Chapter 7 Chapter VII

At the height of people's curiosity about Gatsby, the lights in his villa were not turned on one Saturday night-and so his career as Trimalcio, which had begun inexplicably and now ended inexplicably I gradually realized that the cars that came here in high spirits stopped for a while and then drove away in disappointment.I wondered if he was ill, so I went over to have a look—a grim-faced strange servant squinted at me suspiciously from the door. ①Trimalcio, the nouveau riche hair of a banquet guest in the ancient Roman writer Petronis's "Satire". "Is Mr. Gatsby ill?"

"No." After a pause, he added "Sir" slowly and reluctantly. "I haven't seen him for a long time, and I'm very worried. Tell him Mr. Calloway was here." "Who?" he asked roughly. "Carraway." "Carraway. Well, I'll tell him." He slammed the door rudely. My Finnish maid told me that Gatsby had dismissed every servant in the house a week earlier, and hired five or six others who never came to West Egg to take bribes from those thousand shops, and It is a small number of daily necessities ordered by phone.The grocery delivery guy reported that the kitchen looked like a pigsty, and the general opinion in the town was that the newcomers were not servants at all.

Gatsby called me the next day. "Ready to go out?" I asked. "No, man." "I heard you fired all your servants." "I want someone who doesn't gossip. Daisy comes around a lot--always down." It turned out that because of her disapproval, the hotel collapsed like a house of cards. "They were the ones Wolfshiem wanted to help. They were brothers and sisters. They had a little hotel." "I see." He's calling at Daisy's request -- can I come to her house for lunch tomorrow?Miss Baker will be there.Half an hour later Daisy herself called, seeming relieved to know that I had promised to go.Something must have happened.Yet I cannot believe that they would have chosen such an occasion for such a scene--especially the embarrassing scene that Gatsby had proposed earlier in the garden.

The next day was scorchingly hot and the summer was almost over, but it was without a doubt the hottest day of the summer.As my train emerges from the tunnel into the sun, only the scorching whistle of the National Biscuit Company breaks the sweltering silence at noon.The lawn cushions in the coach were so hot they were on fire.A woman sitting next to me let the sweat seep into her blouse politely at first, and then, when her newspaper became damp under her fingers, she let out a long sigh and slumped back in the heat.Her purse fell to the ground with a thud. "Ouch!" she exclaimed in surprise.

I bent down lazily, picked it up, and handed it back to her, holding a corner of the purse with a far-reaching hand, showing that I had no intention of touching it-but everyone in the vicinity, including the Women, still doubt me. "Hot!" said the ticket inspector to the familiar passenger. "What a horrible day! Hot...hot...hot...do you think it's hot enough? hot? do you think..." My season pass was handed back to me with a black sweat stain from his hand.In this scorching weather, who cares whose red lips he kisses, whose head wets the pocket of his pajamas! ...While Gatsby and I were waiting for the door to open, a breeze blew across the porch of the Buchanan house, bringing the sound of the telephone ringing.

"Master's body?" cried the butler into the microphone, "I'm sorry, ma'am, but we can't provide it—it's too hot to touch at noon today!" What he actually said was, "Yes... yes... I'll see." He put down the microphone and walked towards us, sweat beading his brow, to take our straw hats. "Madame is waiting for you in the drawing room!" he cried, pointing unnecessarily.In this sweltering atmosphere, every superfluous gesture is an abuse of the common wealth of life. This room is blocked by this canopy outside, and it is dark and cool.Daisy and Jordan were lying on a huge couch, like two silver statues holding down their white dresses from the whistling wind of the electric fan.

"We can't move," they both said in unison. Jordan's finger, tanned with white powder on top, rested in mine for a while. "Where's Mr. Thomas Buchanan, the sportsman?" I asked. ①Thomas Buchanan is Tom Buchanan above.Tom is Thomas' nickname. At the same moment I heard his voice, rough, low, hoarse, talking to someone on the porch phone. Gatsby stood in the center of the crimson carpet, looking around with fascinated eyes.Daisy looked at him and let out her sweet, moving laugh.A slight puff of powder rose from her chest into the air. "There's a rumor," Jordan whispered, "that Tom's lover is on the phone over there."

Neither of us spoke.The voice on the porch rose angrily: "Well, then, I won't sell you the car at all...I don't owe you anything at all...I won't let you bother me at lunchtime!" "Hang up the phone and talk," said Daisy sarcastically. "No, he's not," I explained to her. "It's a real deal. I happen to know about it." Tom pushed open the door suddenly, his thick body blocked the door for a moment, and then hurried into the house. "Mr. Gatsby!" He held out his broad, flat hand, successfully concealing his distaste. "It's a pleasure to meet you, sir. . . Nick . . . "

"Give us a cold drink!" cried Daisy. When he had left the house again, she got up, went up to Gatsby, drew his face down, and kissed him on the mouth. "You know I love you," she murmured. "You forgot that there was a lady here," said Jordan. Daisy looked back deliberately pretending to be stupid. "You kiss Nick too." "What low class, nasty girls!" "I don't care!" cried Daisy, dancing in front of the brick fireplace.Then she thought of the hot weather, and sat down on the sofa in embarrassment, at this moment a nurse in freshly laundered clothes came into the room with a little girl on her arm.

"Heart, darling," she said coquettishly, stretching out her arm, "to the mother who loves you." As soon as the nurse let go, the child ran across the room and buried her head shyly in her mother's dress. "Heart, darling! Did mother get the powder on your blond hair? Stand up and say hello." Gatsby and I stooped one after the other to shake her reluctantly outstretched little hand.Then he stared at the child in amazement.I don't think he'd ever really believed in this kid before. "I got dressed before dinner," said the child, turning his face eagerly to Daisy.

