CHAPTER THREE

My Strange Neighbor

Most evenings of the summer I could hear music coming from my neighbor's house. Obviously Mr Gatsby enjoyed having parties and his parties were always big ones. Men and girls filled his huge house and beautiful gardens. They walked around slowly and whispered to each other; they drank wine and looked at the stars and swam in Gatsby's big swimming pool. The people who came to his parties didn't seem to have any work or study and, really, any worries. Sometimes his guests would arrive in the afternoon and swim in the ocean in front of his house. I would often watch his guests swimming and lying in the sun on the hot sand, or just riding his two boats.

On the weekends Gatsby's driver would take his big open car and carry groups of people to and from the city. I saw people coming at all times of the day, sometimes before nine in the morning and often long after midnight. His second car, and his second driver, would go and meet all the trains coming from New York. On Mondays ten servants, and an extra garden helper, would work all day to clean and repair the damage from the weekend's parties.

Two times every month Gatsby would have a really big party. The servants would cover the trees with colored lights and a dance floor would be built out in the yard. Gatsby hired a big group of musicians to play music for dancing. The house was filled with wonderful food and dozens of waiters, and the servants would also build a bar full of every kind of wine and other drink. His house was always full of excitement before these parties—I could feel the excitement from my house.

In the evening the last swimmers would come in from the beach and start dressing upstairs. Every minute many cars came from New York. The halls and rooms filled with girls in bright dresses with the newest, strangest styles of hair. Servants would carry drinks through the garden outside, and the air would fill with talk and laughter. When night came the lights in Gatsby's house would all turn on. The lights became brighter as the night became darker. The musicians became louder and louder. Wine glasses became empty, and filled, and empty again. And laughter became easier and easier.

The first night that I went to Gatsby's house I was one of the few guests who had actually been invited. A servant wearing a pale blue uniform came to my house one day with a surprising letter from his Mr Gatsby. Gatsby, the letter said, would be very happy if I would come to his party that night. The letter said that he had seen me many times, and that he wanted to meet me.

Most of the people at his parties were not invited—they just went there. They somehow found Gatsby's house and once they were there they were introduced to Gatsby by someone who knew him. Sometimes they came to the party and left again without ever having met Gatsby.

I went over to Gatsby's house at about seven o'clock. I felt nervous among all these people I didn't know, so I walked around looking for Gatsby. I asked many guests where he was, but they all stared at me in such a surprised way that I decided to go and sit at the bar. The bar was the only place in the garden where a single man could stand without looking strange.

I was at the bar for a long time. Finally I saw Jordan Baker come out of the house. She stood at the top of the stairs and looked around the garden.

"Hello!" I shouted, moving towards her.

"I thought you might be here," she answered, as I walked up to her. "I remembered that you lived just next door to—"

She was interrupted by two girls wearing yellow dresses. They stopped next to me at the bottom of the stairs and yelled up to her, "Sorry you didn't win."

They were talking about the golf competition the week before. She had lost in the last game.

"You don't know us," said one of the girls in yellow, "but we met you at another party here. It was about a month ago."

"You've changed the color of your hair since then," remarked Jordan.

Jordan came down the stairs and put her thin arm in mine. We walked around the garden. A servant came out carrying wine and we sat down at a table with the two girls in yellow dresses and three men.

"I like these parties," said one of the girls. "I don't care what I do, so I always have a good time. Last time I came here I ripped my dress on a chair, and Gatsby asked me my name and address—a week later I received a box in the mail from Gatsby. There was a beautiful new dress in it. The dress must have cost more than two hundred dollars!"

"Did you keep the dress?" asked Jordan.

"Of course I did. I planned to wear it tonight, but it was too big in the top, and it had to be made smaller."

"There is something strange about Mr Gatsby," said the other girl. "He is worried about having trouble with anybody."

The two girls and Jordan whispered together for a while and I talked with the men.

"Somebody told me they thought he killed a man once."

Excitement flowed through all of us hearing this. Gatsby was certainly a mysterious person.

"I heard," said one of the men, "that he was a German spy during the war."

"Oh no," said the girl, "he fought in the American army."

