VIII
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racedthemforaminutewithpeopleinitwhomightoncehaveseenthepalemagicofherfacealongthecasualstreet.
Thetrackcurvedandnowitwasgoingawayfromthesun,which,asitsanklower,seemedtospreaditselfinbenedictionoverthevanishingcitywhereshehaddrawnherbreath.Hestretchedouthishanddesperatelyasiftosnatchonlyawispofair,tosaveafragmentofthespotthatshehadmadelovelyforhim.Butitwasallgoingbytoofastnowforhisblurredeyesandheknewthathehadlostthatpartofit,thefreshestandthebest,forever.
Itwasnineo’clockwhenwefinishedbreakfastandwentoutontheporch.Thenighthadmadeasharpdifferenceintheweatherandtherewasanautumnflavourintheair.Thegardener,thelastoneofGatsby’sformerservants,cametothefootofthesteps.
“I’mgoingtodrainthepooltoday,Mr.Gatsby.Leaves’llstartfallingprettysoon,andthenthere’salwaystroublewiththepipes.”
“Don’tdoittoday,”Gatsbyanswered.Heturnedtomeapologetically.“Youknow,oldsport,I’veneverusedthatpoolallsummer?”
Ilookedatmywatchandstoodup.
“Twelveminutestomytrain.”
Ididn’twanttogotothecity.Iwasn’tworthadecentstrokeofwork,butitwasmorethanthat—Ididn’twanttoleaveGatsby.Imissedthattrain,andthenanother,beforeIcouldgetmyselfaway.
“I’llcallyouup,”Isaidfinally.
“Do,oldsport.”
“I’llcallyouaboutnoon.”
Wewalkedslowlydownthesteps.
“IsupposeDaisy’llcalltoo.”Helookedatmeanxiously,asifhehopedI’dcorroboratethis.
“Isupposeso.”
“Well,goodbye.”
WeshookhandsandIstartedaway.JustbeforeIreachedthehedgeIrememberedsomethingandturnedaround.
“They’rearottencrowd,”Ishoutedacrossthelawn.“You’reworththewholedamnbunchputtogether.”
I’vealwaysbeengladIsaidthat.ItwastheonlycomplimentIevergavehim,becauseIdisapprovedofhimfrombeginningtoend.Firsthenoddedpolitely,andthenhisfacebrokeintothatradiantandunderstandingsmile,asifwe’dbeeninecstaticcahootsonthatfactallthetime.Hisgorgeouspinkragofasuitmadeabrightspotofcolouragainstthewhitesteps,andIthoughtofthenightwhenIfirstcametohisancestralhome,threemonthsbefore.Thelawnanddrivehadbeencrowdedwiththefacesofthosewhoguessedathiscorruption—andhehadstoodonthosesteps,concealinghisincorruptibledream,ashewavedthemgoodbye.
Ithankedhimforhishospitality.Wewerealwaysthankinghimforthat—Iandtheothers.
“Goodbye,”Icalled.“Ienjoyedbreakfast,Gatsby.”
Upinthecity,Itriedforawhiletolistthequotationsonaninterminableamountofstock,thenIfellasleepinmyswivel-chair.Justbeforenoonthephonewokeme,andIstartedupwithsweatbreakingoutonmyforehead.ItwasJordanBakersheoftencalledmeupatthishourbecausetheuncertaintyofherownmovementsbetweenhotelsandclubsandprivatehousesmadeherhardtofindinanyotherway.Usuallyhervoicecameoverthewireassomethingfreshandcool,asifadivotfromagreengolf-linkshadcomesailinginattheofficewindow,butthismorningitseemedharshanddry.
“I’veleftDaisy’shouse,”shesaid.“I’matHempstead,andI’mgoingdowntoSouthamptonthisafternoon.”
ProbablyithadbeentactfultoleaveDaisy’shouse,buttheactannoyedme,andhernextremarkmademerigid.
“Youweren’tsonicetomelastnight.”
“Howcouldithavematteredthen?”
Silenceforamoment.Then:
“However—Iwanttoseeyou.”
“Iwanttoseeyou,too.”
“SupposeIdon’tgotoSouthampton,andcomeintotownthisafternoon?”
“No—Idon’tthinkthisafternoon.”
“Verywell.”
“It’simpossiblethisafternoon.Various—”
Wetalkedlikethatforawhile,andthenabruptlyweweren’ttalkinganylonger.Idon’tknowwhichofushungupwithasharpclick,butIknowIdidn’tcare.Icouldn’thavetalkedtoheracrossatea-tablethatdayifInevertalkedtoheragaininthisworld.
IcalledGatsby’shouseafewminuteslater,butthelinewasbusy.ItriedfourtimesfinallyanexasperatedcentraltoldmethewirewasbeingkeptopenforlongdistancefromDetroit.Takingoutmytimetable,Idrewasmallcirclearoundthethree-fiftytrain.ThenIleanedbackinmychairandtriedtothink.Itwasjustnoon.
WhenIpassedtheash-heapsonthetrainthatmorningIhadcrosseddeliberatelytotheothersideofthecar.Isupposedthere’dbeacuriouscrowdaroundtherealldaywithlittleboyssearchingfordarkspotsinthedust,andsomegarrulousmantellingoverandoverwhathadhappened,untilitbecamelessandlessrealeventohimandhecouldtellitnolonger,andMyrtleWilson’stragicachievementwasforgotten.NowIwanttogobackalittleandtellwhathappenedatthegarageafterwelefttherethenightbefore.
Theyhaddifficultyinlocatingthesister,Catherine.Shemust