"That's because your mother wants to show you off." She lowered her head and put her face in the only wrinkle on her white neck, you, you baby.You are a unique little baby. " "Yes," agreed the boy quietly, "Aunt Jordan is wearing a white dress, too." "Do you like mother's friends?" Daisy turned her so that she faced Gatsby. "Do you think they are pretty?" "where's daddy?" "She doesn't look like her father," explained Daisy, "she looks like me. She has my hair and the shape of her face." Daisy leaned back on the sofa.The nanny took a step forward and held out her hand. "Come on, Pam." "Goodbye, baby!" The well-behaved boy looked back reluctantly, grabbed the nurse's hand, and was led out the door just as Tom returned, followed by four glasses of gin lick full of ice cubes that clicked . Gatsby brought over a glass of wine. "This wine is absolutely cold," he said, visibly nervous. We couldn't wait to gulp down the wine. "I read somewhere that the sun gets hotter every year," said Tom kindly, "as if the earth were going to fall into the sun soon--wait a minute--it's just the opposite--the sun a year colder than a year." "Come outside," he suggested to Gatsby, "I want you to see my place." I went out on the veranda with them.On the green bay, where the sea was stagnant in the heat, a small sailboat moved slowly toward the fresher water.Gatsby's eyes followed the boat for a moment.He raised his hand and pointed across the bay. "I'm right across from you." "is not it." Our eyes flick over the rose-beds, over the hot lawns, over the hot-weather weeds along the coast.The white wings of the boat moved slowly against the background of the cool blue sky.Further forward is the rippling ocean and dotted with treasure islands. "That's such a good sport," said Tom, nodding his head. "I'd love to go out and play with him there for an hour." We had lunch in the restaurant, which was also shaded, and everyone drank nervous laughter and cold beer. "What shall we do this afternoon?" cried Daisy, "and tomorrow, and the next thirty years?" "Don't be so morbid," Jordan said, "as soon as autumn comes and the weather is nice and clear, life begins all over again." "But it's hot as hell," said Daisy obstinately, on the verge of tears, "and everything's in chaos again. Let's all go to town!" Her voice continued to struggle through the heat, pounding against it, molding the mindless heat into shapes. "I've heard of turning stables into garages," Tom was saying to Gatsby, "but I was the first to turn a garage into a stable." "Who wants to go to town?" Daisy asked stubbornly.Gatsby's eyes moved slowly towards her. "Ah," she exclaimed, you look so handsome. " Their eyes met, and they looked at each other intently, detached.She managed to turn her gaze back to the dining table. "You always look so handsome," she repeated. She had told him she loved him, and Tom Buchanan had seen it.He was shocked.His mouth was parted slightly, and he looked from Gatsby to Daisy as if he had just recognized her as someone he had known long ago. "You look a lot like the guy in the ad," she went on quietly, "you know the guy in the ad..." "Well," interrupted Tom hastily, "I'd be more than happy to go to town. Come on—let's all go to town." He stood up, his eyes still flashing between Gatsby and his wife.No one moved. "Let's go!" He got a little angry. "What's the matter? We're going into town, so let's go." He raised the rest of the beer in his glass to his lips, his hands shaking as he tried to control himself.Daisy's voice made us stand up and step out onto the hot gravel driveway. "Shall we go right away?" she said disapprovingly. "Like this? Don't we let people have a cigarette first?" "Everyone smoked throughout the meal." "Oh, let's have fun," she begged him, "it's too hot, don't make trouble." He didn't answer. "As you please," she said, "Come on, Jordan." They went upstairs to get ready, and there we three men stood kicking hot pebbles around with our feet.A silver moon is already hanging in the western sky.Gatsby had just started talking, then changed his mind and tried to keep his mouth shut, but Tom turned to face him and waited. "Is your stable here?" asked Gatsby reluctantly. "Go down this road about a quarter of a mile." "Oh" Pause for a while. "I don't know what you're doing in town," said Tom