The Great Gatsby: Chapter 7 (2023)

Just when curiosity about Gatsby is at its peak, the lights are not on in his house one Saturday night—and, as obscure as it began, his career as Trimalchio is over. Gradually I noticed that the car that turned into his driveway expectantly stopped for only a minute and then drove away sullenly. Thinking if he was sick, I walked over to find out - a strange butler with a hideous face looked at me suspiciously from the door.

"Is Mr. Gatsby ill?"

"No." After a pause, he added "sir" belatedly and reluctantly.

"I didn't see him around and I was concerned. Tell him Mr Callaway is coming.

"WHO?" he demanded rudely.

"coriander."

"Coriander. Well, I'll tell him."

Suddenly, he slammed the door shut.

My Finn told me that Gatsby had fired all the servants in his house a week earlier and replaced them with six others who never went to West Egg Village to take bribes from merchants but ordered modest supplies by telephone. The grocer boy said the kitchen looked like a pigsty, and the general opinion in the village was that the newcomers weren't servants at all.

Gatsby called me the next day.

"Leaving?" I asked.

"No, man."

"I heard you fired all the servants."

"I want someone who doesn't gossip. Daisy comes over often—in the afternoons."

So the whole caravan fell like a house of cards because of the disapproval in her eyes.

"They were people that Wolfshiem wanted to do something for. They were brother and sister. They used to run a small hotel."

"I understand."

He's calling at Daisy's request - shall I go to her house for lunch tomorrow? Miss Baker will be there. Half an hour later, Daisy herself called and seemed relieved to learn that I was coming. problem occurs. Yet I can't believe they would have chosen this occasion to film the scene⁠—especially the rather tragic one Gatsby sketches in the garden.

The next day was hot, almost the last day of summer and certainly the warmest. Only the hot whistle of the National Biscuit Company broke the midday silence as my train rolled out of the tunnel into sunlight. The car's straw mats hovered on the verge of burning; the woman next to me sweated into the waist of her white blouse, and then, as her newspaper got wet under her fingers, she sank into the deep heat desperately , Wept desolately. Her wallet slammed to the floor.

"My God!" she gasped.

I bent down wearily to pick it up, handed it back to her, and held it at arm's length, gripping its horns to show that I didn't design it - but everyone in the vicinity, including the woman, suspected me the same .

"Hot!" said the conductor to a familiar face. "Some weather!????? Hot!?????????? Hot? Is it ⁠‰⁠…‰?

My commuter ticket got dirty with his hands. Who cares in this hot weather whose red lips he kisses, whose head wets the pocket of his pajamas over his heart!

...across the hall of the Buchanan house, a faint wind blew, carrying the ringing of the telephone to Gatsby and I while we waited at the door.

"Master's body?" the butler shouted into the microphone. "Sorry ma'am, we can't serve it - it's too hot to touch at noon today!"

What he really said was, "Yeah ⁠‰⁠...yes ⁠‰⁠...I'll see."

He put down the receiver and walked towards us, shimmering slightly, and took our stiff straw hats.

"Madame is waiting for you in the salon!" he cried, pointing unnecessarily. In such heat, every extra movement is an insult to common household items.

The room had an awning and was dark and shady. Daisy and Jordan reclined on a giant couch like silver idols weighing down their own white dresses in the breeze of fans.

"We can't move," they said together.

Jordan Fingers powdered white on tan and sat on mine for a while.

"Where's the athlete, Mr. Thomas Buchanan?" I asked.

At the same time, I heard his rough, low, husky voice from the hall phone.

Gatsby stood in the center of the crimson carpet, looking around with fascinated eyes. Daisy looked at him and laughed, her sweet, stirring laugh. A fine puff of powder rose from her arms into the air.

"The rumor is," Jordan whispered, "that it's Tom's girlfriend on the phone."

We were silent. The voice in the hall was high and annoyed: "Well, I won't sell you that car⁠‰⁠... I have no obligation to you at all⁠‰⁠... As for you coming to trouble me?" Lunch time , I can't stand it at all! "

"Press and hold the receiver," Daisy said cynically.

"No, he's not," I assured her. "It's a real deal. I happen to know about it."

Tom pushed the door open, blocked the door space with his thick body, and walked quickly into the room.

"Mr. Gatsby!" He stretched out his broad, flat hand in unconcealed disgust. "Nice to meet you sir ⁠‰⁠... Nick ⁠‰⁠..."

"Pour us a cold drink," called Daisy.

When he left the room again, she got up and went over to Gatsby, pulled his face down, and kissed him on the mouth.

"You know I love you," she murmured.

"You forgot there was a lady there," Jordan said.

Daisy looked around suspiciously.

"You kiss Nick too."

"What a lowly bitch!"

"I don't care!" cried Daisy, beginning to jam the brick fireplace. Then she remembered the heat and sat on the sofa guiltily, when the nurse who had just taken a shower walked into the room with a little girl.

"Bless-sed precious," she crooned, holding out her arms. "Go to your mother who loves you."

The child, abandoned by the nurse, rushed across the room and squirmed shyly up her mother's skirt.

Bless Precious! Did mother powder your old yellow hair? Now stand up and say: How-de-do. "

Gatsby and I leaned down one after the other and took the reluctant little hand. Afterwards, he kept looking at the child in surprise. I don't think he ever really believed it existed before.

