by Peter Vaughan

Why was it so difficult? E couldn’t understand why the literary agent had just kicked him out. After all, philosophers had to eat too. It was an exceptional year by any standard. E had emigrated from Bosnia, changed his name to a single letter, and embarked on a career as writer in a language he could barely speak. These were challenges he could understand, but not the reaction of supposedly normal people. He had written a historical book of fictional recipes that the world would just have to try.

E had spent many weeks planning his outline and writing the book. He had dreamed about food when he was living in fear for his life in Sarajevo. It all started in 1994 as the Serb’s shelled the city for a thousand days. It was there, in his shuddering apartment, that he began working on his book. He horded tiny pieces of paper and wrote recipes as long as it was light, and at night, well, at night he dreamed recipes. What would Socrates have eaten for his last meal? What was Aristotle’s favorite dish? And what did Mr. Thoreau plant in his garden? These details were the essence of his life. How a so-called literary agent couldn’t see the art was an unfathomable dark pit. Leon Kass, that philosopher-doctor in Chicago had written a book about food, hadn’t he? Hmmm.

What was it with these pinheads? He daydreamed food as he stepped out into the humid heat that was southern Ontario in summer. He felt hungry and thirsty. But what did he feel like eating? Well now, what would Jean-Paul Sartre like to eat? Perhaps something to stem the rising tide of nausea? He stopped and pulled the manuscript from his pack. He quickly found the index and read aloud: "Sartre. Page 635. Crème Brulé with Cointreau." Yes, that would be nice. But where would he find it? You see that was the problem. It was easy to make up the recipes, but nobody could find them. There were no philosophical restaurants in Guelph, or even in Toronto for that matter.

As he was standing there on that hot July day, in the middle of Yonge Street he was struck from behind by one of those bicycle couriers in a constant cosmic panic. As he fell to the ground scraping his knee, his manuscript flew from his hands in a slow motion arch. It was his only copy by the way, and it landed on the back of a yellow taxi as it whisked away from the curb and sped down Wellesley Street. Which is how I came to possess the book and proceed to pass it off as my own.

You see I am a writer too, a famous Canadian one at that. I know that’s an oxymoron in London and New York. But I do make a living. Enough to afford a big white saltbox house outside Chester Nova Scotia, and a Mercedes SUV. I rationalized the excess of the SUV by convincing myself the icy winter roads required a vehicle with a solid reputation for safety. But I never spent the winters in Nova Scotia. I always returned to Toronto and the teaching that was my fulltime gig. But I digress.

My publisher Random Hearts published it. One critic hailed it has a masterpiece of a new genre, and I quit teaching for good. My agent, Harold J. Smithers called to invite me to lunch at the Arts and Letters club. He wanted to talk to me. He said it was urgent. 

When I arrived at the club I was pleased to see my, actually it was E’s recipe, for Descartes’ Chateaubriand for two as the special of the day. I decided to have it because it was so awfully good, and I was certain Harold J. Smithers of the NeitherMoreNorLess Literary agency, would join me.

Harold arrived just as I was looking at the wine list. He looked terribly upset, like he’d been given a death sentence or something.

I said, "What’s wrong, old boy. You look like you’ve seen a ghost."

"Well, I sort of, have," he said throwing his 225 lbs down across from me.

"What is it, Smithy?"

"Something’s come over the transom you should see."

"Why should I look at some hack’s work?" I said pointing to the Australian Cab for the waiter. "I hope you don’t mind, I’ve taken the liberty for the both of us."

"I’m not hungry," Smithers said. That was a first. I’d never seen Smithy turn down a meal, especially one of my, or E’s recipes, and a meal he knew I would pay end up paying for.

"Look at this." He pulled an 800-page manuscript from his briefcase and threw it on the table. I picked it up as if it were a relic, or a smoking gun. I knew instantly that I’d been caught. There was no way out. I would be disgraced, ruined. I’d be back teaching. I could hear the screaming rowdy class shouting for their freedom. I looked at Smithy. He was smiling. It was a huge devilish grin. Maybe he’s in pain, I thought.

"Don’t you see," he said. "You have to meet him."

"How can I meet somebody who calls himself E? You just want to see me squirm, that’s all."