angrily. "Women always have a whim..." "Shall we bring something to drink?" Daisy called from the upstairs window. "I'll get some whiskey," Tom replied.He went into the house. Gatsby turned to me stiffly and said: "I can't say anything in his house, man." "Her voice is careless," I said, "it's full of..." I hesitated. "Her voice is full of money," he said suddenly. Exactly so.I never got it before.It's full of money - that's the source of the inexhaustible charm of her voice, the sound of money, the sound of cymbals... High in a white palace, the king's daughter, golden lady... Tom came out of the house, wrapping a quart bottle of wine in a towel, followed by Daisy and Jordan, both wearing little tight hats of shiny stiff cloth, and tulle over their arms. shawl. "Will everyone go in my car?" Gatsby suggested.He touched the hot green leather cushions. "I should have parked it in the shade." "Is this car in normal gear?" Tom asked. "yes." "Okay, you take my coupe and let me drive your car into town." This suggestion was not to Gatsby's liking. "I'm afraid we're running out of gas." He disagreed. "There's a lot of gas," said Tom noisily.He looked at the fuel gauge. "If I run out, I can find a pharmacy to stop at. You can buy everything at a pharmacy these days." After this seemingly meaningless sentence was finished, everyone was silent for a while.Daisy frowned at Tom, and at the same time an indescribable expression crossed Gatsby's face, at once strange and familiar, as if I had only been described in words before. "Come on, Daisy," said Tom, pushing her towards Gatsby's carriage with his hand, "I'll take you in this circus float." He opened the car door, but she stepped out of the circle of his arms. "You take Nick and Jordan. We'll come after you in the coupe." She walked close to Gatsby, touching his coat with her hand.Jordan, Tom, and I got into the front seat of Gatsby's car, Tom tried the unfamiliar gear, and we rushed into the sweltering heat, leaving them behind out of sight. "Did you see that?" Tom asked. "what did you see?" He looked at me sharply, realizing that Jordan and I must have known all along. "You think I'm stupid, don't you?" he said, "Maybe I'm stupid, but sometimes I have a—almost a second vision, and it tells me what to do. Maybe you don't believe that, but science……" He paused.The imperative caught up with him and pulled him back from the brink of the theoretical abyss. "I've done a little research on this guy," he went on, "and I could go a little deeper, if I knew..." "You mean you ever found a witch?" Jordan asked humorously. "What?" He couldn't figure it out, staring at us and laughing, "Witch?" "Ask about Gatsby." "Ask about Gatsby! No, I haven't. I just said I've done a little research into where he came from." "It turns out he's an Oxford graduate," Jordan said helpfully. "Oxford graduate!" he couldn't believe it. "He's a fucking freak! He's wearing a pink suit." "He's still an Oxford graduate, though." "Oxford, New Mexico," Tom snorted, "or something like that." "I say, Tom, why did you invite him to lunch if you're so contemptuous?" asked Jordan angrily. "Daisy asked him. She knew him before we were married--God knows where!" The beer was dead, we were all irritated now, and knowing it, we drove in silence for a while.Then when the dim eyes of Dr. T. J. Eckleburg appeared up the road, I remembered Gatsby's warning about running out of gasoline. "We've got enough gas to drive to town," Tom said. "But there's a garage here," objected Jordan, "I don't want to break down in this heat." Tom pressed both brakes impatiently, and the car came to a sudden stop under Wilson's sign in a cloud of dust.After a while, the boss came out of the garage and stared blankly at our car. "Give us some gas!" cried Tom gruffly. "What do you think we're stopping for—to enjoy the view?" "I've been sick," said Wilson, standing still. "I've been sick all day." "What's the matter?" "My body is broken." "Should I do it myself, then?" Tom asked. "You sounded all right on the phone." With difficulty, Wilson came out of the shade of the doorway, panting and unscrewed the cap of the gas tank.His face was blue in the sun. "I didn't mean to bother you at lunch," he said, "but I need money urgently, so I want to know what you're going to do with your old car." "Do you like this