If Abraham has been the picture of confidence walking along the deck, it's taken from him now, as they enter the world of gently tapping cutlery and soft conversation. Eyes fix upon him, skating over the peacock strutting of his companion to land on the dark and scowling presence behind him. Abraham feels suddenly as if they know, somehow, the diners and the crew, where he's come from, every sin and misdeed he's committed. As if they can smell the river mud and rotten ice caked to the bottom of his shoes, or stood behind his shoulder as he slid his knife into vulnerable places that leaked hot blood onto his hands, leaving men dead and dying in alleys, on doorsteps, kicked into the dark rushing water of the Jasień. Under their scrutiny he is stripped bare, judged and sentenced, his false papers a suddenly flimsy defense against a cruel universe.

The feeling is strong enough to stall him in his tracks, hovering almost hesitantly in the doorway, his hands caught in his frayed and soup-stained jacket, his cigarette drooping with comic sadness from the corner of his mouth. He clears his throat, his gaze going to the rich goy whose realm this is, strangely and just as suddenly comforted by the fleeting thought that perhaps he will be rescued by this tall stranger with the green eyes.