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. «How’s business?»
«I can’t 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, doesn’t he?»
«No, he doesn’t», said Tom coldly. «And if you feel that way about it, maybe I’d better sell it somewhere else after all».
«I don’t mean that», explained Wilson quickly. «I just meant…»
His voice faded off and Tom glanced impatiently around the garage. Then I heard footsteps on the stairs, and in a moment the fleshy figure of a woman blocked out the light from the office door. She was in the middle thirties, and slightly stout, but she carried her body sensuously as some women can. Her face, above a spotted dress of dark blue crepe-de-chine[18], contained no gleam of beauty, but there was an immediately perceptible vitality about her. She smiled slowly and, walking through her husband as if he were a ghost, shook hands with Tom, looking into his eyes. Then, without turning around, she spoke to her husband in a soft, coarse voice:
«Get some chairs, why don’t you, so somebody can sit down».
«Oh, sure», agreed Wilson hurriedly, and went toward the little office. A white ashen dust covered his dark suit and his pale hair as it covered everything in the area – except his wife, who moved close to Tom.
«I want to see you», said Tom. «Get on the next train».
«All right».
«I’ll meet you by the newsstand». She nodded and moved away from him just as George Wilson appeared with two chairs from his office door.
We waited for her down the road and out of sight.
«Terrible place, isn’t it», said Tom.
«Awful».
«It’s good for her to get away».
«Doesn’t her husband object?»
«Wilson? He thinks she goes to see her sister in New York. He’s so dumb».
So Tom Buchanan and his girl and I went up together to New York – or not quite together, for Mrs. Wilson sat in another car.
She had changed her dress to a brown figured muslin[19], which stretched tight over her rather wide hips as Tom helped her to the platform in New York. Upstairs, in the echoing drive she let four taxicabs drive away before she selected a new one, lavender-colored with gray upholstery, and in this we got away from the station into the glowing sunshine. But immediately she turned sharply from the window and, leaning forward, tapped on the front glass.
«I want to get one of those dogs», she demanded. «I want to get one for the apartment. It’s so nice to have a dog there».
We backed up to a gray old man who, ironically, looked much like John D. Rockefeller. In a basket swung from his neck there was a dozen puppies of an indeterminate breed.
«What kind are they?» asked Mrs. Wilson eagerly, as he came to the taxi-window.
«All kinds. What kind do you want, lady?»
«I’d like to get one of those police dogs; I don’t suppose you have that kind?»
The man looked doubtfully into the basket and took out a puppy by the back of the neck.
«That’s not a police dog», said Tom.
«No, it’s not exactly a police dog», said the man with disappointment in his voice. «It’s more of an Airedale[20]. But that’s a dog that’ll never bother you with catching cold».
«I think it’s cute», said Mrs. Wilson enthusiastically. «How much is it?»
«That dog?» He looked at it admiringly. «That dog will cost you ten dollars».
The Airedale – undoubtedly there was an Airedale concerned in it somewhere – changed hands and settled down into Mrs. Wilson’s lap.
«Is it a boy or a girl?» she asked delicately.
«That dog? That dog’s a boy».
«It’s a bitch», said Tom decisively. «Here’s your money. Go and buy ten more dogs with it».
We went on and soon, at 158th Street, the cab stopped at an apartment-house. Mrs. Wilson gathered up her dog and went haughtily in.
«I’m going to invite the McKees», she announced as we rose in the elevator. «And, of course, I have to call up my sister, Catherine, who is very beautiful».
The apartment was on the top floor – a small living-room, a small dining-room, a small bedroom, and a bath. The living-room was full to the doors with a set of furniture. Several copies of the small scandal magazines of Broadway lay on the table. Mrs. Wilson was first concerned with the dog. A reluctant elevator-boy went for a box full of straw and some milk. Meanwhile Tom brought out a bottle of whiskey from a locked bureau door.
I have been drunk just twice in my life, and the second time was that afternoon; so everything that happened has a hazy cover over it, although until after eight o’clock the apartment was full of cheerful sun. Sitting on Tom’s lap Mrs. Wilson called up several people on the telephone; then there were no cigarettes, and I went out to buy some at the drugstore on the corner. When I came back they had disappeared, so I sat down in the living-room and read a magazine.
Just as Tom and Myrtle (after the first drink Mrs. Wilson and I called each other by our first names) reappeared, company began to arrive 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
Крепдешин.
Узорчатое платье из муслина.
Эрдельтерьер.
