In the corner between Omar Yussef and James Cree stood a cheap bookshelf of chipboard covered with a fake wood finish. A row of photographs lined its top. The shelves were bowed by the weight of volumes on education and history in Arabic, French and English, except for one shelf, which was empty. Omar Yussef stood and examined it. He saw no dust, though the lip of each of the other shelves hadn’t been cleaned for months. Something that had covered the entire shelf had been removed.

Omar Yussef assumed the center photo on top of the bookcase was of Eyad Masharawi. The man in the shot held his head slightly to the left. Omar Yussef smiled and wondered if Masharawi had a wildly protruding ear like his son and was vain enough to hide it from the photographer. The man was bald, but the hair at the sides of his head was as richly black as the bitter coffee being prepared in the kitchen. His eyes were hooded, aristocratic, and dark. The mouth was tense and resigned, as if accustomed to exasperating news.

The boy returned with a tray covered, like the bookshelves, with fake wood. He pulled out two small cherry-varnished side tables and put them beside the guests’ knees. Then he laid down the coffees, the first cup before Wallender.

“Allah bless your hands,” said Wallender, quietly using the traditional Arabic formula of gratitude. Omar Yussef smiled at him.

“Allah bless you,” the boy mumbled. He slouched into an armchair in the corner.

Wallender leaned forward and whispered to Omar Yussef. “Should we refer to Mister Masharawi as ustaz?”

“He’s an educated man, a teacher, so it would be respectful to refer to him as ustaz Masharawi,” Omar Yussef said.

He tasted the cardamom-scented coffee and put his cup on the side table. Two women entered the room with measured, silent steps.