"I got dressed before lunch," said the child, turning eagerly to Daisy.

"That's because your mother wanted to show you off." Her face was bent into the only wrinkle on her little white neck. "You dream, you. Your absolute little dreams.

"Yes," the child admitted quietly. "Aunt Jordan has a white dress too."

"Do you like mother's friend?" Daisy turned to Gatsby. "Do you think they're pretty?"

"Where's Dad?"

"She doesn't look like her father," Daisy explained. "She looks like me. She has my hair and my face."

Daisy sat back on the sofa. The nurse stepped forward and held out her hand.

"Come on, Pam."

"Goodbye, dear!"

The well-disciplined kid glanced back reluctantly, took the nurse's hand, and was pulled out the door just as Tom returned, ahead of four gin-filled glasses.

Gatsby picked up his drink.

"They do look cool," he said, with palpable tension.

We drank voraciously for a long time.

"I read somewhere that the sun gets hotter every year," said Tom kindly. "It looks like the Earth is going to go under the sun soon—or wait a minute—quite the opposite—the sun is getting colder every year.

"Come outside," he suggested to Gatsby, "I want you to see that place."

I went to the balcony with them. On the green bay, stalled in the heat, a small sail crept slowly toward the clear sea. Gatsby's eyes followed it at once. He raised his hand and pointed across the bay.

"I'm right across from you."

"So you are."

Our eyes flick to seaside rose beds, scorching lawns, and weedy litter in the dog days. The white wings of the boat moved slowly to the edge of the blue cool sky. Ahead lay the wavy ocean and the vast expanse of Fukushima.

"Here's a sport for you," Tom said, nodding. "I want to hang out with him for about an hour."

We ate lunch in a restaurant, also darkened by the heat, and drank neurotic glee with cold beer.

"What shall we do with ourselves this afternoon?" cried Daisy, "the day after that, and the next thirty years?"

"Don't be morbid," Jordan said. "When the fall clears, life begins anew."

"But it's too hot," insisted Daisy, almost crying, "and everything is so chaotic. Let's all go to town!"

Her voice struggles to keep going through the heat, against it, molding its meaninglessness into form.

"I've heard of using a stable as a garage," Tom said to Gatsby, "but I'm the first one to use a garage as a stable."

"Who wants to go to town?" Daisy insisted. Gatsby's eyes wandered to hers. "Ah," she exclaimed, "you look so cool."

Their eyes met, and they stared at each other lonely in space. She glanced down at the table with an effort.

"You always look so cool," she repeated.

She told him she loved him, and Tom Buchanan saw it. He was taken aback. He opened his mouth slightly and looked from Gatsby to Daisy as if he had just recognized her as someone he had known long ago.

"You're like an advertisement for that man," she continued naively. "You know that man's ad—"

"Well," put in Tom quickly, "I'd love to go to town. Come on—we're all going to town."

He stood up, eyes still flickering between Gatsby and his wife. No one moved.

"Hurry up!" His temper broke a little. "What the hell is going on? If we're going to town, here we go."

His hands trembled with restraint as he lifted the last glass of ale to his lips. Daisy's voice got us to our feet and out onto the hot gravel driveway.

"Are we leaving?" she objected. "Like this? Aren't we going to let anyone have a cigarette first?"

"Everybody was smoking all lunchtime."

"Oh, let's have fun," she begged him. "It's too hot to make a fuss about."

He didn't answer.

"As you please," she said. "Come on, Jordan."

They went upstairs to get ready, and the three of us stood there dragging our feet over the hot cobblestones. A silver moon is already hanging in the western sky. Gatsby began to speak, changing his mind, but not before Tom turned to face him expectantly.

"Do you have a stable here?" asked Gatsby with difficulty.

"About a quarter of a mile down this road."

"oh."

a pause.

"I don't see the idea of ​​going to town," said Tom roughly. "Women have these ideas in their heads—"

"Shall we have something to drink?" called Daisy from the upstairs window.

"I'll get some whiskey," Tom answered. He went in.

Gatsby turned to me stiffly:

"I can't say anything in his house, man."

"Her voice is flippant," I said. "It's full of—" I hesitated.

"There's money in her voice," he said suddenly.

That's it. I never understood it before. It's full of money - that's the endless charm of its rise and fall, its jingle, its cymbal song ⁠ † ⁠... High in the white palace, the king's daughter, the golden girl ⁠‰ ⁠…

Tom came out of the house, with a quart bottle wrapped in a towel, followed by Daisy and Jordan, in little tight-fitting metallic cloth hats and light cloaks thrown over their arms.

"Shall we all go to my car?" suggested Gatsby. He felt the hot green leather on the seat. "I should put it in the shade."

"Is it a standard class?" Tom asked.

"Yes."

"Okay, you drive my coupe and let me drive your car to town."

This suggestion disgusted Gatsby.

"I don't think there's much gas," he objected.

"Plenty of gas," Tom said loudly. He looks at the gauges. "If it runs out, I can stop at the pharmacy. Now you can buy anything at the pharmacy."

There was a pause after this apparently meaningless comment. Daisy looked at Tom with a frown, and an inexplicable expression crossed Gatsby's face, which was absolutely unfamiliar and vague, as if he had only heard descriptions in words.

