Chapter 3

by Frank Norris

　　Once every two months Maria Macapa set the entire flat incommotion. She roamed the building from garret to cellar,searching each corner, ferreting through every old box andtrunk and barrel, groping about on the top shelves ofclosets, peering into rag-bags, exasperating the lodgerswith her persistence and importunity. She was collectingjunks, bits of iron, stone jugs, glass bottles, old sacks,and cast-off garments. It was one of her perquisites. Shesold the junk to Zerkow, the rags-bottles-sacks man, wholived in a filthy den in the alley just back of the flat,and who sometimes paid her as much as three cents a pound.The stone jugs, however, were worth a nickel. The moneythat Zerkow paid her, Maria spent on shirt waists and dottedblue neckties, trying to dress like the girls who tended thesoda-water fountain in the candy store on the corner. Shewas sick with envy of these young women. They were in theworld, they were elegant, they were debonair, they had their"young men."On this occasion she presented herself at the door of OldGrannis's room late in the afternoon. His door stood alittle open. That of Miss Baker was ajar a few inches. Thetwo old people were "keeping company" after their fashion."Got any junk, Mister Grannis?" inquired Maria, standingin the door, a very dirty, half-filled pillowcase over onearm."No, nothing--nothing that I can think of, Maria," repliedOld Grannis, terribly vexed at the interruption, yet notwishing to be unkind. "Nothing I think of. Yet, however--perhaps--if you wish to look."He sat in the middle of the room before a small pine table.His little binding apparatus was before him. In his fingerswas a huge upholsterer's needle threaded with twine, a brad-awl lay at his elbow, on the floor beside him was a greatpile of pamphlets, the pages uncut. Old Grannis bought the"Nation" and the "Breeder and Sportsman." In the latter heoccasionally found articles on dogs which interested him.The former he seldom read. He could not afford to subscriberegularly to either of the publications, but purchased theirback numbers by the score, almost solely for the pleasure hetook in binding them."What you alus sewing up them books for, Mister Grannis?"asked Maria, as she began rummaging about in Old Grannis'scloset shelves. "There's just hundreds of 'em in here onyer shelves; they ain't no good to you.""Well, well," answered Old Grannis, timidly, rubbing hischin, "I--I'm sure I can't quite say; a little habit, youknow; a diversion, a--a--it occupies one, you know. I don'tsmoke; it takes the place of a pipe, perhaps.""Here's this old yellow pitcher," said Maria, coming out ofthe closet with it in her hand. "The handle's cracked; youdon't want it; better give me it."Old Grannis did want the pitcher; true, he never used itnow, but he had kept it a long time, and somehow he held toit as old people hold to trivial, worthless things that theyhave had for many years."Oh, that pitcher--well, Maria, I--I don't know. I'mafraid--you see, that pitcher----""Ah, go 'long," interrupted Maria Macapa, "what's the goodof it?""If you insist, Maria, but I would much rather--" he rubbedhis chin, perplexed and annoyed, hating to refuse, andwishing that Maria were gone."Why, what's the good of it?" persisted Maria. He couldgive no sufficient answer. "That's all right," sheasserted, carrying the pitcher out."Ah--Maria--I say, you--you might leave the door--ah, don'tquite shut it--it's a bit close in here at times." Mariagrinned, and swung the door wide. Old Grannis was horriblyembarrassed; positively, Maria was becoming unbearable."Got any junk?" cried Maria at Miss Baker's door. Thelittle old lady was sitting close to the wall in herrocking-chair; her hands resting idly in her lap."Now, Maria," she said plaintively, "you are always afterjunk; you know I never have anything laying 'round likethat."It was true. The retired dressmaker's tiny room was amarvel of neatness, from the little red table, with itsthree Gorham spoons laid in exact parallels, to the decorousgeraniums and mignonettes growing in the starch box at thewindow, underneath the fish globe with its one venerablegold fish. That day Miss Baker had been doing a bit ofwashing; two pocket handkerchiefs, still moist, adhered tothe window panes, drying in the sun."Oh, I guess you got something you don't want," Maria wenton, peering into the corners of