Free The Commissariat of Enlightenment by Ken Kalfus

mistaken for one of the consulting physicians. “The Imperial ! Sir, I would have been grateful for your acquaintance if it were not occasioned by so much tragedy.”
    The reporter murmured, “I hope we meet again in happier times, Vladimir Grigoryevich. How is the Count faring this afternoon?”
    “Happier times? No, never again…” Chertkov waved his elongated, bony hands. The pallor in his face accentuated his eyes’ gemlike brilliance. “I can’t believe this is happening…That he should pass from this earth…Why? Why? Is this a judgment on mankind?”
    Khaitover nodded, reminding himself that the man in the next room was eighty-two. “Has he spoken today? Any words at all? Anything?”
    Chertkov shook his head gravely. “He’s too ill and has slept all day. He needs peace. He has to avoid emotional distress. The doctors have given the orders.”
    “Does he know that the Countess has come—”
    The chief disciple interrupted him with a fierce wag of his head. It signified that even though the Count’s pulse was faint and his breath labored, and he was only skimming the surface of consciousness, he heard every word.
    Chertkov said, “The Count is being attended by the most accomplished medical men in Europe. Write that his every want is met. And if there’s one thing that all of us know and feel every minute we’re with him, it’s that here in Astapovo lies a man with true Christian love in his heart; with love for all mankind. He loves the poor and wretched; he loves the priests who heap calumny upon him; he loves everything on this earth. For the Count, love is the true meaning of life.”
    “Right,” said Khaitover, scribbling into his notebook. “But our readers would better understand the situation if I could take a quick look in the room. I’ll be quick, I promise. It’s just so that I can describe the scene, the attentiveness of the doctors…”
    Chertkov handed him a broadsheet, printed on both sides in English, with the title, “All You Need Is Christian Love,” in globby, heavily serifed letters that threatened to smear at the first touch. Khaitover accepted the page gingerly.
    “ Here is the Count’s message to your readers. Here is his spiritual last will and testament. Print it! It’ll be a sensational exclusive. On my word, it’s been given to no other English-language newspaper!”
    This was not exactly true nor, in fact, even remotely true. The Times had it and so did the Standard. Chertkov was not a cynical man. He knew perfectly well that he had given the tract to several newspapers—and that it had already been circulated in England by the Count’s disciples—and he was also convinced that he was offering the Imperial an exclusive. Faith easily triumphed over conflicting data.
    “I’m honored, sir, but no more so than the Imperial ’s readers.” Khaitover respectfully slid the tract into his portfolio. In return he removed another sheet of paper and handed it to Chertkov.
    From the page stared a likeness of the Count’s face. The sketch was well executed, without a single excess line. His beard was full yet neat and an intricate webwork surrounded his clear, far-seeing eyes. The suggestion of a peasant’s smock lay beneath the beard.
    Chertkov studied the drawing, puzzling over why it had been handed to him. Khaitover declared, “I’ll cable the Count’s statement to my editors at once. The Imperial will be delighted to publish it.”
    Chertkov hummed in assent and looked up. “But what is this?”
    “A drawing of the Count as he will be known all over the world,” Khaitover replied. “Of course many photographs and pictures of the Count are being distributed right now. But this is the Count in his essence, as he will be remembered best. This line drawing can be reproduced by the most primitive printing press in the most backward country anywhere in the world. Composed by a distinguished Russian artist of my acquaintance, it will stand as an icon for the