He smiled, and Peg tried to see if there was something else in his smile. Anything. But all she saw was a tired, very handsome man with a warm smile.
She changed her tactic, opting for the peppy friend routine.
"So, Lancelot, what did you do today? Catch a movie? Buy yourself some new clothes?"
They stepped onto the elevator, and he punched the button. "No. I worked at a homeless shelter."
"You what?"
Rubbing his eyes, he continued. "Over at the Avalon shelter in St. Anne's church basement. I helped out with lunch, choir rehearsal, and setting up dinner. I hope there will be enough cots for everyone."
"You're kidding!" They were on Julie's floor, and Peg followed him to the door. "You actually worked? Then what's the name of the shelter's director?"
"Bill Kowalski. Do you know him?" An eagerness came over him, making Peg feel uncomfortable. She shook her head. "He's a fine man. And the choir he's put together is quite good, especially some of the children."
"I've never heard of a homeless shelter with a choir," she admitted.
"It seems Avalon is the only one. But it makes sense, especially to hear Bill explain it."
The locks clicked, and they entered Julie's apartment. Lancelot stared out the large picture window for a moment, dusk over the city. "I wonder if I'll ever get used to being so high."
Peg followed his gaze, aware that she, too, had often had the exact same thought looking out that window.
"So." He put the keys on the kitchen counter. "The choir is to give the people a sense of belonging, of being part of a community. For the most part, they don't feel connected to anything in this city, they're disenfranchised, isolated. But when they sing, it's unique. Would you like a drink?"
For a long moment, she simply stared at him. "Excuse me?"
"You mentioned that you would like a drink. And so I offered you one."
"Oh, yeah. Sure. Maybe a vodka tonic with a twist?"
"Right," he said uncertainly. He opened the refrigerator door and began looking at bottles. "Coke. Orange soda. Spring water… tonic?" He read the label. "I'm afraid this isn't vodka tonic."
"You have to add the vodka."
A dawning expression passed over his face. "Oh? Interesting." He ducked back into the refrigerator. "Milk. Dairy-free cream. What is dairy-free cream? Let's see. .: "
"Um. I hate to bother you, but the vodka is usually in the liquor cabinet."
"Vodka is liquor?"
Was this guy for real? "Yes, Lancelot. Most people consider vodka a liquor. Here, I'll get it." She reached past him and pulled out the bottle.
He was still looking at labels. "Lady Peg, I believe Julia has run out of twist. There's not a single bottle of it in here."
"Run out of… oh, for God's sake. Okay, let's stop this little act right here. It's wasted on me anyway. I can see right through you."
Lancelot stared at her, then looked down at himself. "What manner of sorcery do you employ?" His arms were stretched out, as if he would float to the ceiling.
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"You can see through me. How is that possible without sorcery?"
"Without sorcery? Why, you big lug. You really think I'm stupid enough to fall for your tricks?" She tried to keep her voice calm, the fury in check. "I know exactly what you're up to. You see Julie as an easy target. Yes, she's lonely. But she's better off alone than with someone like you."
"Julia? Lonely?" It was as if he hadn't heard anything else she said. "How can someone as beautiful as Julia ever be lonely?"
"Come on. You saw a sad young woman and made the best of it, didn't you? Well, you chose well. Because you have her convinced that you're really Lancelot. And ..." She crossed her arms. "Are you listening to me?"
"Yes, Yes. Please continue." But his manner was distracted.
"I would like you to pay attention," she snapped, irritated by his behavior.
"Would you be offended if I sat down?" he asked, his voice hollow.
"Well, no, I don't think so."
She watched as he walked slowly across the room and sank into the sofa. Elbows on his knees, he rested his forehead against his clasped hands before looking up at her. "I never imagined her as lonely."
"Julie?"
He nodded.
"Of course, she was lonely. Most of us are."
"You, too?" There was genuine concern on his face, a flickering in his eyes that was pure compassion.
"Well, yes. I suppose so."
