The Anarchist Read Online Free PDF Page B

all right,” Hyde said. “Tonight you take her upstairs.”
    Motka put her hand on Czolgosz’s forearm, startling him. “I’ll make to you a little bet, darling.” She spoke English slowly, with care, trying to compensate for the angularity of her Russian accent. He liked her voice, which was soft and had the slightest quaver, as though she were chilled. It made him want to offer her his coat. “My room is very quiet,” she said. “We can just talk a little—would not you like that?”
    Czolgosz looked at Hyde. “A bet?”
    “A small wager,” Hyde said. “Just go upstairs. You’ll see.”
    “Sometimes I wonder if you are a true comrade,” Czolgosz said.
    Hyde shrugged, as though he did not wish to take credit for a small accomplishment.
    Motka led Czolgosz out of the parlor and up the staircase, her skirts rustling about her hips as they climbed to the third floor. There, in her room, she had him sit in a straight-back chair and watch as she went around the room lighting candles. She made small talk, about where he was from, how long he’d been in Buffalo, speaking now in a combination of Russian and Polish—and when she hit upon an English phrase it was as though it were a great discovery.
    “You are studying English?” he asked when she had all the candles lit.
    “I buy an English newspaper every day. I have much used with the dictionary.”
    “That’s good,” he said.
    “But I do not always
buy
what I read.” She smiled at her joke, but then with great concern asked, “Is this the correct English word—‘buy’?”
    “Yes, very good.”
    “Perhaps I should find more lovers who speak English?”
    “We can speak only English, if you like.”
    She sighed dramatically. “With you, it will be good. So much times I think that a man’s vocabulary to be most limited.” She came over and sat on the bed. Her knees were almost touching his left thigh and he moved his leg away from her. Yet her hair was beautiful in the candlelight and he fought the urge to reach out and touch it. “You like a whiskey?” she asked.
    “No.” He coughed into a handkerchief, and then blew his nose.
    When she reached out toward his face, he began to withdraw, but then allowed her to lay her hand on his forehead. “You are ill? You seem most warm.”
    He started to get up from the chair, but she caught his arm and guided him to sit next to her on the bed. “Is there something I do wrong?”
    “No, of course not. It’s just this catarrh.” He leaned back into the pillows, exhausted. “I can’t breathe, and my sinuses hurt. I get headaches so bad they make me dizzy.”
    “Is there a favor you want?” she asked. “Just tell me what it is, please. What do you like to do?”
    “Do? Well, I like to ride trains.” She stared at his mouth, trying to comprehend what he was saying. “It’s something about the speed, the noise, watching the countryside pass by.”
    “Trains,” she said vaguely.
    He turned his head away. “What was this bet you made with Hyde?”
    “It is of no importance now. I have already won.” He looked at her and she giggled. “It was only for me to get you up to this room.”
    “For how much?”
    “A dollar. You are disappointed it is not more?”
    “No.”
    After a moment, she said, “Then let me ask you to do this favor for me?”
    “What?”
    “Read,” she said. “Read with me. Help me. My pronunciation is—it’s not good, I have been told many times.”
    “I can understand you.”
    “No. I must make better.”
    “What do you want to read?”
    “I have newspaper, but it is a week old. You are not interested in old newspapers? What would you have me read, Fred?”
    He wiped his nose again with his handkerchief. “My name isn’t Fred. It’s not Fred Nieman. It’s Leon Czolgosz.”
    She smiled then. “I make false names, too. But this is America and now I know it is no matter. My real name is Motka—Motka Ascher is who I was and who I will be.” She leaned toward