The Greatest Spiritual Secret of the Century Read Online Free Page A

I’m a pretty competent wordsmith.”
    Rich glanced at Cheryl, who smiled back at him, then took a long, slow sip of his drink. “You know, the Russians make the best vodka in the world,” he said. “And the worst. The secret, of course, is knowing which is which”
    Paul nodded, having heard many times Rich’s story of when the firm sent him to Moscow and he learned All About Vodka And Russian Women.
    â€œAnyhow,” Rich continued, “I don’t know. I’ll ask around. Sometimes we hire temps or freelancers, although usually they’re paralegals or lawyers who just work on the side, if you know what I mean.”
    â€œI figured…”
    â€œBut I’ll check it out!’ Rich said with a decisive tone, standing again. “I’ll certainly check it out and get back with you.”
    Paul caught the cue and stood up, allowing himself to be guided to the door with Rich’s arm reaching over hisshoulder, murmuring reassurances until Paul was back in the hallway and the door was closed.
    Paul turned and walked to his own apartment’s door, used one key on the dead-bolt lock, the other on the doorknob lock, pushed the door open and walked in.
    As familiar as the apartment was to him, Paul still noted the contrast between his place and Rich’s. His was considerably less elegant, with simple light brown carpet, two tan fabric sofas—one long and the other short—an easy chair, and a ten-year-old faux teak wall unit that held his TV, stereo, and books. He walked through the living room to the kitchen, poured himself a glass of white wine from the refrigerator, and went back to the living room, noticing that he was limping slightly. His muscles ached. As he reached for the TV remote control to check the day’s news, he heard a knock at the door, a rapid and forceful rap-rap-rap. He stopped in mid-reach and carried his wine-glass to the door. Pulling aside the cover to the peephole, he saw an old man in a brown tweed jacket. The fellow looked to be in his seventies, with trim white hair and beard, his jacket middle-buttoned formally over his tie, holding a clipboard. He was smiling broadly.
    Paul opened the door. “Yes?”
    â€œHello, young man,” the gentleman said. “You’re Paul Abler, and I have a few questions for you, if youdon’t mind. I’m doing a survey.” There was a faint accent to his English, a guttural quality shared by Middle-Easterners and Slavic people.
    â€œI’ve had a really miserable day,” Paul said, thinking the man must have gotten his name off the mailbox downstairs, probably had followed somebody into the building to get past the front-door lock. “Maybe another time.”
    â€œI hate to press, but if you answer these questions, there’s a real premium at the end of this. Believe me, this is not a gift you want to say ‘no’ to. Much larger than anything you can imagine.” Paul saw the man’s eyes glance over his scratched face, the dirt and tear on the collar of his white shirt, and a small smile-perhaps a smile of sympathy-came to the man’s face. “You look like you could use a gift.”
    â€œI’m fine…” Paul began, recognizing the old door-to-door ploy and preparing to close the door on the man. But the man’s smile reminded him of the summer he’d spent during his first year of college selling magazines door to door, paid on commission, and all the doors that were slammed in his face. How he kept trying to smile at all the fearful or angry or apathetic people who wouldn’t even listen to how he could get them their first year’s subscription for free if they’d just sign up for two years. And they almost never smiled back. It was a miserable job, and when the end of thesummer came he was relieved to get back to college. It was his first solid realization of how cold and uncaring people could behave toward