There was something wrong. This wasn't going the way she had expected it to go. "Are you all right?" Peg heard herself asking.
He looked at her, his gaze clear and direct. "Why must there be so much sadness? You, Julia, the people at Avalon. How can such misery be allowed?"
"Well, I never really thought about it." She settled on the couch next to him. "It's just the way things are, the way they have always been. It's the natural human condition." She smiled wryly. "Good thing, too. Or I'd be out of a job."
Lancelot closed his eyes. "That's not true. It's not the natural human condition. Not at all. And it hasn't always been like this."
"You mean, it wasn't like this in Camelot."
He took a deep breath and opened those clear cornflower blue eyes, and Peg felt a strange fluttering inside her.
"No. It wasn't like this in Camelot."
"Tell me about it there. Tell me about Camelot."
Then he smiled. "I used to think it was the place that was so magical, Camelot. The flowers and the fragrances, the sparkle of the castle and the walls, the sky and the birds. And it is indeed a beautiful place. But I've only now realized, since coming here, that the real magic in Camelot lay within her people."
"I'm not sure I understand."
"There is no genuine heartbreak in Camelot."
"That's impossible. Everyone suffers. Everyone survives the suffering."
"But that's just it. Camelot is the one place where suffering is not necessary. It's obsolete. Rather, it's been rendered obsolete. But someone tried to introduce it to Arthur and Guinevere, and that's when the kingdom fell apart."
Peg stared at him in wonder. "You really believe in Camelot, don't you?"
"Yes. Now more than ever. I believe I needed to leave to restore my faith. In a strange way, I've never felt Camelot more keenly than I do at this moment."
The front door opened, and Julia, her face radiant as she saw Lancelot, entered. She dropped the hall dozen shopping bags.
"Hi, Peg," she said, her eyes on Lancelot.
Peg just watched, fascinated.
Slowly, he stood and walked toward Julie, his arms gently opening to take her. And she, too, moved to meet him. They did not seem to be creatures of this earth as they came closer, closer, and finally they met.
He embraced her with such tender ferocity that Peg heard herself gasp, and then she saw Julie's face, an expression of such sublime love and joy that Peg clenched her hands.
And then there was a strange hum, as if the world had become a single note, a tune. As Peg stared in astonishment, a mist seemed to encircle the two of them, twirling and flowing around their bodies, brilliant in its pure whiteness. It was as if a heavenly cloud had arrived to dance with two divine creatures.
Finally, their lips met, and Peg realized that what she was witnessing had nothing to do with her world. What she was watching was a little bit of Camelot.
* * *
Chapter Seventeen
Sam returned to the store with deposit slips poking from the pocket of his plaid shirt.
"Whew. Killer lines at the bank." Then he noticed the expression on his brother's face, the same expression of barely contained excitement that blew Aunt Bertha's surprise party on Staten Island last year. "What's up?"
"We are." Mel grinned. "We're up."
"You're making me nervous here."
"Let's just say that maybe I'm the one with the real customer pizzazz. Maybe I'm the one who should be up front."
r /> "Oh, yeah?"
"Yeah. Guess who just got us five hundred bucks without selling a damn thing?"
"What are you talking about, Mel?"
With great flourish, he produced a handful of crumpled bills. "Viola," he announced.
Sam resisted the urge to mention that a viola was a large violin, and looked down at the money. "This stuff looks like it's seen better days. So, where did it come from?"
"This is the greatest idea of all time. Get this. The five hundred bucks is for a copy of a few pages of a manuscript. It was funny, the guy kept on slapping more bills on the counter. He thought I wanted more money, but I was just confused about why someone would pay so much for a plain paper copy. Straight from the fax machine, in fact."
"You're kidding!" Sam paused. "What manuscript?"
"This is the real coincidence. It's the same book we were looking at. You know, the sixteenth-century Italian text with the incantations. The Camelot book."
"Who took it? Was it the couple from the other night?"