"Come on, Daisy," said Tom, pushing her toward Gatsby's car with his hands. "I'll take you in this circus carriage."

He opened the door, but she moved out of his arms.

"You take Nick and Jordan. We'll follow you in the coupe."

She came up to Gatsby and ran her hand over his coat. Jordan, Tom, and I climbed into the front seat of Gatsby's car, Tom tentatively nudged the unfamiliar gear, and we rushed out into the sweltering heat, leaving them out of sight.

"Did you see that?" Tom asked.

"Look at what?"

He looked at me sharply, realizing that Jordan and I must have known.

"You think I'm stupid, don't you?" he suggested. "Maybe I am, but I have a—almost a second sight, and sometimes, it tells me what to do. Maybe you don't believe it, but science⁠—"

He stopped. The suddenness of the present caught up with him and pulled him back from the brink of the theoretical abyss.

"I did a little research on this guy," he continued. "I could have gone deeper if I had known—"

"You mean you've been to a psychic?" Jordan asked humorously.

"What?" Confused, he stared at us and smiled. "medium?"

"About Gatsby."

"About Gatsby! No, I haven't. I said I've been looking into his past."

"You found out he was from Oxford," Jordan said helpfully.

"An Oxford man!" he couldn't believe it. "He's so goddamn! He's wearing a pink suit."

"Nevertheless, he is from Oxford."

"Oxford, New Mexico," Tom snorted contemptuously, "or something like that."

"Listen, Tom. If you're such a snob, why did you ask him to lunch?" Jordan asked angrily.

"Daisy invited him; she knew him before we were married - God knows where!

Now we're all irritated by faded beer, and realizing it, we drive in silence for a while. Then, when Dr. T. J. Eckleburg's faded eyes appeared on the road, I was reminded of Gatsby's warnings about gasoline.

"We have enough money to go to town," Tom said.

"But there's a garage," Jordan objected. "I don't want to be stuck in this scorching heat."

Tom impatiently slammed on both brakes and we skidded into the dust under Wilson's sign. Moments later, the owner came out of his shop, staring blankly at the car.

"Let's get some gas!" Tom called gruffly. "What do you think we stopped for—to enjoy the view?"

"I'm sick," said Wilson, motionless. "Sick all day long."

"What's wrong?"

"I'm exhausted."

"Well, shall I do it myself?" asked Tom. "You sounded good on the phone."

Wilson struggled out of the shadows and supports of the doorway, breathed hard, and unscrewed the lid of the water tank. His face is green in the sun.

"I didn't mean to interrupt your lunch," he said. "But I need the money badly and I want to know what you plan to do with your old car."

"What do you think of this?" Tom asked. "I bought it last week."

"It's a nice yellow," Wilson said, tugging on the handle.

"Do you like to buy?"

"The chance is great." Wilson smiled faintly. "No, but I can make some money the other way."

"Why do you want money all of a sudden?"

"I've been here for too long. I want to leave. My wife and I want to go west."

"Your wife will," Tom snapped.

"She's been talking for ten years." He rested against the pump for a moment, covering his eyes. "Now she's leaving whether she wants to or not. I'm going to get her away."

The coupe flashes past us, kicking up a cloud of dust and waving hands.

"What do I owe you?" Tom demanded sternly.

"I just noticed something interesting in the last two days," Wilson said. "That's why I want to leave. That's why I've been bothering you about the car."

"What do I owe you?"

"twenty dollars."

The relentless heat started to confuse me, and I had a bad moment there before I realized his suspicions hadn't settled on Tom so far. He discovers that Myrtle is living a different life from his in another world, and the shock leaves him physically ill. I watched him, and then I watched Tom, who had made a similar discovery less than an hour earlier—it occurred to me that there is no difference between people, either in intelligence or race, in the same way that sick and healthy people do. The difference between them is so profound and brilliant. Wilson was very ill, and he looked guilty, unforgivably guilty—as if he had just had a poor girl with a baby.

"I'll let you have that car," Tom said. "I'll send it over tomorrow afternoon."

That place was always vaguely unsettling, even in the glaring afternoon sun, and now I turned my head as if someone had warned me that something was behind me. Above the ash heaps, the large eyes of Dr. T. J. Eckleberg had been keeping vigil, but a moment later I found other eyes, less than 20 feet away, watching us with strange concentration.

In one window above the garage, the curtains had been moved a little to one side, and Myrtle Wilson was staring down at the car. She was so engrossed that she was completely unaware that she was being observed, and emotion after emotion crept across her face like objects entering a slowly developing picture. Her expression was eerily familiar—an expression I often see on women's faces, but on Myrtle Wilson's, it seemed purposeless and inexplicable until I realized that she was The eyes, wide with jealousy and fear, were fixed not on Tom, but on Jordan Baker, whom she recognized as his wife.

There's nothing like simple-minded confusion, and Tom felt the whip of panic as we drove away. His wife and his mistress, safe and inviolable until an hour ago, were suddenly out of his grasp. Instinct led him to hit the accelerator, with the dual purpose of passing Daisy and leaving Wilson behind, and we sped towards Astoria at fifty miles an hour until, in the elevated spidery girders, we saw the An easy-going blue coupe.