the room. "Look-a-here whatMister Grannis gi' me," and she held out the yellow pitcher.Instantly Miss Baker was in a quiver of confusion. Everyword spoken aloud could be perfectly heard in the next room.What a stupid drab was this Maria! Could anything be moretrying than this position?"Ain't that right, Mister Grannis?" called Maria; "didn'tyou gi' me this pitcher?" Old Grannis affected not to hear;perspiration stood on his forehead; his timidity overcamehim as if he were a ten-year-old schoolboy. He half rosefrom his chair, his fingers dancing nervously upon his chin.Maria opened Miss Baker's closet unconcernedly. "What's thematter with these old shoes?" she exclaimed, turning aboutwith a pair of half-worn silk gaiters in her hand. Theywere by no means old enough to throw away, but MissBaker was almost beside herself. There was no telling whatmight happen next. Her only thought was to be rid of Maria."Yes, yes, anything. You can have them; but go, go. There'snothing else, not a thing."Maria went out into the hall, leaving Miss Baker's door wideopen, as if maliciously. She had left the dirty pillow-caseon the floor in the hall, and she stood outside, between thetwo open doors, stowing away the old pitcher and the half-worn silk shoes. She made remarks at the top of her voice,calling now to Miss Baker, now to Old Grannis. In a way shebrought the two old people face to face. Each time theywere forced to answer her questions it was as if they weretalking directly to each other."These here are first-rate shoes, Miss Baker. Look here,Mister Grannis, get on to the shoes Miss Baker gi' me. Youain't got a pair you don't want, have you? You two peoplehave less junk than any one else in the flat. How do youmanage, Mister Grannis? You old bachelors are just like oldmaids, just as neat as pins. You two are just alike--youand Mister Grannis--ain't you, Miss Baker?"Nothing could have been more horribly constrained, moreawkward. The two old people suffered veritable torture.When Maria had gone, each heaved a sigh of unspeakablerelief. Softly they pushed to their doors, leaving open aspace of half a dozen inches. Old Grannis went back to hisbinding. Miss Baker brewed a cup of tea to quiet hernerves. Each tried to regain their composure, but in vain.Old Grannis's fingers trembled so that he pricked them withhis needle. Miss Baker dropped her spoon twice. Theirnervousness would not wear off. They were perturbed, upset.In a word, the afternoon was spoiled.Maria went on about the flat from room to room. She hadalready paid Marcus Schouler a visit early that morningbefore he had gone out. Marcus had sworn at her, excitedlyvociferating; "No, by damn! No, he hadn't a thing for her;he hadn't, for a fact. It was a positive persecution. Everyday his privacy was invaded. He would complain to thelandlady, he would. He'd move out of the place." In theend he had given Maria seven empty whiskey flasks, an irongrate, and ten cents--the latter because he said she woreher hair like a girl he used to know.After coming from Miss Baker's room Maria knocked atMcTeague's door. The dentist was lying on the bed-lounge inhis stocking feet, doing nothing apparently, gazing up atthe ceiling, lost in thought.Since he had spoken to Trina Sieppe, asking her so abruptlyto marry him, McTeague had passed a week of torment. Forhim there was no going back. It was Trina now, and noneother. It was all one with him that his best friend,Marcus, might be in love with the same girl. He must haveTrina in spite of everything; he would have her even inspite of herself. He did not stop to reflect about thematter; he followed his desire blindly, recklessly, furiousand raging at every obstacle. And she had cried "No, no!"back at him; he could not forget that. She, so small andpale and delicate, had held him at bay, who was so huge, soimmensely strong.Besides that, all the charm of their intimacy was gone.After that unhappy sitting, Trina was no longer frank andstraight-forward. Now she was circumspect, reserved,distant. He could no longer open his mouth; words failedhim. At one sitting in particular they had said but good-day and good-by to each other. He felt that he was clumsyand ungainly. He told himself that she despised him.But the memory of her was with him constantly. Night afternight he lay broad awake thinking of Trina, wondering abouther, racked with the infinite desire