The Anarchist Read online

  She took a sip from the flask, and then held it to his lips. The whiskey sent him into a coughing fit. She helped him lie down on the bed, and after a few minutes he could breathe normally, but he was coated with sweat.

  “You need to get out of these,” she said, as she began to unbutton his shirt.

  It was unusual—he did not feel the shyness that ordinarily plagued him around women. The room was very hot. After she removed his clothes, Motka set a pan of water by the bed and washed him with a cool, damp cloth—all of him, starting by dousing his scalp.

  “It is not just your eyes,” she said. “You are a lovely man. Not fat, like so many, and you don’t smell. You are like the virgin.”

  “A virgin,” he said, correcting her.

  “Tonight you seem different. Maybe there will be the reading lesson later?”

  “All right.”

  But when she lay down next to him, he tried to sit up. His breathing suddenly became shallow, which usually preceded another bout of coughing. She placed her hand on his chest and he lay back on the bed. “Slowly,” she whispered. “Slowly.”

  He breathed through his mouth, and after a few minutes the congestion in his lungs and the tightness in his throat began to disappear.

  “We have all night,” she said. “As long as you don’t decide to leave.”

  “I’m not leaving Buffalo again. Ever.”

  “Ever?” she asked. “What does that mean?”

  “It means ‘ever.’”

  She moved so that she brought her breasts to his mouth. He sucked on one, and then the other, and then he took them in his hands. Periodically she reached down to the pan, squeezed water from the cloth, and rinsed both of them. Water ran down his face; it pooled in the little depressions behind her collarbone.

  BECAUSE of the heat, Hyde was sitting out on the front stoop of his boardinghouse when Lottie Bender came down the street. She was wearing a blue dress and a bright red hat, and walked as though invisible hands were pushing her hips this way and that—and everyone sitting out on the stoops turned to watch. She might not have been sixteen.

  “Big Maud sent me to fetch you,” she said. “It’s about some man.”

  “Nieman’s returned?”

  Looking away, bored, making eyes at the men on the next stoop, Lottie said, “She knows you’ll be good for the two dollars you promised.” She held out her hand. “Ordinarily I don’t do house calls, not in this heat.”

  Hyde got up off the steps and handed her a dollar. “That’s for you. I will pay Big Maud when we get to the house.”

  He began walking down the sidewalk, but paused when Lottie couldn’t keep up because of her high heels. “What’s your rush?” she said. “Your friend has bought Motka for the whole night. He peels ten-dollar bills off like they was a soiled shirt.” Taking his arm, she said, “Listen, for another dollar you and me could take our time—it’s so much cooler out here.”

  Hyde looked back down his block, where half the neighborhood was watching, fascinated. “You sure he’s there all night?”

  “And it’s still young. Now let me take you down this alley here and”—she ran her tongue around her puckered her lips—“I’ll do you sooo right, love.”

  He pulled her along the sidewalk, going at a pace that made her half trot.

  Mr. Varney opened the door and Big Maud was waiting in the vestibule. Hyde let go of Lottie’s arm—she was breathless by the time they reached the house—and he gave two dollars to the madam. “Thank you for sending for me,” he said. “Is he up there now?”

  Big Maud tucked the folded bills in the little purse that dangled from her wrist. “He is,” she said, smiling warmly, “but, as you know, the policy in this house is to honor a gentleman’s privacy.” He took another dollar bill from his pocket, but she held up her hand. “Please, I have the reputation of this house to consider,” she said. “If my people thought that I’d let anyone else interrupt their assignations, I’d lose the faith of my most cherished customers.”

  Reluctantly, Hyde took out another dollar bill.

  Big Maud accepted the money with her usual grace, and said, “You are, of course, welcome to wait here in the parlor. Or perhaps enjoy the company of one of my other girls?” She drifted away, glancing once over her shoulder, her bustle bobbing gently behind her.

  Hyde went into the parlor, where “Camptown Races” was playing on the piano. He stood at the bar and kept his back to the girls who were seeking his attention. The room was stifling and he ordered a whiskey with a chaser of beer. He drank the first and then the second glass of whiskey fast, before returning to the vestibule. Big Maud was fanning herself, as she sat on a dainty chair next to a small table with a vase of flowers.