"No, nonsense. I want to keep this little secret of ours a secret. If you meet Mr. E, or whatever he calls himself you can, well maybe convince him to write another book, or something. We’ll have to think about that."

"You’re damn right we will. I don’t see how meeting him can do any good. Look, wouldn’t it be better if you met with him and say, offered to be his agent, and well, get him to write another book. Isn’t it more likely that he’s the copy cat, and I’m the real author."

"Would you like to taste the wine?" the waiter said looking at me accusingly over those ill-fitting glasses.

"Now look Smithy, how do you know he’s the real author. I mean why did you immediately assume it wasn’t mine?" He squinted at me through those anteater eyes. And for a moment he was an anteater, his long snout searching the table for something to eat.

"It was too good, too original for anything you’ve ever written. Why do you think the critics loved it? Gees, even Margaret Atwood swears by those recipes.

"Well, okay, if I’m going to meet him we’re going to need a plan. I mean a damn good strategy."

And so we hatched what came to be known as Operation Echo. It was a simple plan really. For the small amount of $1,000 "E" would sign a document saying I was the original author and he had plagiarized the recipes. We’d put him on the payroll, and so long as he didn’t open his mouth he’d receive a payment every month. Enough to live on, and maybe he’d write another book. If he wouldn’t sign, we’d have to charge him with plagiarism. We finished the Cab and the last of the Steak Descartes just as my cell phone rang.

"Hello?" It was my ex-wife, Miriam. "Yes, yes, I know the payment is late, but things have been difficult lately. The books are not selling well lately. Okay, okay, no need to get upset, I’ll send it out by courier this afternoon." I hung up.

"Shit, okay, we’ve got to get him to agree to this soon. I can’t chance losing the rights to this book. I mean I’ve got alimony and stuff."

"I’ll arrange everything for tonight."

"Good. Waiter? I’ll have some of Plato’s Flan."

"You’re eating a lot."

"I can’t stop. The smell, the taste… it’s so… philosophical. But this food, it’s amazing. I mean I always eat when I’m nervous. Tonight? What time?"

"Seven at my office."

In the taxi on the way back to my house in the Annex I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was a failure, a complete, and utter fraud. Here was this guy called "E" who had actually written a fantastically original book and I was taking the credit. It just wasn’t fair. All because the manuscript fell at my feet as I was tying my shoe one day on Wellesley Street. I mean, it was like it had been sent by the gods, or God, or whatever cosmic demi-urge started this human comedy. Maybe it was a test, like finding five bucks on the street, and I had failed the test.

As we pulled up to the curb, the taxi driver looked in the rear view mirror and said:

"Hey, ain’t you the guy who wrote that book, that bestseller cookbook? My wife loves that thing. She makes all those famous dishes at home. I’m the luckiest guy in the world thanks to you. I can’t charge you for the fair. She’d kill me. Look the ride is on me. Write another book like that, that’s all I ask."

As the taxi sped away I stood there staring at the crack in the sidewalk. I kept thinking eating recipes of famous philosophers didn’t make one wise or ethical. I guess that’s what the book was really about. I just didn’t get it until now.

At precisely seven I opened the door of the NeitherMoreNorLess Literary agency and stepped into the empty waiting room. Copies of my book, or E’s book, were spread out on the coffee table. Smithy must have heard me come in. He came out of his office and towering above me he put his hand on my shoulder.

"Don’t worry, I’ve got it all worked out." There was that Colgate smile again.

The door opened and in walked what looked like a frightened street person. He carried a knapsack and smelled like he hadn’t taken a bath since the Fall of Rome.

"Can I help you?" Smithy said.

"E?" I squeaked.

"Yaz, that’s wut I now is culled."

"Good Lord!" Smithy exclaimed reflexively.

"Please sit down," I said pointing to one of the sofas in the waiting room. "I’m so glad to meet you," I lied.

Actually he was an interesting man. His brilliant blue eyes had a rare intensity I can’t describe, like sitting on a dock with your feet dangling in the water. You can see your toes through the crystal clear water, but beyond that, well, beyond that it was just a very deep lake. And when he told his story of how he wrote the book, well, it was so incredible and detailed, especially the part where he lost the book and re-wrote every last word from memory. It was incredible, and very believable.

"Look," I said. "We, uh, have a proposition for you."

"A prapazition?"