"Nah. This is the other odd thing. The guy who was in here looked exactly like the gallant Malvern. Weird, eh? He said he was in here before and that you said you'd have more stock tomorrow. Why on earth did you tell him that? Aren't you the one who says never to disappoint a customer? That it's better to call up and tell him his order is early than to tell him it's late?"
Sam stared at the money. "He must have pawned the rest of her jewelry. What did you tell him? Did you mention the part about the physical link?"
"Calm down, Sammy. Yeah, of course, I mentioned it. Listen, I know there is some sort of contest thing going on. I hope I haven't messed up your chances."
"Contest?" He wiped the perspiration from his upper lip. "What contest?"
"The guy said there was a contest or tournament. Hey, what's going on here? Is this some sort of reenactment group?"
Sam shook his head. "It's complicated. I should have… Listen, Mel. If that guy comes back in here, do not give him anything. Absolutely nothing else. Copy or not, no matter how much he offers you, do not give him a shred of paper."
"Sammy, no contest is that important. You need to get a grip, Sammy boy."
"This isn't just a contest. It's crazy. You'd never believe me."
"Try.
Sam hesitated. His brother was the pragmatic one, the one who spent his summers in accelerated language courses while everyone else played. He'd have Sam locked up. But there was no way to keep this I rom him, not now.
"Okay, here goes," Sam began. "There was something I left out at Katz's. There is a Camelot. And those people have come from there, and they need to get back. This isn't just something to amuse me or a stage I'm going through. Somehow, Lancelot, Lady Julia, and Malvern have slipped through time, something like that. They're all trying to get back there."
"You gotta be kidding."
"No. I'm serious."
"Then there is no contest?"
"Well, there's not a contest in the sense of sending in box tops or writing an essay. It's as if there's a competition, but that's not it, either. It's bigger, more important. Almost like a good-and-evil thing, and I've got a gut feeling that Malvern is not as gallant as we've always thought he is. I'm not sure exactly. Something's going on. I just can't figure it out."
Mel stared at his younger brother, uncomfortably aware of the improbability of the whole story and also aware that Sam was right. Something sure was going on. He could feel it, too.
"I got another text a few months ago," Mel blurted out.
Sam blinked. "Good. I'm happy for you. But back to the issue at hand."
"This is the issue at hand. I haven't translated it yet it's Latin, and you know how Latin can drive me crazy. It was in all that junk I got at the estate sale in Buffalo."
"Oh, yeah. From that old vaudevillian guy."
"That's the one. Had an act in the thirties that went nowhere. He was heavily into the occult. Thought it might help his act."
"Wasn't he a tap-dancing ventriloquist?"
"Yep. The dummy was the tap dancer, that was his whole shtick. Anyway, this guy bought everything he could get his hands on."
"He should have bought tap-dancing lessons."
"Lucky for us he didn't, because one of his books was the earlier Latin version of the Italian Camelot text, the vulgate, if you will."
It took Sam a moment to follow the line of thought. "So? It's the same book in a different language. What's the big deal?"
"The big deal is that the Italian was just a translation of the genuine Latin. Let me put it this way. Any translation is only as good as the translator. It's an art form by itself. Remember that game we used to play as kids, Telephone? You go around a circle and see how the same little piece of information gets mangled with every retelling? Old manuscripts were like that. 'This wasn't printed material, it was done by hand. And without an original manuscript for comparison, you're at the mercy of the guy who translated."
"So?"
"So, I'm saying that I don't think the Italian was such a hot translator. I looked at the Latin, and even on a first once-over, it was clear there are nuances the Italian missed. Maybe he left them out on purpose, who knows? But there are significant differences."
"Such as?"
"Okay-just off the top of my head, the Italian copy states that a physical link is needed to return to Camelot."
"Right. And it has to be something mystical."
"See? That's exactly what I mean. The Latin version is a little different. It states that not one but two links are needed."
"Two?"
