Free The Commissariat of Enlightenment by Ken Kalfus Page A

Count and everything that he represents.”
    The chief disciple shook his head, still unsure about what Khaitover sought from him. The word icon, however, had given him a start. The Count detested the icon as a token of organized religion.
    Khaitover had no intention of cabling the Count’s tract. Not only would the Imperial never publish it, but at sixteen kopecks a word it would have exhausted his ready cash. Now he pressed his point. “Vladimir Grigoryevich, the Count’s legacy is being contested even now while he lives. Imagine the assaults on his character once he’s gone. What did he stand for? For whom did he write?How can you prevent the Count’s ideals and thoughts from being appropriated by others for their own purposes, perhaps purposes the Count would have opposed?”
    Chertkov was listening hard now. His eyes were bright. “That is, of course, what happened to Jesus…” he said cautiously.
    Khaitover’s face was suddenly cast in a Levantine radiance. It was like bagging a grouse on your first shot. He fought a grin.
    “Exactly. Here’s my proposal, Vladimir Grigoryevich. First, authorize this copywritten sketch as the official depiction of the Count. You will require it to be used in every book and other item related to the Count’s life and work that you and only you will distribute. This is how you will lend the Count’s posthumous imprimatur to your faithful efforts. Those items that do not have this imprimatur—brought out by rivals or antagonists—will have no credibility with the public.”
    Chertkov pondered the drawing. One rival and antagonist irresistibly came to mind.
    “Are you suggesting that this imprimatur shall be bestowed by the Imperial ? That is quite out of the question—”
    Khaitover shook his head emphatically. “No, this is a private venture, unconnected to the Imperial in any direct way.”
    Indeed, it was not connected to the Imperial even in an indirect way. It had come into Khaitover’s head the day he learned of the Count’s flight from home. The newspapers had retold the story of the discord between Chertkov and the Countess and Khaitover had seen an opportunity like a shaft of light descending from a cloud-clotted sky. He had found the artist in a tavern on the Arbat.
    Chertkov pursed his lips; he had been dealing with all kinds of propositions since his arrival in Astapovo. Some involved outlandish medical remedies. Others had to do with social movements demanding supportive deathbed statements from the Count: on pacifism, on vegetarianism, on nudism. A few words would do, a sentence or a phrase. The Church had even sent two representatives in the event that the Count sought a reconciliation. “And you seek to have the Count’s literary estate pay you a fee for this service?”
    Khaitover raised his hands, as if to ward off the fee. “No, not at all. On the contrary, it’s the Company that will pay fees to the Count’s estate.”
    “A company?”
    “Incorporated in Moscow last week under the laws of the Russian Empire, comprising several gentlemen of capital and vision.”
    Chertkov shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t catch your meaning. A company has been established in Moscow, already, without the Count’s consultation? For what purpose?” A grave look descended upon his face. “This is irregular, I’m sure. In any event, we have all the legal matters in hand now, the Count has named us the editor and publisher of the Complete Works; he has stated this in numerous wills and codicils.”
    “Yes,” Khaitover said agreeably. “There are numerous wills and codicils, six to my knowledge…” He paused to allow Chertkov to reflect that these documents, composed with minimal legal assistance, were in sharp disagreement with each other and were contestable in the courts. As history unfolded, they would be tied up in the courts until the courts themselves were abolished by the Bolsheviks. “But whatever editions are printed, only one