Some tables. Some chairs. The place, hollow, has little light and is filled with smoke. Some men. About fifteen. They make noise, drink, eat, fight. The room seems to be a hideout of madmen, tramps, alcoholics, and violent maffioso.
They are dirty, their faces are marked and damaged, with black nails, oily hair, roughly maintained beards, broken teeth, torn clothes. When, suddenly, Ecce Mulier.
