Achilles, in the middle of the cafe, swept the air with the olive-wood club as if practising for a violent contest, as if cutting away the features of an invisible monster. The customers outside watched him, interested in the eccentric display of fury. Then Penelope came out to see what was going on. The family, all in the same room for the first time that day, were arranged around the restaurant like figures in a tapestry, woven into representative positions: Achilles in the midst of a rage; Lucky and Valia turning to each other for reference; Penelope at a distance, composed, hands in the pockets of her dress.

‘Penny,’ said Valia, ‘tell our father to put down the stick.’

‘You tell him,’ Penny said.

Valia told Achilles: ‘Your outbursts of anger are only getting worse. The customers hear you screaming murder when you cut your finger in the kitchen, when you can’t find a good onion. You walk around angry for hours at a time and no one knows the reason.’

‘I wouldn’t be surprised if he murdered someone one day,’ said Penelope. ‘There is no point confronting irrational men.’

‘Thanks for your help,’ said Valia. ‘Thanks for nothing.’

‘Penelope, you ought to be part of this conversation,’ said Lucky.

‘You’ve been in this family for what? Ten minutes? And you’re telling me what to do?’ said Penny.

‘Penelope, don’t make smart comments,’ said Achilles. ‘We’re lucky to have, well, Lucky in the family.’

‘You’ll ruin this business if you assault someone with a club like that,’ Valia told her father. ‘You’ll maim someone.’

‘Be good to people,’ said Lucky.

‘Thou shouldst be nice,’ said Penny.

‘Tonight, I let them go,’ Achilles said.

At dinner, for the first few minutes at least, the only voice at the dinner table was Achilles’—he began with some story about the ration card system, how restaurants like theirs were at a disadvantage. Then he asked the family to spare a thought for Greece, which was now at war with itself. Next, glasses and plates and bowls and jars of oil and vinegar were passed around and the sounds of fork-work, of sighs and remarks on the food, the yemista, savoro, and silverbeet cooked like horta. As usual, Lucky made sure he was the last member of the family to begin eating.

When Achilles finished he slung one arm over the back of his chair and lit a cigarette. As soon as possible Penny excused herself from the table. The table was dead and she was alive.

‘You don’t like smoking?’ said Achilles to Penelope as she departed. ‘No saying of thanks? For you, we do all this cooking? Authentic Greek food not possible to find better anywhere in Sydney?’

‘Good cooking, everyone,’ said Penny. ‘Goodnight.’

‘We oughta talk about this olive-wood club of yours,’ said Lucky.