Neither Arseny nor Ambrogio knew what, exactly, these people were drinking, only that the drink did not make them cheerier. Their backs got even more hunched. Sitting, these people brought to mind large, unattractive flowers that close up for the night. Every now and again they would begin singing something in low voices. Their songs were as joyless and murky as what they drank. Lots of Russians are gloomy, said Ambrogio, sharing an observation. It is the climate, nodded Arseny.
