Each day Lucky resembled more and more the person he needed to be, if he must build a franchise. With the father-in-law gone, he gave free rein to his instinct for organisation. He put Achilles’ papers into filing cabinets, paid tax debts, negotiated improved terms with distributors. The local council, persuaded by Lucky’s argument, planted maples in the middle of the footpath. In front of the cafe it almost felt like a promenade. At Valia’s urging, Lucky bought a mechanised potato peeler. You turned on the motor, fed potatoes into a spout at the top, and in seconds they tumbled out, peeled, glistening like eggs. The peaceable Achillion sparkled.

Except Penelope was missing. Valia didn’t have an address, didn’t know if she was still in Sydney. The school hadn’t seen her in months. If she could, Valia would have written to her sister: You must come home. You and Lucky are all I have. You must continue your studies.

‘We need a soda fountain,’ said Valia from the bath one day. She and Lucky had developed the habit of discussing work while one of them lay in the bath. They took turns: one in the bath, one on a little stool next to the tub. Lucky took the stool first. There were breadcrumbs on his nose and chin. He’d made potato keftedes for dinner.

‘What does a soda fountain cost?’ he asked.

‘We’ll make it back.’

‘What if your father returns?’

Valia rolled over in the bath. Lucky swallowed awkwardly, coughed.

‘We’ll dismantle the fountain and take it with us when we go.’

They bought a soda fountain, and its two polished steel handles, rising from behind the counter, became their favourite objects in the cafe. The swell of one handle was stamped lucky’s, the other valia’s.

‘It looks like a bird in flight,’ said Lucky.

‘It’s the most beautiful thing we own,’ said Valia.

She bought a jukebox, which was delivered and installed late on a Friday night. Exhausted, they had time for one song before bed. ‘Moonlight Serenade’ by Glenn Miller. Valia had specified: no Benny Goodman records. The man was gifted but unpleasant.

A letter from Achilles arrived: his return address was the Brisbane cafe that housed and employed him. This place is a real shit, he wrote. Every day in Brisbane it rains. It rains like the legs of chairs are falling from the sky.

Valia read the note from her father without great interest, without judgement. Achilles scolded her for not writing to him, but assumed that her failure to write meant the cafe business had improved. He asked—and the whole purpose of the letter appeared to be a single question—he asked if they’d hired someone to replace him. Achilles Asproyerakas wrote: There is no one who has taken my role?

He signed off with:

Please say you are not angry, and the black cat that crossed our path has evaporated.