Might it be a problem that Walter Schüller, a dark-haired German, a builder, wasn’t much like Pierre Curie; wasn’t a scientist, wasn’t well educated, wasn’t sublime? It was a problem, Penny supposed, that could be overcome, with kindness, with passion, perhaps. Always polite, at times overly so, Walter never failed to say hello to Penny when he saw her on the street—he laid new gutters and road railings around Bardwell Park—and they easily fell into conversation. She answered his inexhaustible questions about her science classes, her family. Walter said he wanted to study at university, but he said this in a way that gave Penny the impression it was already too late for him. He was big-bodied and long-necked and possessed perfect teeth, swelling green eyes. Blades of hair fell over his forehead. Penny told Walter about the letter she’d written to the University of Sydney expressing an interest in science degrees, requesting an interview for the women’s college. The letter, sent months ago, had included references from her school’s headmaster and science teacher. Walter remembered to ask, each time they met, whether she’d heard from the university. In some sense he’d become part of her endeavour. No, Penelope had still not heard. It had been eight, nine, and then ten weeks since she wrote to the faculty of science.

That night, each member of the family reposed in different rooms: Achilles Asproyerakas sat on his verandah bed and made minor alterations to the olive-wood club. As he shaved the wood with a carving knife, it became easier to imagine another group of customers coming to the door after closing time, tomorrow or the next day, rudely demanding dinner, even breaking the shop window in protest. In return Achilles would give those pigs the olive wood. It offered him a shot of relief to see the city cast in that way, as comprising heroes and villains and acts of violence that settled the matter. It was entertaining, the supposition of good and evil. Achilles didn’t go to films, but he imagined this justice fantasy was the attraction, the sense of order, the purpose of narrative.