I pull over on the right, in front of the driveway entrance to a small artisan workshop, and look around. In the distance, the road gets darker and darker in front of me. The sliding gate on my right is rusted and scraped. On the opposite side, the small green area that divides the two carriageways makes up an isosceles triangle. On each rounded corners there are three evergreen conifers of medium height. Inside the flowerbed, I can see three lower trees that could be plane trees. In the middle of these, there is a little hump on the ground with some roses: I think of Aziz and I realize that this could well be the drop-off place.
I turn off the car, I look in front of me again, past the windshield, and then into the rear-view mirror. I don’t see any car coming, nor anyone around. I look a