one?" Tom asked. "I just bought it last week." "Nice yellow car," said Wilson, pumping the gas with difficulty. "Want to buy it?" "No way," Wilson smiled faintly, "don't want to, but I can make some money on that car." "What do you want money for, any sudden need?" "I've been here too long. I want to get out of here. My wife and I want to move west." "Your wife wants to go," exclaimed Tom, startled. "She said she was going, and she said it for ten years." He rested on the gas pump for a while, covering his eyes with his hands to shade the sun, "Now she really is going, whether she wants to or not. I Get her out of here." The car sped past us, kicking up a cloud of dust, and someone in the car waved. "How much should I pay you?" Tom asked rudely. "It's only been two days since I noticed something odd," Wilson said. "That's why I'm leaving here. That's why I'm bothering you about that car." "How much should I pay you?" "One piece and two corners." The intense heat had begun to make me dizzy, so I felt uncomfortable for a moment before I realized that his suspicions hadn't fallen on Tom so far.He discovered that Myrtle had her own life in another world behind his back, and the shock sickened his body.I stared at him, and at Tom, who had made the same discovery less than half an hour ago--so it occurred to me that any difference in intelligence or race in people is far less than in both sick and healthy people The difference between them is so profound.Wilson was so ill that he looked guilty, the unforgivable sin--as if he'd just blown a poor girl's belly big. "I'll sell you that car," said Tom, "and I'll bring it to you tomorrow afternoon." There was always something vaguely unsettling about that area, even in the bright afternoon sun, so now I turned my head, as if someone was telling me to watch out for something behind me.Above the ashes, the great eyes of Dr. T. J. Eckleburg watched, but after a while I became aware of another set of eyes watching us intently from not twenty feet away. At one of the windows above the garage, the curtains were drawn a little aside, and Myrtle Wilson was peering down at the car.She was so engrossed that she was unaware that anyone was looking at her, and one emotion after another ran across her face like objects appearing in a slowly developing photograph.Her expression was oddly familiar—an expression I've often seen on women's faces, but on Myrtle Wilson's it seemed meaningless and incomprehensible until I understood her two The eyes, wide and jealous, were fixed not on Tom, but on Jordan Baker, whom she thought was his wife. It's no small thing when a simple mind goes into a panic, and by the time we drove off Tom was panicking and frying.His wife and mistress, secure and inviolable until an hour ago, were slipping out of his grasp.Instinct prompted him to slam on the gas pedal with the dual purpose of catching up to Daisy and leaving Wilson behind, and we sped toward Astoria at fifty miles an hour.We didn't see the carefree little blue car until we were among the spidery steel frames of the elevated railway. "Those big movie theaters around 50th Street are cool," Jordan suggested. "I love New York on a summer afternoon when people run away. There's something very guilty about it—overripe, as if all kinds of exotic fruit would into your hands." The word "sensuality" made Tom feel more uneasy, but before he could find a word to object, the car stopped, and Daisy motioned for us to drive up and stop side by side. "Where are we going?" she cried. "How about going to the movies?" "It's too hot," she complained. "You guys go. We'll go for a drive and see you later." She managed a few more wisecracks. "We have an appointment to meet you at another intersection. I'm the man with the two cigarettes." "We can't stay here arguing," Tom said impatiently, as the driver of a truck behind us honked furiously, "you follow me to the Plaza Hotel on Central Park South." Several times he turned his head and looked back for their cars, and if traffic on the road delayed them, he slowed down until they reappeared.I think he was afraid they'd slip into a side street and disappear from his life forever. But they didn't.And we all took the more incomprehensible step of renting the living room of a suite at the Plaza Hotel. I don't know what happened to