Inside, the crimson room bloomed with light.
Tom and Miss Baker sat at either end of the long sofa and she read aloud to him from the SATURDAY EVENING POST.
When we came in she held us silent for a moment with a lifted hand.
«To be continued[16]», she said, putting the magazine on the table, «in our next issue».
She stood up.
«Ten o’clock», she remarked, apparently finding the time on the ceiling. «Time for this good girl to go to bed».
«Jordan’s going to play in the tournament tomorrow», explained Daisy, «over at Westchester».
«Oh – you’re Jordan BAKER».
I knew now why her face was familiar – its scornful expression had looked out at me from many pictures of the sporting life at Asheville and Hot Springs and Palm Beach. I had heard some story of her too, a critical, unpleasant story, but what it was I had forgotten long ago.
«Good night», she said softly. «Wake me at eight, won’t you».
«If you’ll get up».
«I will. Good night, Mr. Carraway. See you soon».
«Of course you will», confirmed Daisy. «In fact I think I’ll arrange a marriage. Come over often, Nick, and I’ll sort of – oh – fling you together. You know – lock you up accidentally in linen closets and push you out to sea in a boat, and all that sort of thing…»
«Good night», called Miss Baker from the stairs. «I haven’t heard a word».
«She’s a nice girl», said Tom after a moment. «They shouldn’t let her run around the country this way».
«Who shouldn’t to?» inquired Daisy coldly.
«Her family».
«Her family is one aunt about a thousand years old. Besides, Nick’s going to look after her, aren’t you, Nick? She’s going to spend lots of week-ends out here this summer. I think the home influence will be very good for her».
Daisy and Tom looked at each other for a moment in silence.
«Is she from New York?» I asked quickly.
«From Louisville. Our girlhood was passed together there».
«Did you give Nick a little heart to heart talk[17] on the veranda?» asked Tom suddenly.
«Did I?» She looked at me.
«I don’t remember, but I think we talked about the Nordic race. Yes, I’m sure we did».
«Don’t believe everything you hear, Nick», he advised me.
I said lightly that I had heard nothing at all, and a few minutes later I got up to go home. They came to the door with me and stood side by side in a cheerful square of light.
Their attention rather touched me and made them less remotely rich – nevertheless, I was confused as I drove away. It seemed to me that Daisy had to rush out of the house, with the child in arms – but apparently there were no such intentions in her head. As for Tom, the fact that he «had some woman in New York» was really less surprising than that he had been depressed by a book.
When I reached my estate at West Egg I sat for a while on a grass mower in the yard. The wind had blown off, the night was bright. Suddenly I saw that I was not alone – fifty feet away a figure had emerged from the shadow of my neighbor’s mansion and was standing with his hands in his pockets looking at the silver pepper of the stars. Something in his leisurely movements and the secure position of his feet upon the lawn suggested that it was Mr. Gatsby himself, come out to determine what share was his of our local heavens.
I decided to call to him. Miss Baker had mentioned him at dinner, and that could be an introduction. But I didn’t call to him, for he showed that he wanted to be alone – he stretched out his arms toward the dark water in a curious way, and he was trembling. I glanced in the direction of the sea – and distinguished nothing except a single green light, tiny and far away, that might be the end of a dock. When I looked once more for Gatsby he had vanished, and I was alone again in the unquiet darkness.
Chapter 2
About half way between West Egg and New York the motor road joins the railroad and runs beside it for a quarter of a mile. This is a valley of ashes – a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into hills and grotesque gardens; where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke.
The valley of ashes is bounded on one side by a small dirty river, and, when the drawbridge is up to let barges through, the passengers on waiting trains can stare at the depressing scene for as long as half an hour. There is always a halt there of at least a minute, and it was because of this that I first met Tom Buchanan’s mistress.
The fact that he had a mistress was well-known. He went to popular restaurants with her and, leaving her at a table, walked about, chatting with whoever he knew. Though I was curious to see her, I had no desire to meet her – but I did. I went up to New York with Tom on the train one afternoon, and when we stopped by the ash heaps he jumped to his feet and, taking me by my elbow, literally forced me from the car.
«We’re getting off», he insisted. «I want you to meet my girl».
I followed him over a low railroad fence, and we walked back a hundred yards along the road. The only building in sight was a small block of yellow brick sitting on the edge of the waste land. One of the three shops it contained was for rent and another was an all-night restaurant; the third was a garage with a sign «Repairs. GEORGE B. WILSON. Cars bought and sold». And I followed Tom inside.
The interior was poor; the only car visible was the dust- covered wreck of a Ford in a dark corner. Soon the owner himself appeared in the door of an office, wiping his hands on a piece of cloth. He was a blond, sad man, pale, and slightly handsome. When he saw us a damp gleam of hope sprang into his light blue eyes.
«Hello, Wilson, old man», said Tom, slapping him in a friendly way on the shoulder. «How’s business?»
«I can’t complain», answered Wilson unconvincingly. «When are you going to sell me that car?»
«Next week; my man is working on it now».
«He works pretty slow, doesn’t he?»
«No, he doesn’t», said Tom coldly. «And if you feel that way about it, maybe I’d better sell it somewhere else after all».
«I don’t mean that», explained Wilson quickly. «I just meant…»
His voice faded off and Tom glanced impatiently around the garage. Then I heard footsteps on the stairs, and in a moment the fleshy figure of a woman blocked out the light from the office door. She was in the middle thirties, and slightly stout, but she carried her body sensuously as some women can. Her face, above a spotted dress of dark blue crepe-de-chine[18], contained no gleam of beauty, but there was an immediately perceptible vitality about her. She smiled slowly and, walking through her husband as if he were a ghost, shook hands with Tom, looking into his eyes. Then, without turning around, she spoke to her husband in a soft, coarse voice:
«Get some chairs, why don’t you, so somebody can sit down».
«Oh, sure», agreed Wilson hurriedly, and went toward the little office. A white ashen dust covered his dark suit and his pale hair as it covered everything in the area – except his wife, who moved close to Tom.
«I want to see you», said Tom. «Get on the next train».
«All right».
«I’ll