Hello! Thank you for taking the time to read this. This is my first go at one-shots, so please, don't be too harsh on me.
I've always wondered what Lancelot would be like if he lived in our time, and what it would be like to meet him. This story portrays my idea of the 21st century-Lancelot, and a girl who is lucky enough to meet him in Venice, Italy, one of the most romantic places on earth in my opinion. This story is inspired by the lovely song "Lonely is a Man Without Love", Patrizio Buanne's version, and Cardeia's portrayal of Lancelot from a rich family in her story Dust Devils, which I have recently picked up.
I hope it isn't too lame… Now, please enjoy and review :)
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A smart red Ferrari roared into a quiet cobblestone street of Venice. This piece of luxury did not seem to fit into the modest style of houses which lined both sides of the narrow street, but none looked up from their work as the vehicle continued to zoom its way down the street.
Swinging a sharp turn to the right into a wider and busier street in the last of the slanting sunlight of day, the car's engines moaned in anticipation for more action. But its driver had his foot on the brake as he veered the car in an arc and then stopped outside a small café, boasting its old and well-known name- Rondo.
Annie looked up from the china cup she was cleaning as she heard a car door shut outside the café. The ancient clock by the entrance chimed six as the door opened, the bells stringed to its frame tinkling merrily as a tall, handsome man stepped in, shoving his sunglasses into a pocket of his expensive coat.
"Good evening, sir," smiled Annie in greeting.
He grinned his million-dollar grin and replied, "Good evening, Annie."
"Same order?" the waitress asked as he strode across the small area of the café to its glass backdoors which were always wide open.
"As usual," he answered, nodding to a few customers of the café he recognized in a friendly manner.
"Good evening, sir," a young man greeted the man with a cheerful smile as he stepped into the open air of dusk.
"'Evening, Paul," he replied.
A pleasant evening breeze blew, ruffling the broad leaves of tall potted plants by which he swept stylishly, headed towards his usual seat by the river.
He sighed in contentment as he sank into one of the bamboo chairs accompanying a small, round glass table. He leant back in the chair and crossed his legs at the ankle, stretching his tired muscles. His long limbs dropped lazily on the arms of the chair as he glanced around the private boulevard of Rondo. Behind his back, ran a wide but quiet canal. The port on the opposite side of the canal often stood empty, but today, two canoes floated idly while their owners smoked and talked on dry land.
A low, corroded stone wall punctuated with small pillars and gaps bordered the straight canal. A few black elegant tables and chairs of Rondo huddled against the weathered wall, which were occupied by a few people relaxing in the tranquility after a hard day's work.
Nothing separated the exclusive backyard of Rondo from the public avenue. The man watched a jogger and an old woman carrying a paper bag wafting with the scent of bread that had just left the oven pass by, satisfied with witnessing the calm of another early evening.
His eyes drifted to a young woman who sat at the table next to him, desperately making use of the last glow of sunlight to finish reading her thick novel. She was obviously a local, dressed in a modest sleeveless sundress, perfect for the fading heat of summer.
He watched till she snapped her novel shut with a satisfied smile. Thrusting the book into her bag, she left a few coins on the table and pushed her chair back, smiling as she caught his eye. He nodded his acknowledgement and his gaze followed her as she walked back into the café, her black hair billowing behind her.
Annie appeared a few moments later with his coffee in the same yellow cup that he drank from every evening before he went home for dinner, with a small piece of homemade almond cookie on the side of the saucer. He nodded his thanks to the girl, who winked playfully and collected the bill left on the table by the Italian woman before returning to her other chores.
He leant forward in his chair and inhaled the refreshing aroma of his coffee. It smelt fresh and hot, just as he liked it. He hooked his index finger through the arm of the cup and lifted it to his lips, taking a small sip, then let out an exaggeratedly long sigh to pay his compliments to the delicious brew.
He turned in his chair so he was facing the calm canal. A canoe was gliding on the water silently, its master standing at the end, steering his course casually since there was no other traffic. He watched until the canoe reached the end of the channel, and turned out of sight.
The sky was now a mixture of purple and pink hues. Daylight was fading quickly, and the man knew that Paul would come out soon to light the old-fashioned oil lamps which stood by the glass doors, and Annie would flip on the lights which filled the boulevard with gentle yellow light. He would then sit for fifteen more minutes, finish off his coffee and the cookie, then head for home.
He was a man of routine, and he did not really mind.
Suddenly, he saw the figure of a woman standing a few meters from the boulevard, leaning her weight on the parapet while staring at a magnificent ancient architecture, which he believed now acted as a museum, on the opposite shore. He wondered how long she had been standing there. Perhaps not too long, because the last time he looked, there was no one there. And he wondered why he had not noticed her arrival. Surely he could not have been so absorbed in his thoughts.
