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Updated: May 22, 2025
Inside the house the taste of the mistress had prevailed. At the door of a great, high-ceiled room the butler paused, holding back the soft drapery with austere hand. "What name for madame?" he said. The clear eyes of Achilles met his. "My name is Achilles Alexandrakis," he said, quietly. The eyes of the butler fell. He was struggling with this unexpected morsel in the recesses of his being.
"Yes, I come," said Achilles, simply. "I like to come." James dropped a waiting eye. "Home, James." The horses sprang away. Achilles Alexandrakis, bareheaded in the spring sunshine, watched the carriage till it was out of sight. Then he turned once more to the stall and rearranged the fruit. The swift fingers laughed a little as they worked, and the eyes of Achilles were filled with light.
Her mother, watching the clear eyes, had a sudden pang of what the morning might have been the disillusionment and terror of this unprotected hour that had been made instead a memory of delight thanks to an unknown Greek named Achilles Alexandrakis, who had told her of the beauties of Greece and the Parthenon, and had given her fresh pomegranates to carry home in a round box.
Achilles Alexandrakis was arranging the fruit on his stall in front of his little shop on Clark Street. It was a clear, breezy morning, cool for October, but not cold enough to endanger the fruit that Achilles handled so deftly in his dark, slender fingers.
"Your name is Achilles?" said the other sharply. "Achilles Alexandrakis yes." The Greek bowed. "I know she called you Mr. Achilles," said the man. A shadow rested on the two faces, looking at each other. "She is lost," said the father. He said it under his breath, as if denying it. "I find her," said Achilles quietly. The man leaned forward something like a sneer on his face.
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