Warning: Agatha Christie's world does not belong to me. I merely play with the larger-than-life characters and hope that one day I'll inherit them.
-Madame, that is too much for Poirot! For the sake of my detective's honor, you cannot make the mayhem of this case!
-Come on, Poirot, you know I don't have any clue of what will come after Sven discovers the red herring of the spectacle. You can't possibly imagine my inserting another one! And what should it be? A monocle? Absurd!
-You are too much of the writer, and not enough of the crime investigator! Your story line is not plausible, and Poirot will not abide to it!
Having howled that, the little man furiously darted out the room, leaving me, Ariadne Oliver, crime writer of the century, winner of the Pulitzer Price of the last two years, abashed and confused. Well, at least some things did not change over the years. I always followed my strict apple diet and Poirot systematically lampooned what the literary intelligentsia and my public called my works of art; what the Herald named the "most spellbinding whodunits ever written", my detective friend sharply coined the phrase "namby-pamby hotchpotch of nonsense". Thus, I was divided between two superior instances: on the one hand, I was doomed to respect my poetic instinct and the rules of the art, and on the other hand, I regard Poirot's field expertise highly, and could not afford to lose his friendship by literary negligence. I needed first-hand witnesses; I needed a professional outlook. The rub was, fiction was not real life, therefore my protagonist – and my plot - could act a little eccentrically insofar it wound up on a good denouement. That was my motto, on the ground that my readers would prefer an unorthodox narrative, amusing and thrilling altogether, than an uptight, although accurate, story line. Besides, I got a kick out of abnormal plots and general transgression of realistic conventions. If my audience shared my quirk, Poirot held a personal grudge against these vagaries. I knew he found a certain pleasure in reading Sven's adventures – the joy of the professor correcting a slipshod, but entertaining essay. Even more, he loved to correct me abundantly, and explain where the flaws reside and how to emendate them - till nothing of my pristine canvas remained. At least he did not insist on changing my hero's confession: Sven still revelled in a wholesome, substantial beans meal, and not in some outlandish friteries. In the end, our discussions were both infuriating and enjoyable. Till now, Poirot did find some room for compliment, and I to accept them with the humility expected.
But I seemed to have overstretched the mark. I decided to go and humble myself before Poirot. Though I did not see him through rose-tinted glasses, I still needed his outraged presence, his well-advised thoughts, his pedantic lessons. I was even ready to propose him the lion's share – to write a novel at four-hands. His expertise and professional experience would tune down my screwiness. On my side, I would flare up the youthful enthusiasm for carving a well-balanced sentence. I would ignite the poetic furore that was entangled in Poirot's severe gray cells. With our conjoint talents, we would sway the throng – scare off potential murderers - invent a new genre and, by doing so, a civilization.
Silence answered my repeated knocks on the wooden door of my soon-to-be sidekick's Palladian villa.
-Don't be fussy Poirot, I know you didn't mean what you said!
Or perhaps another approach would do the trick.
-Too bad I have to redistribute these Cuban cigars to the poor.
The rumble of a bunch of keys was distinctly heard behind the carved panel, and finally the boggled, familiar brown eyes loomed over a dish warmer on a silver lining. A delicious scent of roast-beef transpired through the interstices and my stomach began to grumble. Apples were clearly not substantial enough for a writer, but they contribute to the creation of her legend. (A note to my readers: this is the message I endeavored to convey, so stop bugging me with Sven's artichokes. Since when has this character prevailed on his creator? How I understand Conan Doyle's scheme of getting rid of Sherlock Holmes. He could not be more in the right: tobacco is dead unhealthy.)
-Madame, I was waiting for your arrival. I suspected you were famished, so I cooked for you favorite papa Poirot's edibles. Please, do enter. The table it is set, and an Armagnac – fabulous! Ancient heirloom from my grandaunt - has already been poured in the verres a vin.
He ushered me into the vast, amber-lit dining room, as if the run-in has not occurred. I did not need my feminine intuition to assume he was up to something. For now, Poirot was whistling mischievously, setting up cutlery and arranging a bouquet of white roses on the damask silky tablecloth. Was he trying to butter me up? Had my paranoiac senses have not been dulled by the intoxicating flavor of the alcohol, I would have uttered it out loud. Instead of an unjustified lambast, I asked him (without the dryness I intended to voice):
-I presume that you slept over our quarrel and that you are ready for another start-up?
My interlocutor smiled and looked unmoved by my outright question.
-I have indeed pondered on your… complaints. Albeit your stubbornness that hinders you from seeing what Poirot's sharp mind sees most acutely, you have a legitimate claim to your writing. After all, you are the artist, (he waved his hand with what I interpreted a slight touch of contempt)and I am merely the indulgent counselor, or less ambitiously, your crutch. And that, Madam, is a role that I would endorse willingly. With one condition.
So that was the moment where he would let the cat out of the bag. I could not say, at the time, that I was not relieved by his good-humored tone, but I knew him, and more, I knew he was preparing a master stroke. As in a criminal case, he was installing his pawns on the chessboard. One of my soldiers has moved forward, and my opponent (alas, too gifted for my weak strength; I always failed miserably at the game) was on the verge of a sudden and scathing retaliation, a coup de maître. Expecting the worst, I glared at him and saw his eyes glittering with amusement.
-Do not worry, my friend! My proposition, it is not harmful at all, quite the contrary.
His voice softened:
-What I ask from you is my sharing the, how do you call it… the soft money you will earn at my expenses. Let me explain myself: I think, not without a cause, that your next inquiry illustrates my last case at the perfection. It is only fair if you accept to give me a 10% of your wages, but, attention! Not in coins. I expect that you return the favor of your misdemeanor by attending with me the scenes of the crime.
I was totally flummoxed. Not only did he steal my own ideas of a partnership, but also he had guessed my secret desire of actually living my fictions.
-I am adamant that you will improve your sometime disorganized plots, and I will gain a most agreeable companion. It is the deal most perfect, wouldn't you think?
I was not so sure about the second part of his discourse, but I could not care a straw: at last, Sven would listen to and obey a superior instance that would lead him exactly where he was supposed to head. And if he lost some weight during the process of complying, which he perennially hated, much the better for him. Little did I know Poirot's hidden motives, but at the instant, I was only eager to fantasize on the mellow texture of a blood clot or the purple circles of strangulation on a victim's throat.