"Well, like a business plan."

"Wut keinna bizus plun?"

"Well, you see, I kind of feel bad, I mean finding your manuscript. I didn’t steal it really. You know it did after all fall, literally into my hands. And I did make several changes, significant changes, especially the grammar and… syntax." He looked at me with those profound blue eyes.

"I mean, well, we’re prepared to offer you some money."

He stood up, straight as a board. "Muny! You tink E vants muny. No, no muny!"

"Well, that’s what this is usually about, isn’t it?" Smithy added.

"Wait," I said. "Sit down, please sit down. We didn’t mean to insult you. What we meant was, it’s only fair that’s all. I mean we could think of you as a… ghostwriter? Right? Smithy?"

"Why, yes, that’s right. It’s done all the time." Wink, wink.

"E no gost!"

"No, of course not," I said. "It’s a figure of speech. It’s a business arrangement that’s all. Now, please sit down. You haven’t heard our proposal."

"Okay, Mr. P." He sat down.

Mr. P. nobody every called me that. But maybe, just maybe, he was onto something.

The business of writing isn’t like any other business even though all the hack magazines say it is. Actually it’s a "who you know" kind of business. You have to hang out at all the writers’ conferences, be seen congratulating somebody for getting an award they didn’t want or even know about. Take Margaret Atwood for example. She was genuinely surprised to receive that "Crime Writer of the Year" award. I should know I was there and yes, I congratulated her. Poor thing, I felt sorry for her: crime writer of the year? But I digress.

So, we had decided that the best thing for everyone was to keep this thing quiet. Since E wasn’t exactly a man of means, or connections, we’d put him up somewhere comfortable, somewhere he could write, and I would do all the front work. The idea was very simple. We’d work as a team. What was so unusual about that, didn’t Hollywood studios do that all the time? So, that’s how E and I (P as he called me) came to be driving in my car to Nova Scotia. You see my place in Chester seemed to be the best place for us to go and write.

I got to know E quite well on the long drive to Nova Scotia from Toronto. By the time we reached Belleville I’d discovered E was incredibly well read and even though his articulated English left much to be desired, his command of English literature was greater than most college professors I’d known. Over the miles he grew more comfortable and talkative. His stilted English became more fluent as if energized by the adventure. By the time we arrived in Chester and pulled into the driveway of my saltbox overlooking the bay we had become fast friends.

Just as we stepped into the house the phone rang. It was Smithy checking up on how things were going.

"Things are fine Smithy. Yes, we had a great drive. E is doing fine. No, he’s not over tired. Yes, he’s going to start working on the next book right away. Okay, okay, I’ll call you tomorrow. We just got in you know."

Gees, what a nag, I was beginning to feel like E’s personal secretary.

After we got unpacked and I got E comfortably settled in the spare bedroom, I poured us a couple of glasses of Chardonnay. I pulled up a pair of Algonquin deck chairs and we sat down to soak in the view of Chester basin.

"It’s like Split," he said, a hint of melancholy in his voice.

"I beg your pardon?"

"It reminds me of Croatia," he said looking out to sea.

"Do you miss it? Your home and family?"

"Sometimes I mizz the mountains and the hikes we used to take before the wars. But mustly I mizz my family and friendz."

"Yes, I would miss this place if I couldn’t come here anymore," I said taking a sip of wine. And changing the subject, I said: "What are you going to write next?"

He looked at me with those accusing Lake Superior eyes of his.

"E is no Pygmalion."

"Why, of course not."

"E is tired. E going to bed now."

"Sure, fine. I’ll see you in the morning," I said, as I watched him disappear into the shadows of the room.

"Good night!" I shouted up after him. He sure seemed awfully touchy when I asked him about his next project. Maybe he doesn’t like to talk about his work. I could understand that. But he was going to have learn, if we were going to collaborate.

When I woke up I knew something was wrong. I don’t know why. I just did. So when I went downstairs to the kitchen I wasn’t surprised to see the Merc was gone. I had left the keys on the counter by the phone. E was nowhere to be found. I resolved not to panic. I ate my usual breakfast and sat outside in the glorious summer sun and had a cup of coffee. I knew I was supposed to call Smithy, but what was I going to say. I’d lost E. Maybe he’d just gone for a drive. He’d come back I told myself. Where else could he go?

