The two of us looked up at the same moment and saw Dodonge, the reporter from the Syrian front, standing at the door of the café smiling. From the way he was smiling I knew he’d followed us here. He wanted something.

“If it isn’t one of the Defenders of the Holy Places! How are you, Saleh?”

“What do you want?”

“I want you not to go to Syria anymore.” He smiled at Atia as he said this.

“I was already given the message. You don’t have to worry.”

“Oh, I’m not worried.”

“Yes you are.”

As a TV reporter the man had a hundred thousand devoted fans who followed his postings religiously and treated him like a king. He was the indisputable hero of the Syrian front. Now I understood why I’d been hauled in by H for that chat. Dodonge must have been the instigator. He worried about posterity. Men like him who worked with film still had a complex about the written word. They didn’t want it interfering with their carefully calibrated image. Syria belonged to Dodonge and he was here, after my interrogation, to rub it in.

Once again I realized that everything I’d suffered in the past few years was at the hands of people somehow associated with the camera, either in front of it, like Dodonge, or behind it, like Saeed. You’ll never convince me that pushing a button is as hard an act as executing even a mediocre sentence, let alone a good one. But it was the Dodonges and the Saeeds of the world who received all the glory while the likes of me and Atia were lucky to get the equivalent of two good meals from a translation job that took a month’s labor. This is how the world is and we suffered the malady of writers the world over: envy.

Dodonge’s eyes stayed on Atia. “You should grace us too for a coffee one day, Miss Atia.”

“Who’s us?” Atia asked coldly.

“Me. Dodonge, at your service.”

“Are you finished here, Mr. Dodonge?”

“Oh, and this.” He dropped a small flyer on our table. “I’ve written a book about my war experiences. I’d like you to attend the launch. Both of you.”

I was about to say that he must have hired a ghost writer, because he couldn’t string together two coherent sentences on paper if his life depended on it. But Atia spoke first.

“And where will this launch of yours take place?”

Dodonge smiled. “It’s a surprise. Even for you, Miss Atia.”

“What do you mean, even for me?”

“Ah!” He smiled, nodded, and was gone.

Atia and I sat there silent. Depressed. I felt violated. Maybe Atia did too.

“Speaking of marriage,” I said, “I need you to come somewhere with me.” I explained to her Nasif’s situation back in Syria.

“So now you’re fixing marriages for these guys? What are the chances of any of them even coming back in one piece?”

“Well, the widow will at least receive a stipend from the government.”