When Maria entered his shop, Zerkow had just come in from his daily rounds. His decrepit wagon stood in front of his door like a stranded wreck; the miserable horse, with its lamentable swollen joints, fed greedily upon an armful of spoiled hay in a shed at the back.
The interior of the junk shop was dark and damp, and foul with all manner of choking odors. On the walls, on the floor, and hanging from the rafters was a world of debris, dust-blackened, rust-corroded. Everything was there, every trade was represented, every class of society; things of iron and cloth and wood; all the detritus that a great city sloughs off in its daily life. Zerkows junk shop was the last abiding-place, the almshouse, of such articles as had outlived their usefulness.
Maria found Zerkow himself in the back room, cooking some sort of a meal over an alcohol stove. Zerkow was a Polish Jewcuriously 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 as those of a lynx from long searching amidst muck and debris; and claw-like, prehensile fingersthe fingers of a man who accumulates, but never disburses. It was impossible to look at Zerkow and not know instantly that greedinordinate, insatiable greedwas the dominant passion of the man. He was the Man with the Rake, groping hourly in the muck-heap of the city for gold, for gold, for gold. It was his dream, his passion; at every instant he seemed to feel the generous solid weight of the crude fat metal in his palms. The glint of it was constantly in his eyes; the jangle of it sang forever in his ears as the jangling of cymbals.
Who is it? Who is it? exclaimed Zerkow, as he heard Marias footsteps in the outer room. His voice was faint, husky, reduced almost to a whisper by his prolonged habit of street crying.
Oh, its you again, is it? he added, peering through the gloom of the shop. Lets see; youve been here before, aint you? Youre the Mexican woman from Polk Street. Macapas your name, hey?
Maria nodded. Had a flying squirrel an let him go, she muttered, absently. Zerkow was puzzled; he looked at her sharply for a moment, then dismissed the matter with a movement of his head.
Well, what you got for me? he said. He left his supper to grow cold, absorbed at once in the affair.
Then a long wrangle began. Every bit of junk in Marias pillow-case was discussed and weighed and disputed. They clamored into each others faces over Old Granniss cracked pitcher, over Miss Bakers silk gaiters, over Marcus Schoulers whiskey flasks, reaching the climax of disagreement when it came to McTeagues instruments.
Ah, no, no! shouted Maria. Fifteen cents for the lot! I might as well make you a Christmas present! Besides, I got some gold fillings off him; look at um.
Zerkow drew a quick breath as the three pellets suddenly flashed in Marias palm. There it was, the virgin metal, the pure, unalloyed ore, his dream, his consuming desire. His fingers twitched and hooked themselves into his palms, 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 with the others, she declared. Youll gi me a fair price for the lot, or Ill 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, grudging each piece of money as if it had been the blood of his veins. The affair was concluded.
But Zerkow still had something to say. As Maria folded up the pillow-case and rose to go, the old Jew said:
Well, see here a minute, wellyoull have a drink before you go, wont you? Just to show that its all right between us. Maria sat down again.
Yes, I guess Ill have a drink, she answered.
Zerkow took down a whiskey bottle and a red glass tumbler with a broken base from a cupboard on the wall. The two drank together, Zerkow from the bottle, Maria from the broken tumbler. They wiped their lips slowly, drawing breath again. There was a moments silence.
Say, said Zerkow at last, how about those gold dishes you told me about the last time you were here?
What gold dishes? inquired Maria, puzzled.
Ah, you know, returned the other. The plate your father owned in Central America a long time ago. Dont you know, it rang like so many bells? Red gold, you know, like oranges?
Ah, said Maria, putting her chin in the air as if she knew a 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 lower lip moving against the upper, his claw-like fingers feeling about his mouth and chin. Tell us about it; go on.
He was breathing short, his limbs trembled a little. It was as if some hungry beast of prey had scented a quarry. Maria still refused, putting up her head, insisting that she had to be going.
Lets have it, insisted the Jew. Take another drink. Maria took another swallow of the whiskey. Now, go on, repeated Zerkow; lets have the story. Maria squared her elbows on the deal table, looking straight in front of her with eyes that saw nothing.
