At least Gregor—who would die at the age of twenty-six, knowledgeable only in quantity cooking—needed no convincing of Lucky’s artistic ability. For some time, Gregor had believed that cooking and making music were associated fields, and he hoped one day to test this connection himself on either piano or string instrument. With a certain glare and steady tone of voice, Gregor described his plan as if it were perfect, as if Lucky would easily agree. They did not like their lives. They were bored stewards. Something needed to change.

Gregor said: ‘Worst that can happen is we get caught by military police who throw us into jail for a spell, and later we get court-martialled. But y’know what? That ain’t gonna happen.’

‘That’s a terrible worst case.’

‘We’ll be real careful,’ Gregor said. ‘All we need to do is to get our hands on a good clarinet. It will be damn hard to find one in Sydney.’

‘How well do you know the place?’

‘Just what I hear,’ said Gregor.

‘And what do you hear?’

‘It’s not a town bursting with brass.’

‘You mean woodwind.’

‘Woodwind, then, sure,’ Gregor said. ‘You agree then? You’ll run this caper with me?’

Lucky looked around the kitchen, taking in the cleanliness and order he and Gregor brought to the mess: the meals, the service, the cleaning.

‘I don’t know,’ said Lucky. ‘We’d be deceiving other people.’

‘Screw other people,’ said Gregor. ‘They should know better.’

‘I don’t want to go to jail.’

‘Look where we work. Look at this shit. The guys we serve don’t even know our proper names. What are you doing here? Killing time?’

‘Not killing anything. Staying alive.’

‘Don’t you want something more from life? Don’t you want to be someone else for a while—someone who isn’t the butt of a joke?’