There was a long pause and I waited for her to go on. But she just stood there. I remembered her when she was fresh out of the university. Young girl from the provinces. Full of ideals. Those first monographs she’d written for the Martyrs Foundation—they had changed the equation. It was the first time someone had written about our war heroes not as flawless, but as men who had greatness and not such greatness in them, warts and all. She’d received a lot of flak for it. The Ministry of Censorship wanted long chunks of the books out, but Atia stood her ground. She’d fought to explain that heroes would be that much more interesting if we saw them in their entirety and not just as removed icons we could not touch. They’d eventually listened to her, because Atia was that kind of woman. She did not back down. She was the one who asked the hard questions when she went to interview the “big men” of the regime. She had upended the landscape of biographical writing in this country, and she’d done it single-handedly.

What was she trying to tell me now?

“Atia, you can either tell me or not tell me who the lucky coauthor is. It really doesn’t matter. It’s not my concern.”

“Dodonge.”

“Him?” My voice cracked. “The charlatan of the Syrian front?”

“It’s not what you think.”

“It never is. But what do I think, my dear Atia?”

Just then Mafiha appeared by the exit. He looked our way, smiled, and went to the elevators without stopping. I felt nothing.

Atia said, “You think I sold out!”

“There’s nothing to sell. Everything has already been bought and sold in this country. I know a lot about that. I’m an art reviewer, don’t forget.”

“You also write about war.”

“Oh that! I guess I lost my way for a while. I would ask you what their book is about, these two brilliant gentlemen. Let me guess: one of them is prowar and the other supposedly against it. Wait! Is the book some sort of debate then? Like a meeting of two great minds debating a subject?”

“Yes.”

“Ah, well. These guys really do know how to catch a tailwind.”

“Saleh!”

“What?”

“There’s something else.”

“I’m listening.”

“The Citizen is being bought out.”

* * *