"Those big movies around Fifty Street are cool," suggests Jordan. "I love New York on a summer afternoon, when everyone's away. It has a very sexy vibe to it—overripe, like all kinds of interesting fruit are falling into your hands."

The word "sentimental" made Tom even more uneasy, but before he could protest, the coupe pulled up and Daisy motioned us to pull over.

"Where are we going?" she cried.

"What about the movie?"

"It's too hot," she complained. "You go. We will ride around and see you." After some effort, her wisdom rose slightly. "We'll meet you around the corner. I'll be the one smoking two."

"We can't argue about this here," Tom said impatiently as a truck swore behind us. "You follow me to the south side of Central Park, in front of the square."

Several times he turned his head to look back at their car, and if traffic delayed them, he slowed down until they were within sight. I think he was afraid they would run off into the side streets and leave his life forever.

But they don't. We've all taken steps that we can't quite explain, getting involved in the living room of the Plaza Hotel suite.

The long and raucous argument that ended with herding us into that room is haunting, though I have a vivid physical memory of my underwear climbing my legs like a wet snake in the process. Climbing, intermittent beads of sweat raced across my legs and down my back. The idea arose out of Daisy's suggestion that we rent five bathrooms and take cold showers, and then take a more concrete form as a "place to drink mint julep". Each of us said over and over again that it was a “crazy idea”⁠—we all talked to a confused clerk at the same time and thought, or pretended to think, that we were pretty funny⁠†⁠…

The room was big and stuffy, although it was four o'clock, but when the windows were opened, there was only a gust of heat blowing from the bushes in the park. Daisy went to the mirror and stood with her back to us, arranging her hair.

"It's a luxury suite," Jordan murmured respectfully, and everyone laughed.

"Open another window," Daisy ordered, without looking back.

"there is none left."

"Well, we'd better call for an ax—"

"All we have to do is forget about the heat," said Tom impatiently. "You make things ten times worse by complaining about it."

He took the whiskey bottle off the towel and put it on the table.

"Why don't you leave her alone, old man?" said Gatsby. "You're the one who wants to come to town."

There was a silence. The phone book slipped off the nail and splashed onto the floor, and Jordan murmured, "Excuse me" -- but no one laughed this time.

"I'll pick it up," I suggested.

"I see." Gatsby looked at the separated strings and murmured, "Huh!" He threw the book on the chair with great interest.

"You look nice, don't you?" snapped Tom.

"what is?"

"All this 'old sport' business. Where did you pick it up?"

"Now listen, Tom," said Daisy, turning away from the mirror, "if you're going to make a personal statement, I'm not here for a moment. Call up and order some ice for the mint julep."

When Tom picked up the receiver, compressed heat exploded into sound, and we were hearing the ominous chords of Mendelssohn's Wedding March from the ballroom below.

"Imagine marrying anyone in this heat!" exclaimed Jordan dejectedly.

"But—I got married in the middle of June," recalls Daisy. "Louisville in June! Someone fainted. Who fainted, Tom?"

"Biloxi," he replied curtly.

“A guy named Biloxi. “Bricks” Biloxi, he made boxes ⁠— it's true ⁠— he was from Biloxi, Tennessee.

"They carried him into my house," Jordan added, "because we lived just two doors from the church. He stayed for three weeks until Dad told him he had to go. The day after he left, Dad Just die," she added after a moment. "No connection."

"I used to know Bill Biloxi in Memphis," I said.

"That was his cousin. I knew his whole family history before he left. He gave me an aluminum putter that I use today."

The music had stopped when the ceremony began, and now there was a long cheer from outside the window, followed by staccato cries of "Yes-yes-yes!" Finally, as the dance began, a burst of jazz sounded.

"We're getting old," Daisy said. "If we were young, we would get up and dance."

"Remember Biloxi," Jordan warned her. "Where did you know him, Tom?"

"Biloxi?" He tried to concentrate. "I don't know him. He's Daisy's friend."

"He's not," she denies. "I've never seen him before. He came down in a private car."

"Well, he said he knew you. He said he grew up in Louisville. Asa Bird brought him in at the last minute and asked if we had a spot for him."

Jordan smiled.

"He was probably on his way home. He told me he was your class president at Yale."

Tom and I looked at each other blankly.

"used to beOssie？

"First of all, we don't have a president—"

Gatsby's foot kept beating a short tattoo, and Tom shot him a sudden look.

"By the way, Mr. Gatsby, I know you are from Oxford."

"not completely."

"Oh yes, I know you went to Oxford."

"Yes—I've been there."

a pause. Then Tom's voice, suspicious and insulting:

"You must have been there when Biloxi went to New Haven."

Another pause. A waiter knocked on the door and came in with crushed mint and ice, but his "thank you" and the soft closing of the door did not break the silence. This huge detail is finally to be figured out.

"I told you I've been there," said Gatsby.

"I hear it, but I want to know when."

"It was nineteen-nineteen and I was only there for five months. That's why I can't really call myself an Oxford man."

Tom looked around to see if we reflected his unbelief. But we're all looking at Gatsby.

"It was an opportunity they gave some officers after the armistice," he continued. "We could go to any university in the UK or France."

