I ran out of the hotel toward the long-suffering waters of the Tigris at Abu Nuwas. Down the road there was a checkpoint. Young men stood by the river laughing, as if the war was a million miles away. You couldn’t begrudge them that. The war was right here at that sleepy checkpoint. We all knew it and still acted like a checkpoint made a difference. I did not know why I had even bothered to let that North African enemy boy at the mokeb get a drink of water. Wouldn’t it have been better to not give him hope?

“You really need to get yourself a wife, Saleh.”

Jasim, smallish and prompt and neatly dressed in his standard gray suit, stood next to a palm, eyeing me with some concern. Being the professional fixer that he was, I knew his MO. He’d called the hotel desk and told them to have the Iranian followed if he left the hotel. Jasim’s true job was to survive. Once, two American rockets had fallen on either side of him by the Eastern Gate souk. He should not have survived and had the right to wax philosophical about it ever afterward. But platitudes were not his thing; he never said things like, Every day above ground is a good day. He knew better than to think this bullshit was true. Many days above ground are worse than death.

A magnificent pile of garbage floated twenty meters away from us on the river, the sun shining off it as if it were jewels and not more plastic.

“For the life of me, Jasim, I was ready to marry two months ago. But she went and married a so-called poet.”

“A good poet?”

“As fake as they come. He writes antiwar noise and reads in famous world capitals. They get translated and he gets invitations to talk about peace in our time.”

“Why don’t you do the same?”

“I would if I believed in it.”

“Then there is no hope for you.”

“Besides, this poet is also, kind of, my boss. In other words, the woman I would have married went and married the man who signs off on my paychecks.”

Jasim said nothing. Something was wrong. Usually he had a lot more energy than this. He didn’t deal in pessimism and hopelessness. Not even with rockets dropping on him at the Eastern Gate. On the phone he’d been just about ready to kill me, now he was subdued. He had something to say.

He sang in the loveliest Arabic that a man can sing: “The greatest loves relinquish all hope of union.” Then he laughed, bitterly. “Listen to me! Am I quoting the great al-Mutanabbi or the great Ibn Zaydun or only my humble self on a street named after the great Abu Nuwas? And this while you speak of fake poets. What was the name of your love?”

I said Atia’s name.

“Saleh, something has happened!”

I took a breath. I had an idea what was coming. “You wish to tell me something about the woman from Tuz Khurma. Yes?”