  “This heat,” she said. With her fan she indicated the chair on the other side of the table, and Hyde sat down. “I understand,” she said. “It’s really this girl, Motka, that brings you back again and again. You must not lose sight of the true nature of such relationships.”

  “I don’t like the idea that she’s upstairs with a man all night.”

  “But he’s your friend. You brought him here.”

  “I know.” He leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees. “Any man.”

  “Oh, my. Has it gone this far? Really, one mustn’t drink so fast in this heat.”

  He turned to her. The powder was caked around her eyes. “You sell your women.”

  She laid her fan on the table. “You are interested in a … business transaction?”

  “No. I wish to have a family.”

  “I see. A family.” She exhaled slowly, in anger. “Mr. Hyde, this is an illusion and, well, some illusions are dangerous.”

  “How much would you sell Motka for?”

  “She’s one of my most popular girls—why would I want to do such a thing?” She paused a moment, listening to laughter coming from the parlor. “And, I assure you, girls who are stolen from me, who are coerced by a man to believe in certain dangerous illusions—they come to no good end.” She glanced toward the front door, where her bouncer sat on a stool, his thick arms folded. “Mr. Varney takes particular pleasure in returning lost or stolen goods to me. It’s a source of pride, like a good hunting dog.”

  “I understand.”

  “What’s mine is mine.”

  “But—”

  “I have no intention of selling, and even if I did you wouldn’t have the resources.”

  She picked up her fan and began waving it in front of her face. Hyde got to his feet and went back into the parlor, where he ordered another whiskey and beer.

  THERE was a knock on the door. Czolgosz awoke and Motka stirred beside him. After the knock came the second time, she got out of bed and pulled on her bathrobe. When she opened the door, Hyde came into the room. Only one candle remained burning, so everything seemed unreal, dreamlike to Czolgosz.

  “Big Maud does not tell you I am busy tonight?” Motka whispered angrily as she closed the door behind Hyde.

  Hyde’s movements were unpredictable and exaggerated because of drink. He seemed both determined and exhausted as he sat in the chair that was piled with Czolgosz’s clothes. “I have been looking for you, Leon.”

  “And why is that?” Czolgosz asked.

  “I read something in Free Society the other day—a warning about a spy, and the description made me think of you.”

  Czolgosz started to laugh, but it quickly broke into a cough. When it subsided, he said, “Funny, I saw that, too, but it occurred to me that the description might fit you as well. Except you have dark hair. This spy is reported to be blond. Perhaps I have been too trusting? I should have watched you more closely? Should I report you?”

  As Hyde leaned back in the chair, Czolgosz’s jacket slid off the armrest and fell to the floor, making a heavy knock on the wood. He looked down at the coat, and then reached into the side pocket and took out the Iver Johnson revolver. “What have we here?” he asked. “This seems new, brand-new.” He looked up at Mot
ka, who had stepped back into the corner, frightened. “Maybe he is a spy. Don’t spies carry these?”

  “Put it back.” Czolgosz wanted to get out of bed, but he was naked and couldn’t bring himself to throw off the sheets with another man in the room.

  Hyde studied the gun closely. “And it appears to be loaded. Of course, what’s the point of carrying a gun, if it’s not?”

  “What do you want?” Czolgosz asked.

  “Want?” Hyde said. “Tell me what you plan to do, comrade.”

  “Why?”

  “Maybe I can help.”

  “No one can help me,” Czolgosz said. “Not now.”

  Hyde stood up suddenly, holding the pistol at his side. He was very drunk. “You have a plan, I know you do. There’s something about you—it’s frightening, but I must admit it’s also admirable. There’s a … a purity to the way you operate.” He laughed. “You have purpose.” Leaning forward, he said, “You move about so. Where are you going next?” When Czolgosz only stared back at him, Hyde grew angry and pointed the gun at him. “I think I know.”