Everyone whispered about Gatsby, but all of the stories were different and nobody had any facts.

Dinner was now being served, and Jordan and I went to join her group of friends. They were sitting around a table on the far side of the garden. They were all respectable people from East Egg and they did not want to join together with the rest of the guests.

We sat with them for half an hour and then Jordan whispered to me, "Let's go somewhere else. This conversation is too polite and boring."

We got up, and she told her friends that we were going to find the host, because I was his neighbor and had never met him.

We looked at the bar first. It was full of people, but Gatsby was not there. We looked in the garden, at the pool and in the dining room, but we could not find him. Then we walked upstairs and opened an important-looking door. Inside was a huge library.

A fat, middle-aged man wearing large, round glasses was sitting on a large table in the library. He was staring at the bookshelves. He looked very drunk. When we entered he turned around and looked at us with excitement.

"What do you think?" he asked.

"Think about what?" I asked.

He moved his hands towards the bookshelves.

"About all the books! I thought they were all fake books and that they were here so that people would think this was a full library—but they're real!" He pulled down a heavy, serious-looking book and opened it. "They have pages and words and everything. Look! Let me show you."

He then became more serious. "Who brought you to this party?" he asked us. "A woman I met last night brought me here. I was drunk last night and I'm drunk tonight. I think I've been drunk for about a week now. I thought if I sat in the library I would stop drinking."

"Do you feel any better?" Jordan asked.

"I don't know yet. I've only been in the library for about an hour. Did I tell you that the books are real! They're—

"You told us." Jordan said and we went back outside.

People were dancing now in the garden. The dancers moved around the dance floor slowly. A famous singer sang a song, and some actors acted a funny play, and wine was served in huge glasses—they were bigger than bowls. By midnight the fun was louder and wilder. All over the garden people were laughing and drinking. All the happiness seemed so empty.

About an hour later I was still with Jordan Baker. We sat at a table where a man who was about my age and a girl who laughed all the time were sitting. Now I didn't feel alone and was happy. I had drunk three glasses of wine, and the silly party suddenly seemed deep and important.

The man at the table looked at me and smiled.

"I think I have seen you before," he said politely. "Were you in the army during the war? I think we were in the same unit—were you in the First Division?"

"Why, yes I was." I was surprised.

The man and I talked for a while about some of the places we had been in the war. I learned that he lived in this neighborhood also, because he told me that he had just bought an airplane that could land in the water. He told me that he was going to try it in the morning.

"Do you want to fly with me tomorrow, young fellow?" he asked.

I wanted to go and accepted. I was about to ask his name when Jordan said to me, "Having a good time now?"

I smiled and turned to my new friend. "This party is strange for me. I don't even know the host. I haven't met him yet. I live over there—" I turned around and pointed my hand toward my house, "—and this man, Gatsby, sent over his servant with an invitation.

For a moment the man I was talking to looked at me as if he didn't understand. "I'm Gatsby," he said suddenly.

"What!" I cried. "Oh, I didn't—I'm so sorry."

"I thought you knew, young fellow. I'm sorry—I suppose I'm not a very good host."

He smiled at me. His smiles had a quality of comfort in it. It was a smile that you may only see four or five times in life. His smile seemed to say that the whole world was good and that you were also good. His smile understood you and it believed you.

His smile disappeared, and I looked at Mr Gatsby for the first time. He was a handsome young man, about thirty years old and dressed very well. He spoke very politely and it was a little funny to me; most men his age were not so polite. He spoke as if he was carefully choosing his words.

Before I could talk to Gatsby more a helper came over and told him that someone in Chicago was calling him on the telephone.

"Excuse me. I will come back later," he politely said.

After he left I turned to Jordan. I wanted to tell her of my surprise. I had expected Gatsby to be quite different. He was so young; I thought he would be older and fatter.

"Who is he?" I asked Jordan.

"I don't know. He's just a man named Gatsby."

"Where is he from? And what does he do?"

"Now you want to talk about him also. Everyone here talks about him, but nobody knows him." She said. "He told me once he had been to Oxford University, but I don't believe him."

"Why don't you?"

"I don't know. I just don't. He does not seem like an Oxford man."