the long, raucous argument that ended in herding us all into that room, although I distinctly remember that my underwear fell apart in the process. It crawled up my legs like a wet snake, while bursts of cold sweat rolled down my back.The idea arose out of Daisy's suggestion that we rent five bathrooms for cold showers, before taking the more explicit form of "a place for a mint julep".Every one of us keeps saying it's a "bad idea" over and over again -- all of us talking to an embarrassing hotel clerk at the same time, thinking, or pretending to think, that we're being funny... The house was large but stuffy, and although it was four o'clock, opening the windows could only feel a hot wind blowing from the bushes in the park.Daisy went to the mirror, stood with her back to us, and fixed her hair. "This suite is really high-end." Jordan whispered respectfully, making everyone laugh. "Open one more window," Daisy ordered, without looking back. "There are no windows to open." "Then we'd better call for the ax..." "The right thing to do is to forget about the heat," said Tom impatiently. "It's ten times as hot as you're talking about." He opened the towel and took out the bottle of whiskey and put it on the table "Why bother with her, old man?" said Gatsby. "You came into town yourself." There was silence for a while.The phone book slid off the peg and fell to the floor with a thud, and Jordan whispered, "I'm sorry." But this time no one laughed. "I'll pick it up." I rushed to say. "I've found it." Gatsby looked carefully at the broken string, gave a "hum" of interest, and threw the phone book onto the chair. "That's your proud verbal brush, isn't it?" said Tom sharply. "what is?" "Talking and shutting is dude. Where did you learn that?" "Listen, Tom," said Daisy, turning away from the mirror, "if you're going to make a personal attack, I won't wait a minute. Call up and order some ice for mint julep." As soon as Tom picked up the phone, the suffocated heat suddenly burst into sound, and we heard the thrilling chords of Mendelssohn's "Wedding March" from the ballroom below. "There are still people getting married in this heat!" Jordan exclaimed uncomfortably. "Nevertheless—I was married in the middle of June," Daisy recalled, "Louisville in June! A man passed out. Who passed out, Tom?" "Biloxi," he replied curtly. "A man named Biloxi. Wooden Biloxi, he's a box maker--that's true--and he's from Biloxi, Tennessee." ①Wooden man and box are both homophones of Biloxi in the original text. "They brought him into my house," Jordan added, "because we lived two doors down from the church. He lived there for three weeks until Dad told him to walk. The second he went Papa is dead." After a while she added, "There is no connection between the two things." "I used to know a guy from Memphis named Bill Biloxi," I said. ① Memphis (Memphis), a city in Tennessee. "That was his cousin. I knew all about his family history before he left. He gave me a golf putter that I still use today." The music had stopped at the beginning of the wedding, and now there was a long cheer wafting in from the window, followed by shouts of "y-y-ah," and finally jazz and dancing began. "We are all old," said Daisy, "if we were young we would stand and dance." "Don't forget Biloxi," Jordan warned her. "Where did you meet him, Tom?" "Biloxi?" he thought for a moment. "I don't know him. He's Daisy's friend." "He's not," she denied. "I've never seen him there before. He came in your car." "Yeah, he said he knew you. He said he grew up in Louisville. Asha Bird brought him in at the last minute and asked if we had room for him." Jordan smiled. "He probably got a free ride home. He told me he was your class president at Yale." Tom and I looked at each other blankly. "Biloxi?" "First of all, we don't have a monitor at all..." Gatsby's foot tapped several times impatiently, causing Tom to give him a sudden look. "By the way, Mr. Gatsby, I hear you're an Oxford fellow." "Not exactly that." "Oh yes, I heard you went to Oxford." "Yes, I've been there." There was a pause.Then Tom's voice, suspicious and insulting: "You must have been to Oxford when Biloxi went to New Haven." There was another pause.A waiter knocked at the door and came in with crushed mint leaves and ice, but his "Thank you" and the soft closing of the