  Czolgosz said nothing. He seemed unable to get enough air into his lungs. He often had trouble breathing but now he was only aware of a painful tightening in his lungs. He kept watching Hyde, the gun in his hand—though he noticed that Motka, who was standing in the corner behind Hyde, had picked up something.

  “The president arrives in Buffalo tomorrow,” Hyde said.

  “Perhaps you do know,” Czolgosz said. He inhaled slowly, filling his lungs, and as he exhaled he gasped, “But do you understand?”

  “Understand? Understand what?”

  “Necessity.” Czolgosz inhaled again, deeper this time. “Necessity and history.”

  “Then I’m right?” Hyde straightened up, his face became more alert, as he aimed the pistol at Czolgosz’s chest. “Anarchists, they always talk about eliminating all leaders. You don’t really want to help the worker, do you? You only want chaos.”

  “I have my duty,” Czolgosz said.

  Hyde seemed to lose his resolve for a moment, and the gun appeared to weigh down his arm. Then he took careful aim again. “So have I—”

  Motka stepped toward Hyde and swung with both arms, and when the porcelain chamber pot struck the back of his head it rang with the tone of a bell. Hyde fell forward onto the bed, his arms lying across Czolgosz’s legs. He was out cold and blood matted his hair.

  Czolgosz removed the revolver from his hand.

  II

  EXPRESS ORDERS HAD been given regarding noise. When the three-car Presidential Special pulled into Buffalo the afternoon of Wednesday, September 4, it was expected that there would be tens of thousands of people gathered to welcome William McKinley. There would be marching bands; there would be a military gun salute. McKinley had just been sworn in for his second term of office in March, and he was clearly the most revered president since Abraham Lincoln. However, McKinley’s personal secretary, George Cortelyou, was concerned about two things: the fact that since the second election there had been, despite the president’s popularity, a marked increase in the number of death threats directed toward him; and the health of the first lady, Ida B. Saxon McKinley. Cortelyou consulted regularly with Dr. Presley M. Rixey, the president’s personal physician, who accompanied the McKinleys everywhere. Rixey insisted, as he had in the past, that care had to be taken concerning noise when the train arrived in Buffalo. Thus Cortelyou had forwarded specific instructions that the welcoming ceremony—and in particular the twenty-one-gun salute—had to be conducted at a safe distance from the train. The president’s health was consistently robust and satisfactory, though Rixey would have liked to see him lose weight. The doctor’s attention was largely taken up with Mrs. McKinley’s condition, which was frail at best. She could not, Rixey insisted, be subjected to loud, unexpected noise.

  Rixey was standing by her chair in the president’s coach as the train crept into the city. The plan was to stop briefly at Terrace Station on the outskirts of Buffalo and allow members of the Pan-American Exposition committee to board the train, and then continue on to Amherst Station, which was at the north end of the exposition grounds. It was a warm afternoon and some windows were partially opened. Even as they pulled into Terrace Station a throng was being held back by a security line consisting of police, soldiers, and Pinkerton men. It never ceased to amaze Rixey, the planning and coordination and, increasingly, the security measures that were necessary for any public appearance by the president. He sympathized with Mrs. McKinley, who had said more than once that she would prefer that they all remain in the tranquillity of Canton until it was absolutely necessary to return to the Executive Mansion in Washington. The whole idea of passing the summer in Ohio was in response to her near fatal collapse during the trip they had taken to the West Coast in the spring. McKinley had canceled many events and appointments as a result, and this two-day visit to Buffalo had been rescheduled, primarily to give the president an appropriately large audience to deliver what he considered a major speech, one that would establish the goals for his second term of office. It was an opportunity that could not be missed; seldom was there an event outside of Washington where so many Americans would gather to see and hear their president. Newspapers speculated that when McKinley addressed the audience at the exposition on September 5, he would appear before the largest crowd to ever hear an American president speak.

  As the train drew to a halt, the crowd cheered and applauded while arms and flags waved in the brilliant September sunlight. A marching band was vigorously playing the last bars of a John Philip Sousa tune that Rixey had been hearing all his life but still did not know by name. He looked down at Ida McKinley, dressed in black despite the warmth of the day, and watched her raise her handkerchief to her forehead.

