“Beirut. Hamra Street. Slow, silent, steady footsteps. A slim shadow figure looming over the city. The man with the beret enters the café. He settles into his chair. With nobleness, elegance, dignity. His face is unruffled. His smile is sweet and menacing. His gestures are confident. He looks around and doesn’t utter a word. As if he wanted to suspend anxiety. To surprise. They bring him his cup of coffee. With care. He pours the sweetener, stirs it with a suspicious quietness, takes out his brown sheets of paper, his felt-tip pen, uncompromising, free.