door did not break the silence.This crucial detail is finally about to be clarified. "I told you I was there," said Gatsby. "I hear it, but I want to know when." "It was 1919 and I was only there for five months. That's why I can't claim to be an Oxford alumnus." Tom glanced at everyone to see if his skepticism was reflected in our faces, too.But we're all looking at Gatsby. "That was the opportunity they gave some officers after the Armistice," he went on, "and we could go to any university in England or France." I really want to stand up and pat him on the shoulder.Once again I felt complete trust in him, something I had experienced before. Daisy stood up, smiled, and went to the table. "Crack the whiskey, Tom," she ordered, "and I'll make you a mint julep. Then you'll feel so stupid...Look at these mint leaves!" "Wait a minute," snapped Tom, "I have one more question for Mr. Gatsby." "Excuse me," said Gatsby politely. "What kind of trouble are you trying to create in my family?" They finally got their point across, and Gatsby was satisfied. "He's not making trouble," said Daisy, looking from one side to the other in dismay, "you're making trouble. Please restrain yourself." "Self-made!" repeated Tom in disbelief. "I guess the most fashionable thing to do is play dumb and let some cat or dog out of nowhere fall in love with your wife. Well, if that's fashionable, you can Except for me...these days people start to sneer at family life and family institutions, the next thing they should do is drop everything and have black and white marriages." He was talking nonsense, his face was flushed, and he seemed to think he was alone on the last bulwark of civilization. "We're all white here," Jordan mumbled. "I know I'm unpopular. I don't throw big parties. You probably have to turn your home into a pigsty to make friends - in this modern world." As angry as everyone else was, I couldn't help but laugh every time he opened his mouth.A drunkard and pervert turned into a Taoist teacher. "I have something to tell you too, old man..." Gatsby began.But Daisy guessed his intention. "Please don't!" she interrupted him resignedly. "Let's all go home. Shouldn't we all go home?" "That's a good idea." I stood up. "Come on, Tom. Nobody wants a drink." "I wonder what Gatsby has to say to me." "Your wife doesn't love you," said Gatsby, "she never loved you. She loves me." "You must be crazy!" Tom blurted out. Gatsby jumped up, all excited. "She never loved you, do you hear?" he cried. "She married you only because I was poor, and she got tired of waiting for me. It was a big mistake, but she I have never loved anyone in my heart except me!" At this time, Jordan and I both wanted to leave, but Tom and Gatsby scrambled to stop us, insisting that we stay, as if neither of us had anything to hide, as if sharing their feelings in a sympathetic way was also a special kind an honor. "Sit down, Daisy," said Tom, trying unsuccessfully to sound paternal; "what's the matter? I want to hear the whole story." "I've told you what happened," said Gatsby, "and it's been five years—and you don't know," Tom turned sharply to Daisy. "You've been seeing this guy for five years?" "No," said Gatsby, "no, we never met. But we both loved each other all that time, man, and you didn't know it. I used to laugh sometimes," but there was no smile in his eyes, "To think you don't know." "Oh—so that's all." Tom tapped his thick fingers together like a priest, and leaned back in his chair. "You're crazy!" he snapped. "I can't tell you what happened five years ago because I didn't know Daisy at the time—but I can't fucking figure out how you ever got around to her unless you Delivered the groceries to her back door. As for the rest of your talk, it's fucking bullshit. Daisy loved me when I was married, and she still loves me now." "No," said Gatsby, shaking his head. "But she does love me. The problem is that she sometimes thinks wildly about things that she can't understand." He nodded wisely. "Not only that, but I love Daisy too; occasionally I do absurd things and do stupid things, but I always looking back, and my heart is always in love with her." "You're disgusting," said Daisy.She turned to me, and her voice dropped a notch, filling the room with embarrassing contempt. "Do you know why we left Chicago? I wonder you