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CHAPTER TEN

The End of a Dream

I slept badly that night. I had terrible, frightening dreams. Just before dawn, I heard a taxi driving up to Gatsby’s house. I dressed and went over there at once.

The front door was open. Gatsby was sitting in the hall, still wearing his pink suit.

‘Nothing happened,’ said Gatsby sadly. ‘At four o’clock, she came to the window for a moment. Then she turned out the light.’

We looked round the house for a cigarette. There was dust everywhere. We sat smoking in the darkness.

‘You ought to go away,’ I told Gatsby. ‘The police are sure to find out the yellow car is yours.’

‘Go away? Of course I can’t, old sport. I must find out what Daisy wants to do.’

Gatsby began to tell me about Daisy. He told me how he had first been excited by her beauty and by her money. Gatsby had been a young man without money. And he had no hope of getting any. One October night, he and Daisy had become lovers. Then he had fallen in love with Daisy. And Daisy, a girl who had everything she wanted, fell in love with him.

Life, for Gatsby, became more and more unreal. He spent hours telling Daisy about his dreams for the future. And, of course, she listened to him.

Then Gatsby had to go to the War. When he came back, Tom and Daisy were on their honeymoon.

The house began to fill with the pale light of dawn. Birds began to sing in Gatsby’s garden.

‘I don’t believe she ever loved him,’ Gatsby said. ‘You mustn’t take any notice of what she said this afternoon. She was excited and Tom frightened her.’

Gatsby and I had breakfast together, and then we went into the garden. The air was cooler. Summer was nearly over.

The gardener came up to us and said, ‘I’m going to take the water out of the swimming pool, Mr Gatsby. The leaves will be falling soon.’

‘Don’t do it today,’ Gatsby said. ‘I haven’t used that pool all summer.’

It was time for me to go to work. But I didn’t want to work and I didn’t want to leave Gatsby alone.

‘I’ll phone you,’ I told him.

‘Do, old sport. I suppose Daisy will phone, too.’

‘I suppose so.’

We shook hands and I began to walk away. Then I stopped and shouted back across the lawn, ‘They’re no good, Gatsby! You’re better than all of them!’

It was the only compliment I ever paid Gatsby. But I’ve always been glad I said it.

Gatsby gave me a big smile and raised his hand. His pink suit was bright against the white steps.

‘Goodbye’ I called. ‘Thank you, Gatsby.’

Wilson had cried for Myrtle all night. Then he began to talk to his neighbours. Two months ago, Myrtle had come back from New York with a bruised face. Later, Wilson had found an expensive dog collar in Myrtle’s desk.

‘He bought it for her,’ Wilson said. ‘He bought it for her and then he killed her! He murdered her, the man in the yellow car! She ran out to speak to him and he wouldn’t stop!’

Somehow, Wilson found out who owned the yellow car. At half past two on the day after Myrtle had been killed, Wilson went to West Egg. He asked the way to Gatsby’s house.

At two o’clock, Gatsby had gone down to his swimming pool with an airbed. He told his servants to call him if anyone phoned.

No one phoned. His dream was over.

I couldn’t do much work that day. I got back to West Egg by about half past four. Gatsby wasn’t in the house. One of the servants told me he had not come back from the swimming pool.

We hurried down to the pool. The airbed was moving slowly round and round. There was a little blood in the water and Gatsby lay on the airbed - dead.

As we carried Gatsby’s body up to the house, we saw Wilson lying on the grass. Wilson had shot Gatsby and had then shot himself.

At the inquest, Myrtle’s sister swore that Myrtle had never known Gatsby. She said, too, that Wilson and his wife had been completely happy. So Wilson was called ‘a man made mad with grief’ and the case was closed.

About half an hour after we had found Gatsby, I phoned Daisy.

‘Mr and Mrs Buchanan went away this afternoon,’ a servant told me. ‘They will be away for some time.’

‘Did they leave an address’ I asked.

‘No,’ the servant replied.

‘Have you any idea where they are?’

‘I don’t know, sir. I’m very sorry.’

I felt that I had to tell someone about Gatsby. I thought of Meyer Wolfsheim. I phoned him, but he had already left his office.

The following morning, I sent a servant to New York with a letter. Wolfsheim sent back a very short answer.

Dear Mr Carraway,

This has been a great shock time. I cannot go to the funeral, as I am very busy. I would rather not visit the house. I’ll remember him as he was.

Yours truly,

Meyer Wolfsheim

All that day and the next, I had to answer the questions of the police and the reporters. The news of Gatsby’s death was in all the papers. But Daisy didn’t phone.

Then a telegram arrived from Henry Gatz. He had read the news of his son’s death in a Chicago newspaper. He was coming to the funeral.

The truth was that Jay Gatsby had started life as James Gatz. He was the son of a poor farmer in the Middle West. He had left home when he was sixteen. For a year, James Gatz had lived near Lake Superior, working as a fisherman.

Gatz had become a good-looking young man, popular with women. He had gone to college, but had only stayed there for two weeks. James Gatz was already ambitious - he was dreaming of success.

One morning, Gatz saw Dan Cody’s big white yacht near the shore. Gatz found a boat and sailed over to the yacht to ask for a job.

Dan Cody asked a few questions. Gatz told Dan Cody that his name was Jay Gatsby. Cody saw that the young man with the pleasant smile was quick and ambitious. When the yacht sailed, Jay Gatsby went with it.

Gatsby stayed with Cody for five years, until the old man died. Gatsby didn’t get any of the old man’s money. But Gatsby had learnt how the rich live. Gatsby now knew what he wanted.

Mr Henry Gatz was already in tears when he arrived for the funeral. He was an old man and was so upset that he could hardly stand. But when he had looked round the house, he became more cheerful.

‘Jimmy did well out here in the East,’ Mr Gatz said. ‘This is where he made all his money. He was a good boy and he had a great future. He could have done something really good for his country. I was proud of my boy, Mr Carraway. This has been a terrible shock to me.’

On the day of the funeral, it rained and rained. At three o’clock, the minister arrived. Gatsby’s father and I waited for the other mourners. After half an hour, the minister began to look at his watch. We waited a little longer, but nobody came.

It was raining hard when we reached the cemetery. As we walked towards the grave, I heard someone following us. It was the fat man with glasses I had seen in Gatsby’s library three months before.

As we stood by the grave, I saw that Daisy hadn’t sent a flower or a message.

After the funeral, the fat man said, ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t get to the house.’

‘That’s all right,’ I said. ‘Nobody came to the house.’ The fat man stared.

‘My God!’ he said, ‘and hundreds of people used to go there! What friends!’