I decided to call to him. Miss Baker had mentioned him at dinner, and that could be an introduction. But I didnt 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
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 Buchanans 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.
«Were 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. «Hows business?»
«I cant 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, doesnt he?»
«No, he doesnt», said Tom coldly. «And if you feel that way about it, maybe Id better sell it somewhere else after all».
«I dont mean that», explained Wilson quickly. «I just meant»
His voice faded
at the apartment door.
The sister, Catherine, was a slender girl of about thirty, with red hair, and a complexion powdered milky white. Her eyebrows had been plucked and then drawn on again at a more stylish angle. When she moved about there was a continual clicking as innumerable ceramic bracelets jingled up and down upon her arms. She came in and looked around so possessively at the furniture that I wondered if she lived here. But when I asked her she laughed extravagantly, repeated my question aloud, and told me she lived with a girl friend at a hotel.
Mrs. Wilson had changed her costume some time before, and was now in an elaborate afternoon dress of cream-colored silk, which gave out a rustle as she swept about the room. With the influence of the dress her personality had also undergone a change. The intense vitality that had been so remarkable in the garage was converted into impressive arrogance.
«I like your dress», remarked Mrs. McKee, the neighbor, «I think its adorable».
Mrs. Wilson rejected the compliment by raising her eyebrow in contempt.
«Its just a crazy old thing», she said. «I just put it on sometimes when I dont care what I look like».
«But it looks wonderful on you», insisted Mrs. McKee.
Myrtle looked at me and laughed pointlessly. Then she kissed the dog with ecstasy, and swept into the kitchen, implying that a dozen chefs awaited her orders there.
The sister Catherine sat down beside me on the sofa.
«Do you live down on Long Island?» she inquired.
«I live at West Egg».
«Really? I was down there at a party about a month ago. At a man named Gatsbys. Do you know him?»
«I live next door to him».
«Well, they say hes a nephew or a cousin of Kaiser Wilhelms.
Thats where all his money comes from».
«Really?»
She nodded.
This absorbing information about my neighbor was interrupted by Mrs. McKee who pointed suddenly at Catherine:
«Chester, I think you could do something with HER», she said, but Mr. McKee only nodded in a bored way, and turned his attention to Tom.
«Id like to do more work on Long Island», said Mr. McKee, «if I could get the entry. All I ask is that they should give me a start».
«Ask Myrtle», said Tom, laughing, as Mrs. Wilson entered with a tray. «Shell give you a letter of introduction, wont you Myrtle?»
«Do what?» she asked, startled.
«Youll give McKee a letter of introduction to your husband, so he can do some studies of him». His lips moved silently for a moment as he invented. «GEORGE B. WILSON AT THE GASOLINE PUMP, or something like that».