"Yep. One physical, the other mystical. This is what I've been trying to tell you all along, Sammy. I don't think you appreciate my work. Sure, you're out front schmoozing with the customers. But what I do is also schmoozing, only I'm usually schmoozing with dead guys."
"Yeah, yeah. I know what you do is important. But what's this about two links? I thought there was only one."
"See, that's just it. The Italian either didn't catch this or deliberately omitted it, which would mean he did not want this information passed on to just anyone. You've got to remember that anyone who could read Latin back then was something of a scholar. Hell, anyone who could read anything back then was a scholar. But this guy may have been an elitist. Didn't want the wrong people to get hold of this, because he seems to have thought this was mighty powerful stuff. No matter. The upshot is that the incantations and the material items needed are different. Nothing radical, just in the subtleties."
"What else is different?"
"This is why Latin drives me crazy. Little things change the meanings. It's going to take a while to compare the texts side-by-side, line-by-line. This is a fine-tooth-comb thing we're talking. You've gotta give me some time."
"How much time?"
"I don't know." He scratched his neck as he thought. "About a week or two. That is, if I do nothing else."
"No good. We've got to get this done much sooner.
"What? Camelot can't wait two more weeks? Okay, okay. I'll get right on it and see how far I can get. But I've got to warn you, Latin drives me crazy. I might get real cranky."
"So what else is new?"
Finally, Mel smiled. "Okay. I'm not sure why I'm doing this, but okay. Oh, and Sam?"
"Yeah?"
"While I'm working on this, the take-out food's on you."
Peg grabbed the bottle of vodka and poured the entire remaining contents into her glass.
"Are you okay?" Julie asked as the glass rattled in Peg's grasp. Finally, she just put it on the coffee table, tilted against the edge of a book on Shaker furniture, where it spilled happily, soaking the book, the coffee table, and the carpet beneath.
"Sorry. So sorry," Peg muttered, blotting the mess with an already damp napkin.
"No problem."
Lancelot was in the bedroom resting, spent from a day of physical labor, spent from yet another day in this time and place.
"I can't believe this," Peg sai
d with confusion. "I saw the room glow white with my own eyes. Did you see that?"
Julie lowered her gaze for a moment. "I didn't exactly see it."
"You didn't?"
"No. It's more as if I feel it. To tell you the truth, I didn't realize there was anything to see. It's just, well, it's just sort of there."
Hands trembling, Peg grabbed her oversized leather satchel and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. She stared at them, tapped the unopened end, then shoved them back into the dark depths. "I keep forgetting I quit."
Julie mopped up the rest of the spill with exaggerated care. "So, how are things with work?"
"Swell. Couldn't be better. Thank goodness for my sake there are a lot of psychologically ill people out there."
"Yeah. Thank goodness." She blotted the last drop in the corner.
"Julie, what's happening?"
Finally, she dropped the soaked napkin. "I don't know."
"Whatever you know is a hell of a lot more than what I know. So I'd really appreciate it if you'd fill me in."
"I've tried, Peg. Really, I have."
"And I've been unresponsive. Sorry. But can you blame me? I mean, I've been trained to help people get over their delusions. And then my old pal comes up with Sir Lancelot, and I'm expected to accept him as something other than a psychiatric case?"
"Of course, I understand. It took me a while to believe, and I was there."
Peg just stared at her for a long while, her expression blank. Julie half expected her to launch into another diatribe about the insanity of the whole notion.
Instead, she fumbled again with her backpack, located the cigarettes and a book of matches. With great deliberation, she lit the filter end before righting the cigarette, relighting it, and taking a long pull.
"Tell me."
"Tell you? About what?"
"About everything. Do you have an ashtray?"
Julie rose and returned with an old ashtray. "To tell you the truth, I don't feel quite comfortable telling you all of this."
"Why on earth not? Just because I've told you how mentally disturbed you've been, that Lancelot is a total psycho with sociopathic tendencies, and that you're clearly in the middle of a massive breakdown? Talk about thin-skinned."