«Великий Гэтсби» и другие лучшие произведения Ф.С. Фицджеральда

It was a few days before the Fourth of July[31 - the Fourth of July – Independence Day, the United States national holiday], and a grey, scrawny Italian child was setting torpedoes in a row along the railroad track.

�Terrible place, isn’t it,’ said Tom, exchanging a frown with Doctor Eckleburg.

�Awful.’

�It does her good to get away.’

�Doesn’t her husband object?’

�Wilson? He thinks she goes to see her sister in New York. He’s so dumb he doesn’t know he’s alive.’

So Tom Buchanan and his girl and I went up together to New York – or not quite together, for Mrs.

Wilson sat discreetly in another car. Tom deferred that much to the sensibilities of those East Eggers who might be on the train.

She had changed her dress to a brown figured muslin[32 - muslin – cotton fabric, first made in the city of Mosul in what is now Iraq], which stretched tight over her rather wide hips as Tom helped her to the platform in New York. At the news-stand she bought a copy of Town Tattle[33 - Town Tattle – the name of a newspaper] and a moving-picture magazine, and in tile station drug-store some cold cream and a small flask of perfume.

Upstairs, in the solemn echoing drive she let four taxicabs drive away before she selected a new one, lavender-coloured with grey upholstery, and in this we slid out from the mass of 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 said earnestly. �I want to get one for the apartment. They’re nice to have – a dog.’

We backed up to a grey old man who bore an absurd resemblance to John D. Rockefeller[34 - John D. Rockefeller (1839—1937) – a prominent American industrialist and philanthropist]. In a basket swung from his neck cowered a dozen very recent 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 got that kind?’

The man peered doubtfully into the basket, plunged in his hand and drew one up, wriggling, by the back of the neck.

�That’s no 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.