He studied this woman curiously. She wore a black, slim-fitting top with sleeves that ran to her elbows. It was not big enough to cover her stomach- obviously designed in that fashion- showing off silky skin underneath. Tight jeans emphasized her curvy outline, and the silver belt studded with sparkling gems which she was wearing demanded attention. A battered traveling bag, which did not match her tasteful outfit, lay limply at her feet.
Not a local, he thought to himself.
He could not see her face in the dimming light, but he could see her shoulder-length black hair, wavy and let loose. The locks swayed freely as a calming breeze rushed by, and she shifted her weight from one heeled foot to another, her eyes still on the grey buildings facing her.
He tossed the crunchy cookie into his mouth and chewed while gulping down the rest of his coffee, washing the crumbs down his throat. Paul came out through the glass doors with a lighter in a hand, whistling softly as usual.
"Going already?" Paul asked as he lit one of the lamps.
He nodded in reply, and stood up, pushing the chair backwards with the back of his knees. He dipped a hand into his pocket and fished out a few coins, leaving them on the table. He nodded to Paul and the waiter waved back.
"See you tomorrow," said Paul.
He smiled. "See you."
He dusted his coat and straightened his tie as he walked unhurriedly towards the woman, his tailored leather shoes clicking loudly on the stone ground in a steady rhythm as he covered the ground with confident strides, which echoed in the still avenue.
He stopped a few feet from the woman, and laid his palms flat on the cool stone. He inhaled deeply and let the breath out slowly. He looked out at the deepening sky, then glanced at her.
If she was aware of his existence, she did not show it. He could see her face now. It was a pretty face with fair complexion all women craved for, graced with attractive features most girls nowadays possessed. Large green eyes, a high nose, glossy lips- they all looked more or less the same.
"A fascinating evening," he finally broke the silence, his stare still on her.
She tossed him an uninterested look, then returned her gaze to its original position. "Really."
He smiled despite her lack of enthusiasm. He could always charm young ladies out of their ridiculous "I'm not interested" trances. From her accent, he guessed that she was either from Canada or Australia. He now turned around and leant back on the parapet, facing the wine store they stood in front of which was glowing with a warm light.
"What's a lady like you doing here in Venice? Alone?" he asked, using his deep, subtle voice.
She glanced at him again at his change of tone, then looked away. "I'm looking for my muse."
"What for?"
She did not even bother to turn round. "Why should I tell you?"
He chuckled. "I'm interested."
"I'd be more at ease to tell you if I knew who you are," she said tonelessly without looking at him.
He chuckled again. Now they were getting somewhere.
"I'm Lancelot," he said casually, running a hand through his curls.
Immediately, as he expected, the girl whipped her head around and stared at him curiously. Then the interest disappeared from her eyes and she tried to sound normal as she commented, "A strange name."
"A family name," he corrected her. "I'll bet you've heard of it before." He gave her a challenging smile.
She responded to this gesture with a cool flip of her hair which had fallen onto her eyes. "The Du Lac family."
Lancelot bowed in mock chivalry. "At your service."
"One of the I'm-so-rich-I-don't-have-to-work men, aren't you?" she replied coldly.
"Well, I wouldn't say that," he grinned. "I work from eight to five-thirty every day."
"In your private resort club?"
He laughed and took a step towards her. "Life ain't that easy even if you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth."
She peered sideways at him with a skeptical expression. "How do I even know if you're a Du Lac?"
"Well," he brought his arms back and propped his elbows on the low wall, then twisted his neck to face her. "I've been told that the Du Lac grin has been our family's heirloom for centuries." He demonstrated the trademark grin, and she smirked.
"I guess the Du Lac charm is part of the package too?"
Lancelot laughed aloud. He loved women like her. Sarcastic, beautiful and sexy- the ultimate combination.
"Now you know who I am, will you care to tell me your name?" he asked.
She stared at him for a moment, then stuck out a manicured hand. "Robyn."
He grinned and shook her hand, holding it longer than necessary. "A pleasure to meet you, Miss Robyn."
She smiled at him and then asked, "Is it true that your family is of Sarmatian roots?"
Lancelot shrugged as if he did not care. "That's what they claim."
"You don't buy it?"
He shrugged again. "Who knows if the Sarmatians even existed?"
"They did," she said. "There is archaeological evidence."
"You read a lot?" he asked, changing the topic.
"Yes, I'm a writer."
He raised an eyebrow. "A writer?"
She nodded and leant forward, resting her elbows on the stone platform. Her little black top slipped further up her back, revealing a tattoo at the base of her spine which said "sentimental", backed by a pair of black wings.
"I don't look like a writer, do I?" she noticed his surprised face and asked with a smile.
Lancelot shook his head. "No. What books have you written?"
"I've only written two. You couldn't have heard of them," she replied dismissively.
"Tell me," he prompted, smiling encouragingly.
She gave him a look, then sighed resignedly and replied, "I published my first book when I was fifteen, it's called 'Slithering Shadows'. And my other, 'Basse' was published two years ago."