Well, it was this way, she began. It was when I was little. My folks must have been rich, oh, rich into the millionscoffee, I guessand there was a large house, but I 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 sight when the leather trunk was opened. It fair dazzled your eyes. It was a yellow blaze like a fire, like a sunset; such a glory, all piled up together, one piece over the other. Why, if the room was dark youd think you could see just the same with all that glitter there. There want a piece that was so much as scratched; every one was like a mirror, smooth and bright, just like a little pool when the sun shines into it. There was dinner dishes and soup tureens and pitchers; and great, big platters as long as that and wide too; and cream-jugs and bowls with carved handles, all vines and things; and drinking mugs, every one a different shape; and dishes for gravy and sauces; and then a great, big punch-bowl with a ladle, and the bowl was all carved out with figures and bunches of grapes. Why, just only that punch-bowl was worth a fortune, I guess. When all that plate was set out on a table, it was a sight for a king to look at. Such a service as that was! Each piece was heavy, oh, so heavy! and thick, you know; thick, fat gold, nothing but goldred, shining, pure gold, orange redand when you struck it with your knuckle, ah, you should have heard! No church bell ever rang sweeter or clearer. It was soft gold, too; you could bite into it, and leave the dent of your teeth. Oh, that gold plate! I can see it just as plainsolid, solid, heavy, rich, pure gold; nothing but gold, gold, heaps and heaps of it. What a service that was!
Maria paused, shaking her head, thinking over the vanished splendor. Illiterate enough, unimaginative enough on all other subjects, her distorted wits called up this picture with marvellous distinctness. It was plain she saw the plate clearly. Her description was accurate, was almost eloquent.
Did that wonderful service of gold plate ever exist outside of her diseased imagination? Was Maria actually remembering some reality of a childhood of barbaric luxury? Were her parents at one time possessed of an incalculable fortune derived from some Central American coffee plantation, a fortune long since confiscated by armies of insurrectionists, or squandered in the support of revolutionary governments?
It was not impossible. Of Maria Macapas past prior to the time of her appearance at the flat absolutely nothing could be learned. She suddenly appeared from the unknown, a strange woman of a mixed race, sane on all subjects but that of 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 no tale of treasure, however preposterous. The story ravished him with delight. He was near someone who had possessed this wealth. He saw someone who had seen this pile of gold. He seemed near it; it was there, somewhere close by, under his eyes, under his fingers; it was red, gleaming, ponderous. He gazed about him wildly; nothing, nothing but the sordid junk shop and the rust-corroded tins. What exasperation, what positive misery, to be so near to it and yet to know that it was irrevocably, irretrievably lost! A spasm of anguish passed through him. He gnawed at his bloodless lips, at the hopelessness of it, the rage, the fury of it.
Go on, go on, he whispered; lets have it all over again. Polished like a mirror, hey, and heavy? Yes, I know, I know. 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. Dont wait till youve got junk; come any time you feel like it, and tell me more 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 the shop, and stood in front of the alcohol stove, looking down into his cold dinner, preoccupied, thoughtful.
A million dollars, he muttered in his rasping, guttural whisper, his finger-tips wandering over his thin, cat-like lips. A golden service worth a million dollars; a punchbowl worth a fortune; red gold plates, heaps and piles. God!
CHAPTER 4
The days passed. McTeague had finished the operation on Trinas teeth. She did not come any more to the Parlors. Matters had readjusted themselves a little between the two during the last sittings. Trina yet stood upon her reserve, and McTeague still felt himself shambling and ungainly in her presence; but that constraint and embarrassment that had followed upon McTeagues blundering declaration broke up little by little. In spite of themselves they were gradually resuming the same relative positions they had occupied when they had first met.
But McTeague suffered miserably for all that. He never would have Trina, he saw that clearly. She was too good for him; too delicate, too refined, too prettily made for him, who was so coarse, so enormous, so stupid. She was for someone elseMarcus, no doubtor at least for some finer-grained man. She should have gone to some other dentist; the young fellow on the corner, for instance, the poser, the rider of bicycles, the courser of grey-hounds. McTeague began to loathe and to envy this fellow. He spied upon him going in and out of his office, and noted his salmon-pink neckties and his astonishing waistcoats.
