The air in the gaming room was blue with cigarette smoke. Before the second deal, Lucky asked about the players’ heritage: three men at his table had emigrated from Kalymnos. Next to Lucky sat a Peloponnesian who absolutely refused to speak English. And there was someone else, who introduced himself as Alexander, from Ithaka, and he reminded Lucky of old Achilles Asproyerakas, in the way that Alexander’s face seemed to express most thoughts and emotions he experienced. He said only his wife called him Alexandro.

‘You know the Asproyerakas family?’ Lucky asked. ‘They’re from the village of Vathi.’

‘I hear of the man, Achilleas. I hear plenty about him.’

‘His daughter, Valia, have you met her?’ By 1965 Lucky didn’t know where in Sydney she lived, or if Valia still lived in the city, or where she worked or if she worked.

‘Don’t know this one.’

‘Tell me about Achilles.’

‘What to say? He’s a donkey. He’s a disease. I’m trying to play cards today. Are you wanting to throw me off?’

Lucky folded and left Alexander in the game against the Peloponnesian and those two bet back and forth, Alexander’s expressions alternating from apprehensive to grave, while Lucky—thinking about Achilles, whom he hadn’t seen in maybe nineteen years—had the hardest time sitting quietly. At last Alexander lost the hand. He ashed his cigarette untidily while his opponent dragged an arm across the table, collecting the coins. Alexander turned to Lucky and said: ‘You want to hear about Achilleas? He’s living with my cousin Damianos, and he stays too long there. The man sleeps in a shed in the yard, says he’s got nowhere else to go. It’s not a Lucky’s cafe. No offence to you, but my cousin does his own business. He doesn’t want another person’s fucking name on his shop.’

‘Fair enough. I could have been modest and given the business another name. Too late to change now. Where’s your cousin’s place?’