There was truly something very strange about Gatsby's past life. He was so rich and he bought a huge house on Long Island Sound where they threw parties, certainly expensive ones, every few days? Most rich people had rich and famous families, but nobody knew anything about Gatsby's family.

The band began playing some loud music. I looked up and saw Gatsby. He was standing alone at the top of the stairs and looking out at all the people. His eyes looked happy.

I watched him for a long time, but I could not see anything strange about him. He seemed different only because he was not drinking wine like his guests were. As the guests became wilder, he became more calm and correct.

Gatsby's helper suddenly came up to us.

"Miss Baker?" he said. "Excuse me, but Mr Gatsby would like to speak to you alone." Jordan looked extremely surprised and followed the helper into the house.

An hour later I decided to go home. As I waited for the servants to get my hat, the door of the library opened and Jordan and Gatsby came out together. He was speaking excitedly to her.

Jordan came over to me and whispered, "I've just heard the strangest thing. How long were we in there?"

"About an hour." I said.

"It was very strange, but I promised I wouldn't tell anybody. Please come and see me soon." She then hurried off.

The party was over and the last of Gatsby's guests were standing all around him. I said goodnight to him and apologized for not finding him earlier in the evening.

"No apology needed," he said eagerly. "And don't forget to come over tomorrow at nine. We're going to fly in the sea-plane."

His helper came up behind him and said, "Philadelphia wants you on the phone, sir."

"I'll come in a minute ... Good night, young fellow ... Good night." He smiled, and I was glad that I was one of the last to leave; it seemed that Gatsby wanted it all the time.

Reading what I have written so far again, it seems that the three evenings I have described are all that were interesting to me. This is not true. When they happened these nights seemed very common. They were the same as many of the events in my busy summer. Later I realized just how important these events were.

I spent most of my time this summer working. My days were usually about the same. I went to work in early morning, and worked until the evening. I liked the other workers and always ate lunch with them and talked about work and life. After work I usually ate dinner and then I went to the library and studied for an hour or two. I learned a lot about money matters that summer. After that I would usually walk to the train station and get on the fast train back to West Egg.

I did not see Jordan Baker for about a month. In the middle of the summer I saw her again at the Buchanans' house. We began to see each other often. I liked to go places with her because she was a famous golf player and I felt important when I was with her. Many people knew her name and they began to know my name also. After a while I began to like her. I didn't love her, but I wanted to understand her. I knew that her cold, scolding face was just a mask. Under the mask she was hiding something—and one day I found what it was.

One day we went to a party together in the city. When we were there she left a car that she had borrowed from her friend out in the rain with the windows open. Because of her mistake the inside was destroyed, but I later heard her lie about it. When I heard her lie I remembered the story about her that I could not remember the night that I met her at Daisy's house. Many people had said that she cheated in her first big golf game; the news about her cheating was almost written in the newspapers. People thought that she had moved her ball from a bad place to a good place in order to win.

Yes, Jordan Baker was not an honest person. She hated to lose, in sports and in all of life, so she cheated and lied to get what she wanted. Her proud and cold face was hiding all these lies.

Later I realized that she did not like to talk with clever people. She felt safer talking with people who would not ask questions about her actions. She liked me perhaps because I did not care that she lied. Women have many reasons to lie in this world; their life was hard and unfair. I could not be angry about a woman lying—I felt sorry, and then I forgot.

While at the party we had a strange conversation about driving a car. She was driving too close to some workmen on the road and it made me feel nervous.

"You should drive more carefully," I told her.

"I am careful."

"No, you're not careful."

"Well, other people are and they will jump out of my way."

"What if those people are also careless? What will you do if you meet a careless person?"

"I hope I never will," she answered. "I hate careless people. That's why I like you."

She stared straight ahead with her gray eyes. I looked at her closely and for a moment I thought that I loved her.

I wanted to tell her, but my mind often stopped me from doing what I wanted to do. Before I could love her I had to end my relationship with my girlfriend in the Midwest. I had been writing letters to her once a week and I had to stop before moving to a different woman or else I would not feel honest. Being honest is very important to me.

(end of section)