I want to get up and pat him on the back. I had a renewed trust in him that I had experienced before.

Daisy stood up, smiled, and went to the table.

"Tom, open the whiskey," she ordered, "and I'll make you a mint julep. That way you won't look so stupid to yourself⁠†⁠…Look at the mint!

"Wait a minute," snapped Tom, "I have one more question to ask Mr. Gatsby."

"Go on," said Gatsby politely.

"Anyway, what kind of quarrel do you want to cause in my house?"

They finally made their public appearance, to Gatsby's satisfaction.

"He didn't cause a quarrel," said Daisy, looking hopelessly from one to the other. "You started a fight. Please have a little self-control."

"Self-control!" Tom repeated in disbelief. “I guess the closest thing to do is sit down and let Mr. Nobody have sex with your wife. Well, if that’s what you think, you can leave me out⁠‰⁠…Now people start laughing at family life and The family system, and then they'll throw it all away and let blacks and whites marry."

Blushing with impassioned gibberish, he saw himself standing alone on the last hurdle of civilization.

"We're all white here," Jordan murmured.

"I know I'm not very popular. I don't throw big parties. I guess you have to turn your house into a pigsty to make friends - in the modern world."

As angry as I am and we are, I just want to laugh whenever he opens his mouth. The transition from bohemian to serious is so complete.

"I have something to sayyouDude—" Gatsby began. But Daisy guessed what he meant.

"Please don't!" she interrupted helplessly. "Please let us all go home. Why don't we all go home?"

"That's a good idea," I stand up. "Come on, Tom. No one wants a drink."

"I wonder what Mr. Gatsby is going to tell me."

"Your wife doesn't love you," said Gatsby. "She never loved you. She loved me."

"You must be crazy!" cried Tom involuntarily.

Gatsby jumped up excitedly.

"She never loved you, do you hear that?" he cried. "She only married you because I was poor and she was tired of waiting for me. It was a terrible mistake, but in her heart she never loved anyone but me!"

At this point, Jordan and I tried to leave, but Tom and Gatsby insisted we stay with competitive firmness⁠—as if neither of them had anything to hide and it was a matter of sharing their emotions in their stead. an honor.

"Sit down, Daisy," Tom's voice fumbled for a fatherly note, but without success. "What's going on? I want to hear about it all."

"I told you what happened," said Gatsby. "It went on for five years—and you didn't know it."

Tom turned sharply to Daisy.

"Have you met this guy for five years?"

"No," said Gatsby. "No, we can't meet. But we've always been in love, man, and you don't know. I laugh sometimes" ⁠—but there's no laughter in his eyes⁠—"Think you don't know."

"Oh—that's all." Tom tapped his thick fingers together like a priest, and leaned back in his chair.

"You're crazy!" he exploded. "I can't talk about what happened five years ago because I didn't know Daisy then - if I saw how you got within a mile of her, unless you brought your groceries to the back door, I'd be banned Damned. But all the rest is a bloody lie. Daisy loved me when she married me and loves me now."

"No," said Gatsby, shaking his head.

"She does, though. The problem is that sometimes she gets silly ideas in her head and doesn't know what she's doing." He nodded virtuously. "And, I love Daisy too. Occasionally I go to a carnival and make a fool of myself, but I always come back and I always have her in my heart."

"You're resisting," Daisy said. She turned to me, her voice dropping an octave, the room filled with agitated contempt: "You know why we left Chicago? I'm surprised they didn't ask you to hear the story of that little orgy."

Gatsby came and stood beside her.

"Daisy, it's all over," he said earnestly. "It doesn't matter anymore. Just tell him the truth—that you never loved him—and it will be gone forever."

She looked at him blindly. "Why—how could I possibly love him?"

"You never loved him."

She hesitated. Her eyes fell on Jordan and me with a pleading look, as if she finally realized what she was doing—and as if she never, always, wanted to do anything. But it's done now. It's too late.

"I never loved him," she said, with obvious reluctance.

"Isn't it at Capiolani?" asked Tom suddenly.

"No."

From the dance hall below, low, suffocating chords wafted through the heat.

“Didn’t I carry you off the Punch Bowl the other day to keep your shoes dry?” There was a husky tenderness in his voice⁠‰⁠… “Daisy?”

"Please don't." Her voice was cold, but the resentment was gone. She looked at Gatsby. "Okay, Jay," she said—but her hand was shaking as she tried to light the cigarette. Suddenly, she threw the cigarette and the burning match onto the carpet.

"Oh, you've asked for too much!" she called to Gatsby. "I love you now—isn't that enough? There's nothing I can do about the past." She began to sob helplessly. "I did love him once—but I loved you too."

Gatsby's eyes opened and closed.

"you loved mealso? he repeated.

"Even that's a lie," said Tom savagely. "She doesn't know you're alive. Why?—There's something between Daisy and me that you'll never know, something neither of us can forget.

These words seemed to sting Gatsby.

"I want to speak to Daisy alone," he insisted. "She's so excited right now—"

"Even as a human being, I can't say I never loved Tom," she admitted in a pathetic voice. "It can't be true."

"Of course not," agreed Tom.

She turned to her husband.

"Like it's important to you," she said.

"Of course it's important. I will take good care of you in the future."