of her. His head burntand throbbed. The palms of his hands were dry. He dozedand woke, and walked aimlessly about the dark room, bruisinghimself against the three chairs drawn up "at attention"under the steel engraving, and stumbling over the stone pugdog that sat in front of the little stove.Besides this, the jealousy of Marcus Schouler harassed him.Maria Macapa, coming into his "Parlor" to ask for junk,found him flung at length upon the bed-lounge, gnawing athis fingers in an excess of silent fury. At lunch thatday Marcus had told him of an excursion that was planned forthe next Sunday afternoon. Mr. Sieppe, Trina's father,belonged to a rifle club that was to hold a meet atSchuetzen Park across the bay. All the Sieppes were going;there was to be a basket picnic. Marcus, as usual, wasinvited to be one of the party. McTeague was in agony. Itwas his first experience, and he suffered all the worse forit because he was totally unprepared. What miserablecomplication was this in which he found himself involved?It seemed so simple to him since he loved Trina to take herstraight to himself, stopping at nothing, asking noquestions, to have her, and by main strength to carry herfar away somewhere, he did not know exactly where, to somevague country, some undiscovered place where every day wasSunday."Got any junk?""Huh? What? What is it?" exclaimed McTeague, suddenlyrousing up from the lounge. Often Maria did very well inthe "Dental Parlors." McTeague was continually breakingthings which he was too stupid to have mended; for himanything that was broken was lost. Now it was a cuspidor,now a fire-shovel for the little stove, now a China shavingmug."Got any junk?""I don't know--I don't remember," muttered McTeague. Mariaroamed about the room, McTeague following her in his hugestockinged feet. All at once she pounced upon a sheaf ofold hand instruments in a coverless cigar-box, pluggers,hard bits, and excavators. Maria had long coveted such afind in McTeague's "Parlor," knowing it should be somewhereabout. The instruments were of the finest tempered steeland really valuable."Say, Doctor, I can have these, can't I?" exclaimed Maria."You got no more use for them." McTeague was not at all sureof this. There were many in the sheaf that might berepaired, reshaped."No, no," he said, wagging his head. But Maria Macapa,knowing with whom she had to deal, at once let loose atorrent of words. She made the dentist believe that he hadno right to withhold them, that he had promised to savethem for her. She affected a great indignation, pursing herlips and putting her chin in the air as though wounded insome finer sense, changing so rapidly from one mood toanother, filling the room with such shrill clamor, thatMcTeague was dazed and benumbed."Yes, all right, all right," he said, trying to make himselfheard. "It would be mean. I don't want 'em." As heturned from her to pick up the box, Maria took advantage ofthe moment to steal three "mats" of sponge-gold out of theglass saucer. Often she stole McTeague's gold, almost underhis very eyes; indeed, it was so easy to do so that therewas but little pleasure in the theft. Then Maria tookherself off. McTeague returned to the sofa and flunghimself upon it face downward.A little before supper time Maria completed her search. Theflat was cleaned of its junk from top to bottom. The dirtypillow-case was full to bursting. She took advantage of thesupper hour to carry her bundle around the corner and upinto the alley where Zerkow lived.When Maria entered his shop, Zerkow had just come in fromhis daily rounds. His decrepit wagon stood in front of hisdoor like a stranded wreck; the miserable horse, with itslamentable swollen joints, fed greedily upon an armful ofspoiled hay in a shed at the back.The interior of the junk shop was dark and damp, and foulwith all manner of choking odors. On the walls, on thefloor, and hanging from the rafters was a world of debris,dust-blackened, rust-corroded. Everything was there, everytrade was represented, every class of society; things ofiron and cloth and wood; all the detritus that a great citysloughs off in its daily life. Zerkow's junk shop was thelast abiding-place, the almshouse, of such articles as hadoutlived their usefulness.Maria found Zerkow himself in the back room, cooking somesort of a meal over an alcohol stove. Zerkow was a PolishJew--curiously enough his hair