  “Can I get you anything, Mrs. McKinley? A glass of water before we alight?”

  “No, Presley, thank you.” She offered him the faintest smile. “I’ll be fine.”

  “We have arranged for a wheelchair to be at the platform.” “You are always most considerate.”

  The band concluded its number, and just as the crowd broke into applause there was a loud, percussive explosion. Dr. Rixey instinctively crouched down and turned his back toward the impact, which seemed to come from the depot platform. There followed another explosion, and then another. There was screaming inside the coach. Security men were moving, shouting; Mrs. McKinley’s niece Mary appeared to have fainted on a sofa—or perhaps she had been wounded. The explosions continued, developing a precise rhythm, causing Rixey to realize that it was only the military salute. The soldiers were too close to the train and their rifle fire was deafening.

  But the salute continued, and just as Rixey looked down at the first lady the windows on the platform side of the train blew in, raining glass on everyone, amid more shouts and screams.

  And then it was over. Outside, the cheering swelled to a nearly ecstatic pitch, the crowd not realizing what had happened on the train. Passengers got to their feet, glass crackling beneath their shoes. Rixey leaned down to Mrs. McKinley, who was deathly pale.

  “I’m all right, Presley.”

  “Are you sure?”

  But then she raised her head and looked past him, and a brightness, even a faint joy, entered her weary eyes. Rixey knew who it was, stood up, and turned around. William McKinley’s broad, soft face was absolutely serene as he gazed at his wife. His blue-gray eyes, as Rixey had noted many times, maintained startling clarity and focus.

  Standing a little behind and to the right of the president was Mrs. McKinley’s youngest nurse, and a look of panic had taken over her face as she stared at the first lady. Rixey turned quickly and saw that Mrs. McKinley was showing the first signs that she was about to have one of her seizures. Her left eyelid had begun to droop and there was a rapid twitching in that cheek. A series of deep furrows had developed in her forehead, and her mouth trembled as spittle foamed from the corners. Her pulse was visible in the side of her g
aunt neck. Aghast at such a sudden transformation, everyone around her seemed to have frozen—this too Rixey had seen on numerous occasions. No one seemed able to do anything to help her. Even Rixey still felt somewhat helpless.

  The president stepped toward his wife’s chair. Calmly, yet deliberately, he removed his handkerchief from inside his frock coat and unfurled it with the slightest snap of the wrist, as though he were an amateur magician who had developed such little dramatic flourishes to conceal his lack of technical skill. Leaning down, he carefully draped the handkerchief over Mrs. McKinley’s contorted face, and then he said quietly, “It will be over in a moment now, dear.”

  Rixey looked about at the others—staff members, Cortelyou, several security officers. They returned his gaze expectantly, hoping he could make this silent, awkward moment pass. But Rixey did nothing. Though he was the doctor, he’d learned to simply do nothing during these quietly tense moments, for this was, perhaps as it should be, a uniquely intimate occasion between husband and wife. Long ago Rixey had learned that it was best not to interfere.

  The handkerchief seemed to have a life of its own, quivering as it rested over Mrs. McKinley’s face. Her husband remained close to her, supporting himself with both hands on the armrests of her chair.

  A good minute passed and no one moved. Though there was still the noise of the crowd outside, it was as though an eternal silence and stillness had descended upon the coach. Only the handkerchief trembled, as if by some spiritual force.

  Finally, the handkerchief became still, and McKinley gently removed it by the upper corners, uncovering his wife’s face: her eyes were closed, her mouth slack but calm, set in its usual frown. She might have been asleep.

  But slowly she opened her eyes—the left lid still slightly recalcitrant—and gazed up at her husband inquiringly.

  “Better now, dear?” he asked.

  “Yes, Major,” she whispered.

  He straightened up and smiled.

  Suddenly, Rixey moved toward the sofa, where Mrs. McKinley’s niece was beginning to stir. The doctor took her hand, which was warm, and gently placed his fingertips over her wrist to feel her pulse. The girl’s eyes were not dilated; her cheeks were pleasantly flushed.