So, by noon I was starting to get worried. I still hadn’t called Smithy. He could wait. I now had to think about going into town, and although it wasn’t far, I didn’t relish the thought of walking. The only other vehicle was an old bicycle that hadn’t been ridden in years, and a sit-down power lawnmower. I checked the bike and the tires were flat. That only left the lawnmower.

At first I felt a strange but it was kind of enjoyable, like riding a motorcycle or something as I sped into town at about 1 mile per hour. As I drove in Queen Street I saw my SUV parked outside the pharmacy, so I pulled up behind the Scotia bank and turned off the lawnmower. It was then that I heard shouting and laughing coming from the Anchor Tavern across the street so I thought I’d check it out.

As I opened the door, I couldn’t believe my eyes. There was E standing on a table ranting in Serbo-Croatian while a crowd of locals stood clapping and cheering him on. I went up to one of the spectators.

"What’s going on?" I shouted above the clamour.

"He’s from Quebec!" the local guy said, very pleased with himself.

"Oh," I said. "And how do you know that?"

"He’s speaking French, for crying out loud!"

"Ah, of course."

Clearly E was drunk, very drunk. He seemed to be ranting on about something he was very passionate about.

"Do you speak French?" a guy wearing an O’Keefe’s baseball cap said to me.

"Well, actually, I do," I said reluctantly.

The local shouted: "This guy speaks French."

The crowd looked at me. I look at E ranting. "What?" I said.

"None of us speaks French," the guy in the O’Keefe’s hat said. "Can you translate for us? He’s been going on like this for two hours and we sure as Hell would like to know what he’s saying."

Now you must understand, I don’t speak a word of Serbo-Croatian. So picture this: I’m now making up a translation of what E is raving on about.

"Well?" the crowd asked.

"Um, he’s talking about recipes…"

"Recipes?" the crowd said in unison.

"Yes, they’re dishes for the soul."

"Like what?" a short guy with a beard asked.

"Like…"

"Like your book," a cherubic looking fellow said from behind me.

"What?" I said turning around. "Who are you?"

"I’m Neil Finlayson, New York Times. Here on vacation."

"You speak Serbo-Croatian?"

"Only a few words. I covered some of the war, and picked up a few words. Enough to know it’s not French, and that he claims you stole his book and are passing it off as your own. The current best-selling book: Plato’s Flan."

"Well, that’s ridiculous," I said. "Can’t you see the guy’s drunk?"

"Yup. In vino veritas, as the Roman’s used to say."

I looked back at E. The crowd looked at me. Neil Finlayson smiled a big knowing grin. I knew the jig was up, finito, over. I could see the headline in tomorrow’s Times.

"Look," I said to Finlayson. "There has to be a way out of this?"

"And what would you suggest? I’m on holidays. You get me some of Seneca’s cheesecake and I’ll forget all about this raving ‘Frenchman’ from Chester."

"Seneca’s cheesecake? Do you know how hard it is to find the ingredients for that?" He just smiled. "In Chester?" He raised one eyebrow.

"I’ll do it," I said sweating profusely.

"Only I want him to make it, and we’ll eat it at your place," Finlayson said as we shook on it.

"Okay, it’s a deal," I said, not knowing where I was going to get fresh truffles. But I’d call Smithy who could bring some in from Toronto, or New York. It didn’t matter. It had to be done.

And so that’s how I came to own a cheesecake company in Chester Nova Scotia. E settled in as the chief chef. We hired several of the unemployed guys from the Anchor Tavern that day, and the guy in the baseball cap turned out to be a marketing wizard downsized out of a Toronto dot-com. So in the end everyone was happy, especially Neil Finalyson who had a weekly supply of Seneca’s cheesecake flown to New York.

But me, I still prefer Plato’s Flan.

Peter Vaughan is a writer living in Nova Scotia. He has been a musician, journalist, philosopher, primary care physician, UN Special Ops flight surgeon, lobbyist, and dot-com senior executive. 

A master of disguise, Peter has published extensively including travel features in the Toronto Globe and Mail, international news for the Lancet, and the British Medical Journal,  editorials in the Medical Post, humour in Stitches the Journal of Medical Humour, and he wrote and produced the television pilot MD TV for Global Television.

Currently, Peter is working on his second novel.