One Sunday, a few days after Trinas last sitting, McTeague met Marcus Schouler at his table in the car conductors coffee-joint, next to the harness shop.
What you got to do this afternoon, Mac? inquired the other, as they ate their suet pudding.
Nothing, nothing, replied McTeague, shaking his head. His mouth was full of pudding. It made him warm to eat, and little beads of perspiration stood across the bridge of his nose. He looked forward to an afternoon passed in his operating chair as usual. On leaving his Parlors he had put ten cents into his pitcher and had left it at Frennas to be filled.
What do you say we take a walk, huh? said Marcus. Ah, thats the thinga walk, a long walk, by damn! Itll be outa sight. I got to take three or four of the dogs out for exercise, anyhow. Old Grannis thinks they need ut. Well walk out to the Presidio.
Of late it had become the custom of the two friends to take long walks from time to time. On holidays and on those Sunday afternoons when Marcus was not absent with the Sieppes they went out together, sometimes to the park, sometimes to the Presidio, sometimes even across the bay. They took a great pleasure in each others company, but silently and with reservation, having the masculine horror of any demonstration of friendship.
They walked for upwards of five hours that afternoon, out the length of California Street, and across the Presidio Reservation to the Golden Gate. Then they turned, and, following the line of the shore, brought up at the Cliff House. Here they halted for beer, Marcus swearing that his mouth was as dry as a hay-bin. Before starting on their walk they had gone around to the little dog hospital, and Marcus had let out four of the convalescents, crazed with joy at the release.
Look at that dog, he cried to McTeague, showing him a finely-bred Irish setter. Thats the dog that belonged to the duck on the avenue, the dog we called for that day. Ive bought um. The duck thought he had the distemper, and just threw um away. Nothun wrong with um but a little catarrh. Aint he a bird? Say, aint he a bird? Look at his flag; its perfect; and see how he carries his tail on a line with his back. See how stiff and white his whiskers are. Oh, by damn! you cant fool me on a dog. That dogs a winner.
At the Cliff House the two sat down to their beer in a quiet corner of the billiard-room. There were but two players. Somewhere in another part of the building a mammoth music-box was jangling out a quickstep. From outside came the long, rhythmical rush of the surf and the sonorous barking of the seals upon the seal rocks. The four dogs curled themselves down upon the sanded floor.
Heres how, said Marcus, half emptying his glass. Ah-h! he added, with a long breath, thats good; it is, for a fact.
For the last hour of their walk Marcus had done nearly all the talking. McTeague merely answering him by uncertain movements of the head. For that matter, the dentist had been silent and preoccupied throughout the whole afternoon. At length Marcus noticed it. As he set down his glass with a bang he suddenly exclaimed:
Whats the matter with you these days, Mac? You got a bean about somethun, hey? Spit ut out.
No, no, replied McTeague, looking about on the floor, rolling his eyes; nothing, no, no.
Ah, rats! returned the other. McTeague kept silence. The two billiard players departed. The huge music-box struck into a fresh tune.
Huh! exclaimed Marcus, with a short laugh, guess youre in love.
McTeague gasped, and shuffled his enormous feet under the table.
Well, somethuns bitun you, anyhow, pursued Marcus. Maybe I can help you. Were pals, you know. Better tell me whats up; guess we can straighten ut out. Ah, go on; spit ut out.
The situation was abominable. McTeague could not rise to it. Marcus was his best friend, his only friend. They were pals and McTeague was very fond of him. Yet they were both in love, presumably, with the same girl, and now Marcus would try and force the secret out of him; would rush blindly at the rock upon which the two must split, stirred by the very best of motives, wishing only to be of service. Besides this, there was nobody to whom McTeague would have better preferred to tell his troubles than to Marcus, and yet about this trouble, the greatest trouble of his life, he must keep silent; must refrain from speaking of it to Marcus above everybody.