afif Aweida.’