Achilles said to Lucky: ‘You’re a practical man, but also a dreamer. I don’t understand how a person could be both. And I have a request: I want to stay one more day. I’ll go to Brisbane tomorrow.’

‘You’re leaving tonight,’ Lucky insisted. ‘You don’t appreciate what’s at stake here. The police might come back to search the cafe.’

‘Also, you have permission to change the name of the business. Maybe the name is cursed? Call it Lucky’s if you like, or Valia’s. Or Penelope’s—yes, that is a good name.’

On the way to Central Station, Achilles sat in the Cafe Truck with his head between his knees, out of sight, as instructed.

2.

‘Done,’ said Lucky when Achilles had gone.

‘Defeated,’ said Valia. ‘Now we are going to run this place the way we like.’

But it was the same old story with custom. People stayed away. Lucky rose before dawn to light the stove. He burned the olive-wood and his father-in-law’s clothes. Achilles’ ghost was made of a gassy, auxiliary substance that seeped out onto the street.

That old man is gone! Valia called out in her mind when she opened the cafe doors.

Lucky bought new awnings with his separation pay; orange and white stripes. On a timber board he painted a sign to hang in the window: under new management.

One week this happened: the customers came back.

On the footpath each morning two or three labourers waited for the doors to open. After school, children stood and ferociously swallowed Achillion sandwiches. Traffic collected, a hundred patrons before lunchtime: from among these customers came a rumour that Mad Achilles had been sent to a mental asylum. There was talk of a feud among the Asproyerakas clan, a good faction and a bad—and the good side had triumphed. The cafe was restored.

Children came in to study Lucky Mallios. Pale youngsters stood at the kitchen door and asked questions while he scraped the stove and cleaned the surface with a wet rag tied to a broom handle. His voice sounded flat when he was busy.

Q. What did you do during the war?

A. I was a cook.

Q. If America is so great, why aren’t you living there?

A. My wife was born in Sydney. This is her home.

Q. Why do migrants come to this country?

A. Migrants come for a new life. They’re changed by their new home and in turn they alter that country.

Q. Will your people drop another atomic bomb?

A. I hope not. I fear they will.

Q. Who in the whole world do you admire most?

A. Valia, my wife.