"You don't understand," said Gatsby with a hint of panic. "You won't take care of her anymore."

"I'm not?" Tom laughed, his eyes wide. He can control himself now. "Why?"

"Daisy is leaving you."

"nonsense."

"I am, though," she said with obvious effort.

"She won't leave me!" Tom's words fell on Gatsby suddenly. "Certainly not for a common liar who had to steal the ring he put on her finger."

"I can't stand this!" cried Daisy. "Oh, let's go out."

"Who the hell are you?" Tom exploded. "You were one of the group with Meyer Wolfsheim - I happen to know that. I've done a little research into your affairs - I'll investigate further tomorrow."

"You can do what you want, man," said Gatsby quietly.

"I found out what your 'drugstore' is." He turned to us, talking very quickly. "He and this Wolfshiem bought a lot of street drugstores here and in Chicago and sold grain liquor over the counter. It was one of his little tricks. I thought he was a smuggler the first time I met him, and I Not terribly wrong."

"So what?" said Gatsby politely. "I guess your friend Walter Chase isn't too proud to be a part of it."

"You got him in trouble, didn't you? You got him in jail in New Jersey for a month. God! You should listen to Walter aboutyou”

"He came to us broke. He's glad to find some money, man."

"Don't you call me 'dude!' cried Tom. Gatsby said nothing. "Walter can get you to comply with the gaming laws too, but Wolfshiem scared him into shutting up."

That strange yet familiar expression appeared on Gatsby's face again.

"That drug store business was a small fortune," continued Tom slowly, "but you've got business now, and Walter dared not tell me."

I glanced at Daisy, who was staring in horror at Gatsby and her husband, and Jordan, who began balancing an invisible but attractive object on the tip of her chin. Then I turned to look at Gatsby - startled by his expression. He looked - and this was in defiance of the slurs babbled in his garden - as if he had "killed a man". For a moment, his face could be described in that fantastic way.

It passed, and he began talking excitedly to Daisy, denying everything, defending his name against charges that were not made. But with every word she said he got deeper and deeper into himself, so he gave up, and as the afternoon wore on, only dead dreams continued, trying to reach what was no longer tangible, struggling without joy and despair and walked across the room toward the lost voice.

The voice begged to leave again.

“please, Tom! I can't take it anymore. "

Her terrified eyes told me that any attempt she had had, any courage, was gone.

"You two start home, Daisy," said Tom. "In Mr. Gatsby's car."

She looked at Tom, wary now, but he persisted with magnanimous disdain.

"Go on. He's not going to piss you off. I think he realizes his wild little flirtation is over."

They go, without a word, outbursts, accidental, isolated, ghostly, even at our mercy.

After a while Tom got up and started wrapping the unopened bottle of whiskey in a towel.

"Want these things, Jordan? ⁠†⁠…Nick?

I didn't answer.

"The gap?" he asked again.

"What?"

"Want it?"

“No ⁠‰⁠…I just remembered it’s my birthday.”

I am thirty years old. Before me lay the ominous and treacherous path of a new decade.

It was seven o'clock when we got into the coupe with him and set off for Long Island. Tom talked on and on, excited and laughing, but his voice was as distant from Jordan and me as the foreign din on the sidewalk or overhead. Human compassion has its limits, and we're content to let all their miserable arguments fade away with the city lights. Thirty—the promise of ten years of solitude, dwindling lists of single men to meet, dwindling briefcases of enthusiasm, thinning hair. But I have Jordan by my side, who, unlike Daisy, is too smart to pass down long-forgotten dreams from generation to generation. Her pale face lolled against the shoulder of my coat as we passed the dark bridge, the forbidding strokes of Thirty fading away with the soothing pressure of her hand.

So we sail toward death in the cool twilight.

Michaelis, a young Greek who runs a coffee shop by the ashes, is the chief witness at the trial. He slept until past five, when he wandered into the garage to find George Wilson sick in his office--very sick indeed, as pale as his own hair and shaking. Michaelis suggested he go to sleep, but Wilson refused, saying he would miss out on a lot of business if he did. Just as his neighbors were trying to convince him, there was a sudden loud noise overhead.

"I locked my wife on it," Wilson explained calmly. "She's staying until the day after tomorrow, and then we'll move out."

Michaelis was taken aback. They had been neighbors for four years, and Wilson never seemed to slur the words. Generally speaking, he is one of these tired people: when he is not working, he sits in a chair by the door, staring at the people and vehicles on the road. When others talk to him, he always smiles kindly and without emotion. He is his wife's man, not his own.

Michaelis naturally tried to figure out what was going on, but Wilson didn't say a word—instead, he started looking at the visitor with curiosity, suspicion, and asking if he was there at a particular time on a particular day. do what. While the latter was fidgeting, some workers passed by the door to his restaurant, and Michaelis took the opportunity to leave, intending to come back later. But he didn't. He thought he forgot, that's all. When he came out again just after seven o'clock, he was reminded of the conversation, for he heard Mrs. Wilson yelling loudly in the garage below.

"Hit me!" he heard her cry. "Throw me down and hit me, you dirty little coward!"

Moments later she rushed out into the twilight, waving her hands and shouting - it was over before he could leave his door.