"How did they do?"
Robyn gave him a pointed look. "If they did good, I wouldn't be here."
Lancelot chose to ignore the unfriendly look and asked, "What do you do besides writing?"
Robyn shrugged carelessly. "I used to be a freelance fashion designer. But now I do odd jobs at restaurants, bookstores, and if I'm lucky I get something published in the newspapers. When I have enough money, I get on a plane or anything that gets me elsewhere and start all over again." She gave her bag a small shove with the nose of her shoe, as if it symbolized her life as a wanderer.
"Sounds interesting," commented Lancelot, not really sure about how to react.
She stared at him with a sardonic smile. "Of course it's interesting. Why else would I want to live a life like mine?"
Lancelot was at a loss of what to say. After a few moments of awkward silence, he asked, "Where's your home?"
She shrugged as if home was the last thing in her mind. "I was born and raised in France. But I left once I got the advance from my publisher."
He raised an eyebrow. "What of your family?"
She shrugged again. "I last saw my parents two years ago, when I went back to my town to promote my novel. They should be well and alive."
"Don't you miss them?"
Robyn gave a short, sarcastic laugh and ignored the question, "You know what? I don't even know why I'm talking to you."
Lancelot took advantage of the change in direction of the conversation and winked. "Not many women know, but I do."
She rolled her eyes. "What an ego."
The darkness of night had descended, and now they were only shadows in the dim light spilling from the top of lamp posts with peeling green paint. The canal rocked gently with yellow lights from nearby stores reflected in the water, and Robyn closed her eyes, as if soaking up the peace of the moment. Lancelot watched with a small smile.
"Sentimental, huh?" he laughed softly.
Her eyes snapped open and she grinned. "It's a cool word for a tattoo."
A gentle note from the piano caused both to look back at the café, where a musician sat in front of the café's old piano, tuning its notes. Another man, holding a saxophone, adjusted the straps a bit before looping them around his neck, then took his turn to tune the instrument.
The small band then started a song which Lancelot did not recognize at first, but then the familiar notes gradually came to him. He hummed softly under his breath, then joined the tune as it came to his favourite lines:
Every day I wake up,
Then I start to break up,
Lonely is a man without love.
Every day I start out,
Then I cry my heart out,
Lonely is a man without love.
"Are you one of them?"
He turned to look at Robyn questioningly.
"Lonely is a man without love," she caught the song and murmured the lyrics. "I don't see a wedding ring on your finger."
Lancelot laughed. "I'm too young to get married."
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-three," he replied without hesitation, and with even less hesitation he asked, "You?"
She looked at him, but did not reply, as if debating within herself whether or not to answer him.
Finally, she turned away and said, "Nineteen."
It was his turn to stare at her. She certainly was not your typical nineteen-year-old girl. His gaze fell upon her tattoo again, then to her bag, then her face. She was looking at him with an amused expression.
"Yeah, you're too old for me," she joked.
"You certainly aren't too young for me," he grinned flirtatiously.
"Yes I am, there's already one generation gap between us," she said, arching her back teasingly.
"I don't care much about age nor generation gaps," he said with a suggestive smile, moving closer to her.
She glanced suspiciously at him, then relaxed to an easy smile. The two locked eyes for a minute, then Robyn dropped her gaze. They lapsed into silence, both listening to the soulful notes of the saxophone and the harmonious chords of the piano. Then Lancelot started tapping his fingers to the steady rhythm, mouthing the lyrics without sound.
"Dance with me?"
Robyn tuned to him and gave him a dubious look. "What?"
"Dance with me," he said again, smiling.
She looked at him in mock wariness, then said, "I don't even know you."
"Dancing with a stranger on a beautiful evening in Venice," he sounded like he was in one of those tacky commercials advertising package tours to Italy. "Don't you think it's romantic?" he waggled his eyebrows mischievously.
Robyn laughed, then said, "You could be a serial killer for all I know."
Lancelot shook his head and extended his right arm to her. "I might a womanizer, but definitely not a serial killer."
"A womanizer?" she tilted her head to one side and stared at him from under her eyelashes, a smile tugging on her lips.
"Yes, it's unfair," he sighed dramatically. "It's just the ladies who find me irresistible."
She laughed again, shaking her head. "Unbearable, more like," she teased, pushing herself away from the parapet.
"Trust me, I'm not really all that unbearable," Lancelot assured her with a grin as she reached him, placing a hand on the tail of her spine, on her tattoo, to be exact, while the other grasped her hand.
"I sure hope so," Robyn returned the grin, resting her right hand on his shoulder, tilting her head slightly upwards to look into his warm brown eyes.
In the growing dark of night, the two who were only a little more than strangers started swaying to the music on an empty street in Venice, both feeling comfortable in each other's company, and as if they had known each other for a much longer time.