The limits of his French reached, Abraham contents himself by watching the man talk instead, admiring his neat hands and the way the light catches along his smooth jaw. If he senses any oddness, any jarring strangeness to the way the man's ears rise to a point or the glint in his eyes, he attributes it only to his rather limited experiences with the French as a whole. Perhaps they are all so beautiful, he wonders as he leans on the rail and smokes his cigarette. It would make sense, with their love of art.

When the man gestures down at their feet, Abraham follows his pointing hand and then looks up, a confused hound dog being given unclear instruction. In answer, he offers the flask again, thinking perhaps that the man has a taste for the strong honey-laced vodka.