What the newspapers called the "death car" didn't stop; it emerged from the growing darkness, wobbled miserably for a moment, then disappeared around the next bend. Mavro Michaelis wasn't even sure what color it was - he told the first police officer it was light green. Another New York-bound car pulled up a hundred yards away, and the driver hurried back to Myrtle Wilson, her life extinguished violently, her knees in the road, thick black blood mingling with the dust.

Michaelis and the man went up to her first, but when they tore open the waist of her shirt, which was still soaked in sweat, they saw her left breast loose like a flap, there was no need to listen below heart. The mouth was wide open and slightly parted at the corners, as if she was a little suffocated by giving up the enormous life force she had stored up for so long.

When we were still some distance away, we saw three or four cars and crowds.

"Destroy!" said Tom. "That's good. Wilson's got some business at last."

He slowed down, but still had no intention of stopping until, as we approached, the quiet, attentive faces of the people at the garage door made him involuntarily hit the brakes.

"Let's go and see," he said suspiciously, "just to see."

I realize now that there was a constant hollow, wailing sound coming from the garage, which became an "oh my god!" moan.

"There's some serious trouble here," said Tom excitedly.

Standing on tiptoe, over a circle of heads, he peered into the garage, lit only by a yellow light in a metal basket swinging overhead. Then he let out a harsh sound from his throat, and rushed forward violently with his powerful arms.

There was another loud sound of advice in the circle. It took me a minute to see nothing. Then the newcomers disrupted the line, and Jordan and I were suddenly pushed in.

The body of Myrtle Wilson lay on a workbench against the wall, wrapped in one blanket and another, as if chilled on a hot night, Tom bent over with his back to us. Not moving. Next to him stood a policeman on a motorcycle, sweating a lot in a small book, correcting his name. At first, I couldn't find the source of the high-pitched, groaning words that echoed loudly in the bare garage—then I saw Wilson standing on the high threshold of his office, rocking back and forth, clutching the doorpost with both hands. Someone whispered to him and tried to put a hand on his shoulder now and then, but Wilson neither heard nor saw it. His eyes would fall slowly from the flickering light to the overlaid table by the wall, and then jerk back to the light, and he would keep uttering his high, terrible cry:

"Oh, we Ga-od! Oh, we Ga-od! Oh, Ga-od! Oh, we Ga-od!

Soon, Tom raised his head sharply, looked around the garage with glazed eyes, and slurred an incoherent sentence to the policeman.

“rice-A-v⁠—” said the policeman, “⁠—o⁠——”

"No,r⁠—” the man corrected, “rice-A-v-r-o⁠——”

"Listen to me!" Tom murmured violently.

“r⁠—” said the policeman, “o⁠——”

“g⁠——”

“g⁠—" He looked up as Tom's broad hand fell sharply on his shoulder. "What do you want, man? "

"What happened?⁠—that's what I want to know."

"The car hit her. She was killed instantly.

"Killed instantly," repeated Tom, staring.

"She ran out of the way. The son of a bitch didn't even stop."

"There are two cars," said Michaelis, "one comes and one goes, understand?"

"Where are you going?" the officer asked eagerly.

"go alone". Well, she"—his hand reached for the blanket, but stopped halfway and landed beside him—"she ran there, and the guy from New York ran right into her, thirty or forty an hour mile"

"What's the name of this place here?" asked the officer.

"no name."

A pale, well-dressed Negro approached.

"It's a yellow car," he said. "A big yellow car. New."

"Did you see the accident?" asked the policeman.

"No, but the car passed me on the road, forty years faster. Fifty, sixty.

"Come here and let us know your name. Be careful now. I want to know his name."

Wilson must have heard some words in this conversation, swinging at the office door, for suddenly a new subject emerged amidst his clinging shouts:

"You don't have to tell me what car it is! I know what car it is!"

Watching Tom, I saw a tangle of muscles behind his shoulders tighten under his coat. He walked briskly to Wilson and stood in front of him, gripping his upper arm tightly.

"You have to pull yourself together," he said gruffly.

Wilson's eyes fell on Tom. He rose on tiptoe, and would have fallen to his knees had Tom not held him upright.

"Listen," said Tom, shaking him. "I just got here from New York a minute ago. I brought you the coupe we've been talking about. That yellow car I was driving this afternoon wasn't mine—did you hear? All afternoon Didn't see it."

Only the black man was close enough to me to hear what he was saying, but the cop read something in the tone and looked over with a combative look.

"What's that?" he demanded.

"I'm his friend." Tom turned his head, but kept his hands firmly on Wilson's body. "He said he knew the car that did it ⁠ ⁠ ... it was a yellow car."

Some vague impulse made the policeman look suspiciously at Tom.

"What color is your car?"

"It's a blue car, a coupe."

"We're straight from New York," I said.

This was confirmed by someone driving a bit behind us and the officer turned away.

"Now, if you'll let me correct that name again—"

Tom picked up Wilson like a doll, carried him into the office, put him on a chair, and came back.

"If anyone would come and sit with him," he said authoritatively. He looked at the two men standing closest to each other and reluctantly walked into the room. Then Tom closed their door and went down the only step, his eyes averted from the table. As he got closer to me, he whispered, "Let's get out."