was fiery red. He was a dry,shrivelled old man of sixty odd. He had the thin, eager,cat-like lips of the covetous; eyes that had grown keen asthose of a lynx from long searching amidst muck anddebris; and claw-like, prehensile fingers--the fingers of aman who accumulates, but never disburses. It was impossibleto look at Zerkow and not know instantly that greed--inordinate, insatiable greed--was the dominant passion ofthe man. He was the Man with the Rake, groping hourly inthe muck-heap of the city for gold, for gold, for gold. Itwas his dream, his passion; at every instant he seemed tofeel the generous solid weight of the crude fat metal in hispalms. The glint of it was constantly in his eyes; thejangle of it sang forever in his ears as the jangling ofcymbals."Who is it? Who is it?" exclaimed Zerkow, as he heardMaria's footsteps in the outer room. His voice was faint,husky, reduced almost to a whisper by his prolonged habit ofstreet crying."Oh, it's you again, is it?" he added, peering through thegloom of the shop. "Let's see; you've been here before,ain't you? You're the Mexican woman from Polk Street.Macapa's your name, hey?"Maria nodded. "Had a flying squirrel an' let him go," shemuttered, absently. Zerkow was puzzled; he looked at hersharply for a moment, then dismissed the matter with amovement of his head."Well, what you got for me?" he said. He left his supper togrow cold, absorbed at once in the affair.Then a long wrangle began. Every bit of junk in Maria'spillow-case was discussed and weighed and disputed. Theyclamored into each other's faces over Old Grannis's crackedpitcher, over Miss Baker's silk gaiters, over MarcusSchouler's whiskey flasks, reaching the climax ofdisagreement when it came to McTeague's instruments."Ah, no, no!" shouted Maria. "Fifteen cents for the lot! Imight as well make you a Christmas present! Besides, I gotsome gold fillings off him; look at um."Zerkow drew a quick breath as the three pellets suddenlyflashed in Maria's palm. There it was, the virgin metal,the pure, unalloyed ore, his dream, his consuming desire.His fingers twitched and hooked themselves into hispalms, his thin lips drew tight across his teeth."Ah, you got some gold," he muttered, reaching for it.Maria shut her fist over the pellets. "The gold goes withthe others," she declared. "You'll gi' me a fair price forthe lot, or I'll take um back."In the end a bargain was struck that satisfied Maria.Zerkow was not one who would let gold go out of his house.He counted out to her the price of all her junk, grudgingeach piece of money as if it had been the blood of hisveins. The affair was concluded.But Zerkow still had something to say. As Maria folded upthe pillow-case and rose to go, the old Jew said:"Well, see here a minute, we'll--you'll have a drink beforeyou go, won't you? Just to show that it's all right betweenus." Maria sat down again."Yes, I guess I'll have a drink," she answered.Zerkow took down a whiskey bottle and a red glass tumblerwith a broken base from a cupboard on the wall. The twodrank together, Zerkow from the bottle, Maria from thebroken tumbler. They wiped their lips slowly, drawingbreath again. There was a moment's silence."Say," said Zerkow at last, "how about those gold dishes youtold me about the last time you were here?""What gold dishes?" inquired Maria, puzzled."Ah, you know," returned the other. "The plate your fatherowned in Central America a long time ago. Don't you know,it rang like so many bells? Red gold, you know, likeoranges?""Ah," said Maria, putting her chin in the air as if she knewa long story about that if she had a mind to tell it. "Ah,yes, that gold service.""Tell us about it again," said Zerkow, his bloodless lowerlip moving against the upper, his claw-like fingers feelingabout his mouth and chin. "Tell us about it; go on."He was breathing short, his limbs trembled a little. It wasas if some hungry beast of prey had scented a quarry. Mariastill refused, putting up her head, insisting that she hadto be going."Let's have it," insisted the Jew. "Take anotherdrink." Maria took another swallow of the whiskey. "Now, goon," repeated Zerkow; "let's have the story." Maria squaredher elbows on the deal table, looking straight in front ofher with eyes that saw nothing."Well, it was this way," she began. "It was when I waslittle. My folks must have been rich, oh, rich into themillions--coffee, I