“The Rising Sun zucchini, judging by its appearance, should have been called the setting sun. He stood in a triangular garden, more gray than green; the fragments of the fence were overgrown with sad reeds, the damp and dark arbors had completely collapsed, and a peeling nymph sat in a dirty fountain, but there was no water. The walls themselves were not so much decorated as devoured by ivy, squeezing the old brick skeleton in its coils like a dragon. There was a deserted road in front of the tavern. Cutting through the hills, it led to a ford that had been little used since the bridge had been built downstream. At the entrance there was a table and a bench, above them hung a darkened sign depicting a brown sun, and under the sign a tavern keeper hovered, sadly looking at the road. Black, straight hair set off the unhealthy crimson of his face, gloomy as a sunset, but not so beautiful...”