“There are two problems, actually. One is that your old friend Saeed has been making trouble for you. He’s been going around saying all the story ideas you’ve sent for the Abbas show you stole from him. He’s put in official complaints with several unions. And he also has that painter, your cousin Avesta—”

“That impostor is not my cousin.”

“Whatever. He’s got Avesta also trying to get you blacklisted from working in media here. You are in deep trouble, Saleh, especially with the Journalist’s Union. Unless, of course, you write another piece admitting that not only did Avesta not steal the ideas for his paintings from Miss Homa, but that in fact Miss Homa stole them from him!”

“So all of my troubles are about theft? Either I stole something or I falsely accused someone of stealing?”

Atia sighed into the phone. “You could say that. Yes.”

“You know, our country is truly a work of art. Maybe I’ll go to Yemen after all.”

“Don’t go down that road, Saleh. Please!”

“Fine. What’s the second thing you wanted to tell me? Or was this all of the good news for today?”

“The second thing is that our mutual friend called me in for a talk.” She meant H. “He also wants to know if I’m happy in my marriage. I told him yes. He seemed disappointed. Then he asked where the hell you were. You’d disappeared again, he said, and he hasn’t heard from you for a while.”

“He knows perfectly well where I am. He just wanted to see if you knew. But if it makes him happy, tell him I’m back where Marcel Proust was buried.”

“Why do you talk in code, Saleh?”

“This is not code. Next time you see him, tell him I’m here where Marcel Proust was buried and that I truly miss our literary chats. He’ll understand.”

“So you’ll work with the new magazine?”

“I already said yes. And, Atia, I’m truly happy for you and your marriage.”

“What about Saeed and Avesta? What are you going to do about their lawsuits?”

“I’ll handle them.”

I had no idea how to handle them. But Cleric J’s man was on the roof now, calling more forcefully this time. Apparently there was to be an ad hoc ijtima.

As soon as I’d bid Atia goodbye the phone’s screen lit up again. It was a text from Daliri, my Proust. The message came from a new Iraqi number I’d given him: Dear Saleh, Miss Homa and I are on the move. Please come to us before it’s too late.

Chapter Ten

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