haven't been told the story of that little prank." Gatsby came and stood beside her. "Daisy, that's all over," he said earnestly, "and it doesn't matter now. Just tell him the truth—you never loved him—and it's all gone forever." She looked at him blankly. "Yes—how could I love him—how could it be?" "You never loved him." She hesitated—her eyes rested on Jordan and me plaintively, as if she finally realized what she was doing—as if she hadn't intended to do anything all along, but now that it was done, it was too late. late. "I never loved him," she said, but with reluctance. "Didn't love at Kepiolani?" asked Tom suddenly. "No." From the dance hall below, the low and muffled music floated up with waves of heat. "Then I took you down from the rum bowl and kept your shoes from getting wet, don't you love me?" His hoarse voice was tender, "Daisy?" ①Rumé bowl, the name of the yacht. "Please stop." Her voice was cold, but the resentment had faded from it.She looked at Gatsby. "Look, Jay," she said, but her hands shook as she tried to light a cigarette.Suddenly she threw the cigarette and the lit match on the carpet. "Oh, you're asking too much!" she cried to Gatsby. "I love you now—isn't that enough? I can't undo the past." She wept helplessly. . "I loved him once—but I loved you, too." Gatsby's eyes opened and closed. "You loved me too?" he repeated. "Even that is nonsense," said Tom grimly. "She doesn't know you're alive. You know, there's a lot between Daisy and me that you'll never know, and neither of us will ever forget." His words hurt Gatsby's heart. "I want to talk to Daisy alone," he insisted, "she's so excited right now..." "Alone I can't say I never loved Tom," she confided in a sad tone, "then it wouldn't be the truth." "Of course not," echoed Tom. She turned to her husband. "As if you still cared," she said. "Of course I do. I will take better care of you from now on." "You don't understand yet," said Gatsby, a little flustered, "that you won't have a chance to take care of her anymore." "我没有机会了？"汤姆睁大了眼睛，放声大笑。他现在大可以控制自己了。"什么道理呢？" "黛西要离开你了。" "胡说八道。" "不过我确实要离开你。"她显然很费劲地说。 "她不会离开我的！"汤姆突然对盖茨比破口大骂，"反正决不会为了一个鸟骗子离开我，一个给她套在手指上的戒指也得去偷来的鸟骗子。" "这么说我可不答应！"黛西喊道，"啊呀，咱们走吧。" "你到底是什么人？"汤姆嚷了起来，"你是迈耶·沃尔夫山姆的那帮狐群狗党里的货色，这一点我碰巧知道，我对你的事儿做了一番小小的调查--明天我还要进一步调查。" "那你尽可以自便，老兄。"盖茨比镇定地说。 "我打听了出来你那些药房是什么名堂。"他转过身来对着我们很快地说，"他和这个姓沃尔夫山姆的家伙在本地和芝加哥买下了许多小街上的药房，私自把酒精卖给人家喝。那就是他变的许多小戏法中的一个。我头一趟看见他就猜出他是个私酒贩子，我猜的还差不离哩。" "那又该怎么样呢？"盖茨比很有礼貌地说，"你的朋友瓦尔特·蔡斯和我们合伙并不觉得丢人嘛。" "你们还把他坑了，是不是？你们让他在新泽西州坐了一个月监牢。天啊！你应当听听瓦尔特议论你的那些话。" "他找上我们的时候是个穷光蛋。他很高兴赚几个钱，老兄。" "你别叫我老兄！"汤姆喊道。盖茨比没搭腔，"瓦尔特本来还可以告你违犯赌博法的，但是沃尔夫山姆吓得他闭上了嘴。" 那种不熟悉可是认得出的表情又在盖茨比的脸上出现了。 "那个开药房的事儿不过是小意思，"汤姆慢慢地接着说，"但是你们现在又在搞什么花样，瓦尔特不敢告诉我。" 我看了黛西一眼，她吓得目瞪口呆地看看盖茨比，又看看她丈夫，再看看乔丹--她已经开始在下巴上面让一件看不见可是引人入胜的东西保持平衡，然后我又回过头去看盖茨比--看到他的表情，我大吃一惊。他看上去活像刚"杀了个人"似的--我说这话可与他花园里的那些流言蜚语毫不相干。可是一刹那间他脸上的表情恰恰可以用那种荒唐的方式来形容。 这种表情过去以后、他激动地对黛西说开了，矢口否认一切，又为了没有人提出的罪名替自己辩护。但是他说得越多，她就越显得疏远，结果他只好不说了，唯有那死去的梦随着下午的消逝在继续奋斗，拼命想接触那不再摸得着的东西，朝着屋子那边那个失去的声音痛苦地但并不绝望地挣扎着。 那个声音又央求要走。 "求求你，汤姆！我再也受不了啦。" 她惊惶的眼睛显示出来，不管她曾经有过什么意图，有过什么勇气，现在肯定都烟消云散了。 "你们两人动身回家，黛西，"汤姆说，"坐盖茨比先生的车子。" 她看着汤姆，大为惊恐，但他故作宽大以示侮蔑，定要她去。 "走吧。他不会麻烦你的。我想他明白他那狂妄的小小的调情已经完了。" 他们俩走掉了，一句话也没说，一转眼就消失了，变得无足轻重，孤零零的，像一对鬼影，甚至和我们的怜悯都隔绝了。 过了一会汤姆站了起来，开始用毛巾把那瓶没打开的威士忌包起来。 "来点儿这玩意吗？乔丹？尼克？" 我没搭腔。 "尼克？"他又问了一声。 "what?" "来点儿吗？" "不要……我刚才记起来今天是我的生日。" 我三十岁了。在我面前展现出一条新的十年的凶多吉少、咄咄逼人的道路。 等到我们跟他坐上小轿车动身回长岛时，已经是七点钟了。汤姆一路上话说个不停，得意洋洋，哈哈大笑，但他的声音对乔丹和我就好像人行道上嘈杂的人声和头顶上高架铁路轰隆隆的车声一样遥远、人类的同情心是有限度的，因此我们也乐于让他们那些可悲的争论和身后的城市灯火一道逐渐消失。三十岁--展望十年的孤寂，可交往的单身汉逐渐稀少，热烈的感清逐渐稀薄，头发逐渐稀疏。但我身边有乔丹，和黛西大不一样，她少年老成，不会把早已忘怀的梦一年又一年还藏在心里。我们驶过黝黑的铁桥时她苍白的脸懒懒地靠在我上衣的肩上，她紧紧握住我的手，驱散了三十岁生日的巨大冲击。 于是我们在稍微凉快一点的暮色中向死亡驶去。 那个年轻的希腊人米切里斯，在灰堆旁边开小咖啡馆的，是验尸时主要的见证人。那个大热大他一觉睡到五点以后才起来，溜到车行去，发觉乔治·威尔逊在他的办公室里病了--真的病了，面色和他本人苍白的头发一样苍白，浑身都在发抖。米切里斯劝他上床去睡觉，但威尔逊不肯，说那样就要错过不少生意。这位邻居正在劝服他的时候，楼上忽然大吵大闹起来。 "我把我老婆锁在上面，"威尔逊平静地解释说，"她要在那儿一直待到后人，然后我们就搬走。" 米切里斯大吃一惊。他们做了四年邻居，威尔逊从来不像是一个能说出这种话来的人。通常他总是一个筋疲力尽的人：不干活的时候，他就坐在门口一把椅子上，呆呆地望着路上过往的人和车辆。不管谁跟他说话一他总是和和气气、无精打采地笑笑。他听他老婆支使，自己没有一点主张。 因此，米切里斯很自然地想了解发生了什么事，但威尔逊一个字也不肯说--相反地，他却用古怪的、怀疑的目光端详起这位客人来，并且盘问他某些日子某些时间在干什么。正在米切里斯逐渐感到不自在的时候，有几个工人从门口经过，朝他的餐馆走去，他就乘机脱身，打算过一会再回来。但是他并没有再来。他想他大概忘了，并没别的原因。L点过一点他再到外面来，才想起了这番谈话，因为他听见威尔逊太太在破口大骂，就在楼下车行里。 "你打我！"他听见她嚷嚷，"让你推，让你打吧，你这个肮脏没种的鸟东西！" 过了一会她就冲出门来向黄昏中奔去，一面挥手一面叫喊--他还没来得及离开自己的门口，事情就已经发生了。 那辆"凶车"--这是报纸上的提法--停都没停车于从苍茫暮色中出现，出事后悲惨地犹疑了片刻，然后在前面一转弯就不见了。马弗罗·米切里斯连车子的颜色都说不准--他告诉第一个警察说是浅绿色。