All of these considerations were not even half of the morning’s interview with H. He wanted me penalized for going to Syria instead of sticking to Iraq, where my reporter’s purview was.

But weren’t these imaginary lines in the sand anyway? Was there really a Syria, an Iraq, a Lebanon, a Jordan?

“They are states of mind,” I told him. “Ever heard of the Sykes-Picot Agreement? A midlevel British diplomat and his French counterpart decide to produce budding new countries a hundred years ago, and because of that you are telling me I can go to Iraq but not Syria? Why the hell not?”

“Because tomorrow if I see on the evening news that the enemy found one of our reporters—that would be you, by the way—and cut off his head and displayed it for the world to see, this would be, well, bad publicity for us, wouldn’t it? And do you know what else? My superiors would have my job. This is why you can’t go to Syria.”

“On the other hand, if they cut off my head in Iraq, it’s all right?”

“Don’t argue with me.”

“Fine, fine. I was just asking.”

“Also, don’t give me any more history lessons. I don’t give a damn about the Sykes-Picot Agreement. Who are they? And what agreement? Forget it. I don’t care.”

We continued to sit there stewing in our own heads. A few years back I’d been sent to cover a film festival in a tiny West African country we were trying to have better relations with for “strategic” purposes. It was my first time back to the continent in more than a decade and I’d brought H a small African figure, the size of one of those Barbie dolls. I had to give it to him discretely because gifting your handler is bad business. But I knew I’d touched a soft place in his heart. Tears welled in his eyes and he ran his hands over the face of the African god figurine like it was a long-lost child. I knew then that both of us were wrong in our skins. Why did he have to work for the ministry, and why did I have to report about film festivals that had more prizes than entries? Our lives needed serious rearrangement, and now that I had finally tried to do something about it, he was making a big fuss.

He’d looked up all of a sudden, as if recalling something. “Do you plan to write another TV pilot?”

“They stole my last idea. State TV is filled with mediocre thieves stealing other people’s work.”

“All right, they stole your idea. But maybe you can do another one. This time I’ll stick by you.”

“Really?”

He nodded. “Write something that takes place between Baghdad and here. I’ll make sure no one steals your work.”

“Why didn’t you do that the first time around?”

“Because you hid the pilot from me until it was too late.”

“What exactly shall I write about?”