Without knowing it, his authoritative arm blocked our way as we pushed through the still-assembled crowd, past a hurried doctor with a case in hand who had been dispatched half an hour earlier in high hopes.

Tom drives slowly until we're round the bend - and then he thumps his foot down and the coupe hurtles through the night. After a while, I heard a muffled sob and saw tears streaming down his face.

"Damn coward!" he whimpered. "He didn't even stop the car."

Through the dark rustling trees, the Buchanans' house suddenly floated toward us. Tom stopped by the porch and looked up at the second floor, where the two windows glowed among the vines.

"Daisy's house," he said. As we got out of the car, he glanced at me, frowning slightly.

"I should send you to West Egg, Nick. There's nothing we can do tonight."

There was a change in him, and he spoke gravely and decisively. He settled the issue with a few brisk words as we walked across the moonlit gravel path to the porch.

"I'll call a taxi to take you home, and while you wait, you and Jordan better go to the kitchen and ask them to make you some dinner—if you want." He opened the door. "Come in."

"No thanks. But I'd be glad if you could call me a cab. I'll wait outside."

Jordan put his hand on my arm.

"Aren't you coming in, Nick?"

"no thanks."

I feel a little sick and I want to be alone. But Jordan lingered for another moment.

"It's only half past nine," she said.

I'll be damned if I go in; I've had enough of them all for a day, including Jordan all of a sudden. She must have read something in my expression, for she turned suddenly and ran up the porch steps into the house. I sat with my head in my hands for a few minutes until I heard the phone inside being picked up and the housekeeper calling a taxi. Then I walked slowly down the driveway to leave the house, intending to wait at the door.

When I heard my name, I hadn't gone twenty yards when Gatsby came out into the path between two bushes. I must have felt weird then because I couldn't think of anything but the glow of his pink suit in the moonlight.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Stand right here, man."

Somehow, it seems like a menial profession. For all I knew he was about to rob the house; and I wouldn't be surprised to see sinister faces in the dark bushes behind him, the faces of "Wolfsheim's men."

"Did you see any trouble on the road?" he asked a minute later.

"Yes."

He hesitated.

"Did she get killed?"

"Yes."

"I thought so; I told Daisy I thought so. The shock had better come together. She held up."

He spoke as if only Daisy's reaction mattered.

"I got to West Egg by a side road," he continued, "and parked in my garage. I don't think anyone saw us, but I certainly can't be sure."

By then I disliked him so much that I didn't feel the need to tell him he was wrong.

"Who is that woman?" he asked.

"Her name is Wilson. Her husband owns the garage. What the hell is going on?"

"Okay, I tried to wiggle the steering wheel—" he interrupted, and I suddenly guessed the truth.

"Is Daisy driving?"

“Yes,” he said after a while, “but of course I would say I am. You see, she was so nervous when we left New York that she thought driving would stabilize her⁠—when we were driving the other way This woman rushed towards us as the oncoming car passed by. It all happened within a minute, but it seemed to me that she wanted to talk to us, thinking we were someone she knew. Well, Daisy first Turned away from the woman, walked towards the other car, and then she lost her nerve and turned back. As soon as my hand touched the steering wheel, I was in shock⁠—it must have killed her on the spot.”

"It tore her apart—"

"Don't tell me, man." He flinched. "Anyway - Daisy stepped on it. I tried to get her to stop but she couldn't, so I pulled the emergency brake. Then she fell on my lap and I kept driving.

"She'll be all right tomorrow," he said after a while. "I'm just waiting here to see if he's going to bother her this afternoon because of that unpleasant incident. She locked herself in her room, and if he tried to do violence to her, she would turn the lights off and on again." .”

"He won't touch her," I said. "He wasn't thinking about her."

"I don't trust him, man."

"How long are you going to wait?"

"All night, if necessary. Until they all go to bed anyway."

I thought of a new point of view. Suppose Tom discovers that Daisy has been driving. He might think he sees a connection⁠—he might think of anything. I looked at the house; there were two or three bright windows downstairs, and Daisy's room on the first floor glowed pink.

"You wait here," I said. "I'll see if there's any sign of commotion."

I walked back along the border of the lawn, gently across the gravel, and tiptoed up the balcony steps. The curtains in the living room were drawn, and I saw that the room was empty. Walking across the porch where we dined that June evening three months ago, I came to a small rectangle of light that I assumed was the pantry window. The shutters were drawn, but I found a tear in the sill.

Daisy and Tom sat opposite each other at the table with a plate of cold fried chicken and two bottles of beer between them. He was talking intently to her across the table, his hand resting on hers and covering hers. From time to time she looked up at him, nodding in agreement.

They weren't happy, neither of them touched chicken or ale - but they weren't unhappy either. There's a natural intimacy to the painting that anyone would say they're plotting.

As I was cautiously leaving the porch, I heard my taxi heading down the dark road towards the house. Gatsby was waiting where I left him in the driveway.

"Is it quiet up there?" he asked anxiously.

"Yes, everything is quiet." I hesitated. "You'd better go home and sleep for a while."

He shook his head.

"I want to wait here till Daisy goes to bed. Good night, man."

Putting his hands in his coat pockets, he turned eagerly to scrutinize the house, as if my presence violated the sanctity of the vigil. So I went away and left him standing in the moonlight—looking at nothing.