«Великий Гэтсби» и другие лучшие произведения Ф.С. Фицджеральда
Шрифт:
He got up, his eyes still flashing between Gatsby and his wife. No one moved.
‘Come on!’ His temper cracked a little. ‘What’s the matter, anyhow? If we’re going to town, let’s start.’
His hand, trembling with his effort at self-control, bore to his lips the last of his glass of ale. Daisy’s voice got us to our feet and out on to the blazing gravel drive.
‘Are we just going to go?’ she objected. ‘Like this? Aren’t we going to let anyone smoke a cigarette first?’
‘Everybody smoked all through lunch.’
‘Oh, let’s have fun,’ she begged him. ‘It’s too hot to fuss.’
He didn’t answer.
‘Have it your own way,’ she said. ‘Come on, Jordan.’
They went upstairs to get ready while we three men stood there shuffling the hot pebbles with our feet. A silver curve of the moon hovered already in the western sky. Gatsby started to speak, changed his mind, but not before Tom wheeled and faced him expectantly.
‘Have you got your stables here?’ asked Gatsby with an effort.
‘About a quarter of a mile down the road.’
‘Oh.’
A pause.
‘I don’t see the idea of going to town,’ broke out Tom savagely. ‘Women get these notions in their heads —’
‘Shall we take anything to drink?’ called Daisy from an upper window.
‘I’ll get some whisky,’ answered Tom. He went inside.
Gatsby turned to me rigidly:
‘I can’t say anything in his house, old sport.’
‘She’s got an indiscreet voice,’ I remarked. ‘It’s full of – ’ I hesitated.
‘Her voice is full of money,’ he said suddenly.
That was it. I’d never understood before. It was full of money – that was the inexhaustible charm that rose and fell in it, the jingle of it, the cymbals’ song of it… High in a white palace the king’s daughter, the golden girl…
Tom came out of the house wrapping a quart [87] bottle in a towel, followed by Daisy and Jordan wearing small tight hats of metallic cloth and carrying light capes over their arms.
87
quart – measure of liquid capacity equal to 1.13 litre in Britain, and 0.94 litre in the USA
‘Shall we all go in my car?’ suggested Gatsby. He felt the hot, green leather of the seat. ‘I ought to have left it in the shade.’
‘Is it standard shift?’ demanded Tom.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, you take my coupe and let me drive your car to town.’
The suggestion was distasteful to Gatsby.
‘I don’t think there’s much gas,’ he objected.
‘Plenty of gas,’ said Tom boisterously. He looked at the gauge. ‘And if it runs out I can stop at a drug-store. You can buy anything at a drug-store nowadays.’
A pause followed this apparently pointless remark. Daisy looked at Tom frowning, and an indefinable expression, at once definitely unfamiliar and vaguely recognizable, as if I had only heard it described in words, passed over Gatsby’s face.
‘Come on, Daisy,’ said Tom, pressing her with his hand toward Gatsby’s car. ‘I’ll take you in this circus wagon.’
He opened the door, but she moved out from the circle of his arm.
‘You take Nick and Jordan. We’ll follow you in the coupe.’
She walked close to Gatsby, touching his coat with her hand. Jordan and Tom and I got into the front seat of Gatsby’s car, Tom pushed the unfamiliar gears tentatively, and we shot off into the oppressive heat, leaving them out of sight behind.
‘Did you see that?’ demanded Tom.
‘See what?’
He looked at me keenly, realizing that Jordan and I must have known all along.
‘You think I’m pretty dumb, don’t you?’ he suggested. ‘Perhaps I am, but I have a – almost a second sight, sometimes, that tells me what to do. Maybe you don’t believe that, but science —’
He paused. The immediate contingency overtook him, pulled him back from the edge of the theoretical abyss.
‘I’ve made a small investigation of this fellow,’ he continued. ‘I could have gone deeper if I’d known —’
‘Do you mean you’ve been to a medium?’ inquired Jordan humorously.
‘What?’ Confused, he stared at us as we laughed. ‘A medium?’
‘About Gatsby.’
‘About Gatsby! No, I haven’t. I said I’d been making a small investigation of his past.’
‘And you found he was an Oxford man,’ said Jordan helpfully.
‘An Oxford man!’ He was incredulous. ‘Like hell he is! He wears a pink suit.’
‘Nevertheless he’s an Oxford man.’
‘Oxford, New Mexico,’ snorted Tom contemptuously, ‘or something like that.’
‘Listen, Tom. If you’re such a snob, why did you invite him to lunch?’ demanded Jordan crossly.
‘Daisy invited him; she knew him before we were married – God knows where!’
We were all irritable now with the fading ale, and aware of it we drove for a while in silence. Then as Doctor T. J. Eckleburg’s faded eyes came into sight down the road, I remembered Gatsby’s caution about gasoline.
‘We’ve got enough to get us to town,’ said Tom.
‘But there’s a garage right here,’ objected Jordan. ‘I don’t want to get stalled in this baking heat.’
Tom threw on both brakes impatiently, and we slid to an abrupt dusty spot under Wilson’s sign. After a moment the proprietor emerged from the interior of his establishment and gazed hollow-eyed at the car.
‘Let’s have some gas!’ cried Tom roughly. ‘What do you think we stopped for – to admire the view?’
‘I’m sick,’ said Wilson without moving. ‘Been sick all day.’