另一辆车，开往纽约的那一辆，开到一百码以外停了下来，开车的赶快跑回出事地点，茉特尔·威尔逊在那里跪在公路当中，死于非命，她那发黑的浓血和尘上混合在一起。 米切里斯和这个人最先赶到她身旁，但等他们把她汗湿的衬衣撕开时，他们看见她左边的乳房已经松松地耷拉着，因此也不用再去听那下面的心脏了。她的嘴大张着，嘴角撕破了一点，仿佛她在放出储存了一辈子的无比旺盛的精力的时候噎了一下。 我们离那儿还有一段距离就看见三四辆汽车和一大群人。 "撞车！"汤姆道，"那很好。威尔逊终于有一点生意了。" 他把车子放慢下来，但并没打算停，直至到我们开得近一点，车行门口那群人屏息敛容的而孔才使他不由自主地把车刹住。 "我们去看一眼，"他犹疑不定地说，"看一眼就走。" 我这时听见一阵阵空洞哀号的声音从车行里传出来，我们下了小轿车走向车行门口时，才听出其中翻来覆去、上气不接下气地喊出的"我的上帝啊"几个字。 "这儿出了什么大乱子了。"汤姆激动地说。 他跟着脚从一圈人头上向车行里望去，车行天花板上点着一盏挂在铁丝罩用的发黄光的电灯。他喉咙里哼了一声，接着他用两只有力气的手臂猛然向前一推就挤进了人群。 那一圈人又合拢来，同时传出一阵咕咕哝哝的劝告声。有一两分钟我什么也看不见。后来新到的人又打乱了圈子，忽然间乔丹和我被挤到里面去了。 茉特尔·威尔逊的尸体裹在一条毯子里，外面又包了一条毯子，仿佛在这炎热的夜晚她还怕冷似的。尸体放在墙边一张工作台上，汤姆背对着我们正低头在看，一动也不动。在他旁边站着一名摩托车警察，他正在把人名字往小本子上抄，一面流汗一面写了又涂改。起初我找不到那些在空空的车行里回荡的高昂的呻吟声的来源--然后我才看见威尔逊站在他办公室高高的门槛上，身体前后摆动着，双手抓着门框。有一个人在低声跟他说话，不时想把一只手放在他肩上，但威尔逊既听不到也看不见。他的目光从那盏摇晃的电灯慢慢地下移到墙边那张停着尸体的桌子上，然后又突然转回到那盏灯上，同时他不停地发出他那高亢的、可怕的呼号： "哎哟，我的上……帝啊！哎哟，我的上……帝啊！哎哟，上……帝啊！哎哟，我的上……帝啊！" 过了一会汤姆猛地一甩，抬起头来，用呆滞的目光扫视了车行，然后对警察含糊不清地说了一句话。 "My－v"警察在说，"-o-" "不对，r-"那人更正说，"Mavro-" "你听我说！"汤姆凶狠地低声说。 "r－"警察说，o-- "g--" "g--"汤姆的大手猛一下落在他肩膀上时，他抬起头来，"你要啥，伙计？" "是怎么回事？我要知道的就是这个。" "汽车撞了她，当场撞死。" "当场撞死。"汤姆重复道，两眼发直。 "她跑到了路中间。狗娘养的连车子都没停。" "当时有两辆车子，"米切里斯说，"一来，一去，明白吗？" "去哪儿？"警察机警地问。 "一辆车去一个方向。喏，她，"他的手朝着毯子举起来，但半路上就打住，又放回到身边，"她跑到外面路上，纽约来的那辆车迎面撞上了她，车子时速有三四十英里。" "这地方叫什么名字？"警察问道。 "没有名字。" 一个面色灰白、穿得很体面的黑人走上前来。 "那是一辆黄色的车子，"他说，"大型的黄色汽车，新的。" "看到事故发生了吗？"警察问。 "没有，但是那辆车子在路上从我旁边开过，速度不止四十英里，有五六十英里。" "过来，让我们把你名字记下来。让开点。我要记下他的名字。" 这段对话一定有几个字传到了在办公室门日摇晃的威尔逊耳朵里，因为忽然间一个新的题目出现在他的哀号中： "你不用告诉我那是一辆什么样的车！我知道那是辆什么样的车！" 我注视着汤姆，看见他肩膀后面那团肌肉在上衣下面紧张起来。他急忙朝威尔逊走过去，然后站在他面前，一把抓住他的上臂。 "你一定得镇定下来。"他说，粗犷的声音中带着安慰。 威尔逊的眼光落到了汤姆身上。他先是一惊，踮起了脚尖，然后差点跪倒在地上，要不是汤姆扶住他的话。 "你听我说，"汤姆说，一面轻轻地摇摇他，"我刚才到这里，从纽约来的。我是把我们谈过的那辆小轿车给你送来的。今天下午我开的那辆车子不是我的--你听见了吗？后来我整个下午都没看到它。" 只有那个黑人和我靠得近，可以听到他讲的话，但那个警察也听出他声调里有问题，于是用严厉的目光向这边看。 "你说什么？"他质问。 "我是他的朋友。"汤姆回过头来，但两手还紧紧抓住威尔逊的身体，"他说他认识肇事的车子……是一辆黄色的车子。" 一点模糊的冲动促使警察疑心地看看汤姆。 "那么你的车是什么颜色呢？" "是一辆蓝色的车子，一辆小轿车。" "我们是刚从纽约来的。"我说。 有一个一直在我们后面不远开车的人证实了这一点，于是警察就掉过头去了。 "好吧，请你让我再把那名字正确地……" 汤姆把威尔逊像玩偶一样提起来，提到办公室里去，放在一把椅子上，然后自己又回来。 "来个人到这儿陪他坐着。"他用发号施令的口吻说。他张望着，这时站得最近的两个人彼此望望，勉勉强强地走进那间屋子。然后汤姆在他们身后关上了门，跨下那一级台阶，他的眼睛躲开那张桌子。他经过我身边时低声道："咱们走吧。" 他不自在地用那双权威性的胳臂开路，我们从仍然在聚集的人群中推出去，遇到一位匆匆而来的医生，手里拎着皮包，还是半个钟头以前抱着一线希望去请的。 汤姆开得很慢，直到拐过那个弯之后他的脚才使劲踩下去，于是小轿车就在黑夜里飞驰而去。过了一会我听见低低的一声呜咽，接着看到他泪流满面。 "没种的狗东西！"他呜咽着说，"他连车子都没停。" 布坎农家的房子忽然在黑黝黝、瑟瑟作响的树木中间浮现在我们面前。汤姆在门廊旁边停下，抬头望望二楼，那里有两扇窗户在蔓藤中间给灯光照得亮堂堂的。 "黛西到家了。"他说，我们下车时，他看了我一眼，又微微皱皱眉头。 "我应当在西卵让你下车的，尼克。今晚我们没有什么事可做了。" 他身上起了变化，他说话很严肃，而已很果断。当我们穿过满地月光的石子道走向门廊时，他三言两语很利索地处理了眼前的情况。 "我去打个电话叫一辆出租汽车送你回家。你等车的时候，你和乔丹最好到厨房去，让他们给你们做点晚饭--要是你们想吃的话。"他推开了大门，"进来吧。" "不啦，谢谢。可是要麻烦你替我叫出租汽车、我在外面等。" 乔丹把她的手放在我胳臂上。 "你进来不好吗，尼克？" "不啦，谢谢。" 我心里觉得有点不好受，我想一个人单独待着，但乔丹还流连了一下。 "现在才九点半。"她说。 说什么我也不肯进去了。他们几个人我这一天全都看够了，忽然间那也包括乔丹在内。她一定在我的表情中多少看出了一点苗头，因为她猛地掉转身，跑上门廊的台阶走进屋子里去了。我两手抱着头坐了几分钟，直到我听见屋子里有人打电话，又听见男管家的声音在叫出租汽车。随后我就沿着汽车道慢慢从房子面前走开，准备到大门口去等。 我还没走上二十码就听见有人叫我的名宇，跟着盖茨比从两个灌木丛中间出来走到小路上。我当时一定已经神志恍惚了，因为我脑子里什么都想不到，除了他那套粉红色衣服在月光下闪闪发光。 "你在干什么？"我问道。 "就在这儿站着，老兄。" 不知为什么，这好像是一种可耻的行径。说不定他准备马上就去抢劫这个人家哩。我也不会感到奇怪的，如果我看到许多邪恶的面孔，"沃尔夫山姆的人"的面孔，躲在他后面黑黝黝的灌木丛中。 "你在路上看见出什么事了吗？"他过了一会问道。 "看见的。" 他迟疑了一下。 "她撞死了吗？" "死了。" "我当时就料到了。我告诉了黛西我想是撞死了。一下子大惊一场，倒还好些。她表现得挺坚强。" 他这样说，仿佛黛西的反应是唯一要紧的事情。 "我从一条小路开回西卵去，"他接着说，"把车子停在我的车房里。我想没有人看到过我们，但我当然不能肯定。" 到这时我已经十分厌恶他，因此我觉得没有必要告诉他他想错了。 "那个女人是谁？"他问道。 "她姓威尔逊。她丈夫是那个车行的老板。这事到底怎么会发生的？" "呃，我想把驾驶盘扳过来的……"他突然打住，我也忽然猜到了真相。 "是黛西在开车吗？" "是的，"他过了一会才说，"但是当然我要说是我在开。是这样的。我们离开纽约的时候，她神经非常紧张，她以为开车子可以使她镇定下来--后来这个女人向我们冲了出来。正好我们迎面来了一辆车子和我们相错。前后不到一分钟的事，但我觉得她想跟我们说话，以为我们是她认识的人。呃，黛西先是把车子从那个女人那边转向那辆车子，接着她惊慌失措又转了回去。我的手一碰到驾驶盘我就感到了震动--她一定是当场撞死的。" "把她撞开了花……" "别跟我说这个，老兄。"他间缩了一下，"总而言之，黛西拼命踩油门。我要她停下来，但她停不了，我只得拉上了紧急刹车。这时她晕倒在我膝盖上，我就接过来向前开。" "明天她就会好的，"他过了一会又说，"我只是在这儿等等，看他会个会因为今天下午那场争执找她麻烦。她把自己锁在自己屋子里了，假如他有什么野蛮的举动，她就会把灯关掉然后再打开。" "他不会碰她的，"我说，"他现在想的不是她。" "我不信任他，老兄。" "你准备等多久！" "整整一夜，如果有必要的话。至少，等到他们都去睡觉。" 我忽然有了一个新的看法。假定汤姆知道了开车的是黛西，他或许会认为事出有因--他或许什么都会疑心。我看看那座房子。楼下有两三扇亮堂堂的窗户，还有二楼黛西屋子里映出的粉红色亮光。 "你在这儿等着，"我说，"我去看看有没有吵闹的迹象。" 我沿着草坪的边缘走了回去，轻轻跨过石子车道，然后踮起脚尖走上游廊的台阶。客厅的窗帘是拉开的，因此我看到屋子里是空的。我穿过我们三个月以前那个六月的晚上吃过晚餐的阳台，来到一小片长方形的灯光前面，我猜那是食品间的窗户。遮帘拉了下来，但我在窗台上找到了一个缝隙。 黛西和汤姆面对面坐在厨房的桌子两边，两人中间放着一盘冷的炸鸡，还有两瓶啤酒。他正在隔着桌子聚精会神地跟她说话，说得那么热切，他用手盖住了她的手。她不时抬起头来看看他，并且点头表示同意。 他们并不是快乐的，两人都没动鸡和啤酒--然而他们也不是不快乐的。这幅图画清清楚楚有一种很自然的亲密气氛，任何人也都会说他们俩在一同阴谋策划。 当我踮着脚尖走下阳台时，我听见我的出租汽车慢慢地沿着黑暗的道路向房子开过来。盖茨比还在车道上我刚才和他分手的地方等着。 "那上面一切都安静吗？"他焦急地问。 "是的，一切都安静。"我犹疑了一下，"你最好也回家去睡觉吧。" He shook his head. "我要在这儿一直等到黛西上床睡觉。晚安，老兄。" 他把两手插在上衣口袋里，热切地掉转身去端详那座房子，仿佛我的在场有损于他神圣的守望。于是我走开了，留下他站在月光里--空守着。