guess--and there was a large house, butI can only remember the plate. Oh, that service of plate!It was wonderful. There were more than a hundred pieces,and every one of them gold. You should have seen the sightwhen the leather trunk was opened. It fair dazzled youreyes. It was a yellow blaze like a fire, like a sunset;such a glory, all piled up together, one piece over theother. Why, if the room was dark you'd think you could seejust the same with all that glitter there. There wa'n't apiece that was so much as scratched; every one was like amirror, smooth and bright, just like a little pool when thesun shines into it. There was dinner dishes and souptureens and pitchers; and great, big platters as long asthat and wide too; and cream-jugs and bowls with carvedhandles, all vines and things; and drinking mugs, every onea different shape; and dishes for gravy and sauces; and thena great, big punch-bowl with a ladle, and the bowl was allcarved out with figures and bunches of grapes. Why, justonly that punch-bowl was worth a fortune, I guess. When allthat plate was set out on a table, it was a sight for a kingto look at. Such a service as that was! Each piece washeavy, oh, so heavy! and thick, you know; thick, fat gold,nothing but gold--red, shining, pure gold, orange red--andwhen you struck it with your knuckle, ah, you should haveheard! No church bell ever rang sweeter or clearer. It wassoft gold, too; you could bite into it, and leave the dentof your teeth. Oh, that gold plate! I can see it just asplain--solid, solid, heavy, rich, pure gold; nothing butgold, gold, heaps and heaps of it. What a service that was!"Maria paused, shaking her head, thinking over the vanishedsplendor. Illiterate enough, unimaginative enough on allother subjects, her distorted wits called up this picturewith marvellous distinctness. It was plain she saw theplate clearly. Her description was accurate, was almosteloquent.Did that wonderful service of gold plate ever exist outsideof her diseased imagination? Was Maria actually rememberingsome reality of a childhood of barbaric luxury? Were herparents at one time possessed of an incalculable fortunederived from some Central American coffee plantation, afortune long since confiscated by armies ofinsurrectionists, or squandered in the support ofrevolutionary governments?It was not impossible. Of Maria Macapa's past prior to thetime of her appearance at the "flat" absolutely nothingcould be learned. She suddenly appeared from the unknown, astrange woman of a mixed race, sane on all subjects but thatof the famous service of gold plate; but unusual, complex,mysterious, even at her best.But what misery Zerkow endured as he listened to her tale!For he chose to believe it, forced himself to believe it,lashed and harassed by a pitiless greed that checked at notale of treasure, however preposterous. The story ravishedhim with delight. He was near someone who had possessedthis wealth. He saw someone who had seen this pile of gold.He seemed near it; it was there, somewhere close by, underhis eyes, under his fingers; it was red, gleaming,ponderous. He gazed about him wildly; nothing, nothing butthe sordid junk shop and the rust-corroded tins. Whatexasperation, what positive misery, to be so near to it andyet to know that it was irrevocably, irretrievably lost! Aspasm of anguish passed through him. He gnawed at hisbloodless lips, at the hopelessness of it, the rage, thefury of it."Go on, go on," he whispered; "let's have it all over again.Polished like a mirror, hey, and heavy? Yes, I know, Iknow. A punch-bowl worth a fortune. Ah! and you saw it,you had it all!"Maria rose to go. Zerkow accompanied her to the door,urging another drink upon her."Come again, come again," he croaked. "Don't wait tillyou've got junk; come any time you feel like it, and tell memore about the plate."He followed her a step down the alley."How much do you think it was worth?" he inquired,anxiously."Oh, a million dollars," answered Maria, vaguely.When Maria had gone, Zerkow returned to the back room of theshop, and stood in front of the alcohol stove, looking downinto his cold dinner, preoccupied, thoughtful."A million dollars," he muttered in his rasping, gutturalwhisper, his finger-tips wandering over his thin, cat-likelips. "A golden service worth a million dollars; a punch-bowl worth a fortune; red gold plates, heaps and piles.God!"