Free The Commissariat of Enlightenment by Ken Kalfus Page B

edition will be legally permitted to include this drawing on the frontispiece. It will be the mark of the Count’s authority. And all the world will know it, through notices in the newspapers and broadsheets, placed at the Company’s expense. This imprimatur will notonly embrace his books, but also the other items associated with the Count: commemorative plates, commemorative pins, children’s schoolbags, a motorcar rally, chocolate, tea tins, perhaps a European-class hotel in Moscow, perhaps a line of home shoemaking implements…”
    Chertkov sputtered, “A hotel, tea tins…”
    “Through the Company, which will manage and protect the copyright, accrued royalties will directly support the vital activities of the Count’s followers. They will fund communes, village schools, and literacy campaigns. Under your direction, of course.”
    “But tea tins?”
    Khaitover waved his hand. “All right, it doesn’t have to be tea tins. That was just an example. Think of a line of biscuits, with this famous sketch of the Count on the box, but not just any ordinary biscuit made in a factory. These will be good Russian biscuits, manufactured by peasants in the Russian countryside, using Russian flour and butter and traditional Russian methods of biscuit-making.”
    The chief disciple clenched his jaw. One of the Count’s innumerable sons had come into the parlor and was now, his arms crossed, coldly inspecting the intruder. Some of the children were allied with Chertkov; others with the Countess. Khaitover couldn’t keep them straight.
    “I don’t know how to make biscuits,” said Chertkov. “I don’t see what any of this has to do with the Count’s thought.”
    “But of course it does.” Khaitover spoke in a hurry. He had hoped to deal with Chertkov alone. “The Count is an idea all to himself, an idea incarnate. The idea can be expressed as, well, it might be hard to express…”
    “Love,” Chertkov said sourly.
    “Right,” Khaitover agreed with vigor. He pointed again to thesketch. For him, it was more than a business scheme: it was a herald of the future. “Love. And every time people see this sketch, fixed to whatever item it’s associated with, they’ll recall the Count’s idea. Love.”
    “Tea tins and biscuits…”
    “ Forget the tea tins! I don’t know why I said tea tins. Think about the schools, the communes, the Complete Works. You need this!”
    “Please, see to it that your editors have the opportunity to print the Count’s statement,” said Chertkov, glowering.
    The Count’s son, his face impassive, joined Chertkov. The two walled themselves between Khaitover and the sickroom.
    Khaitover urged himself on, as he always did. Sometimes things turned around at the very last minute. “I realize this seems like an inopportune time, but in fact it’s the crucial moment, because once the Count passes on, many others will seek to capitalize on his name. Please, consider my proposal. Of course you may need some time to reflect, but if we can obtain some kind of verbal agreement from the Count—”
    “Get out!” cried the son. “In the sacred name of my father, get the fuck out!”

NINE
    GRIBSHIN was leaving the train station’s waiting room at that moment, when he was startled by an airborne streak of long red hair. Nearly colliding with the girl, he caught a glimpse of her face. It was swollen and wet, the mascara and lipstick smeared by tears, and then she was past him. Men’s laughter snapped at her heels.
    It was one of the prostitutes. Gribshin stopped at the door and watched her go. He guessed that she’d been struck or in some other way abused. He thought to run after her and offer a word of consolation, but he couldn’t guess which word would suffice. It was a mysterious impulse. He had seen prostitutes in tears before; usually, their upset had to do with the amount of money offered. Sometimes it involved a sudden, brutal appreciation of their degradation, as if they had not been