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

We passed Port Roosevelt, where there was a glimpse of red-belted ocean-going ships, and sped along a cobbled slum lined with the dark, undeserted saloons of the faded-gilt nineteen-hundreds. Then the valley of ashes opened out on both sides of us, and I had a glimpse of Mrs. Wilson straining at the garage pump with panting vitality as we went by.

With fenders spread like wings we scattered light through half Astoria[60 - Astoria – a commercial, industrial and residential area on Long Island] – only half, for as we twisted among the pillars of the elevated I heard the familiar �jug-jug-spat!’ of a motorcycle, and a frantic policeman rode alongside.

�All right, old sport,’ called Gatsby. We slowed down. Taking a white card from his wallet, he waved it before the man’s eyes.

�Right you are,’ agreed the policeman, tipping his cap. �Know you next time, Mr. Gatsby. Excuse me!’

�What was that?’ I inquired. �The picture of Oxford?’

�I was able to do the commissioner a favour once, and he sends me a Christmas card every year.

Over the great bridge, with the sunlight through the girders making a constant flicker upon the moving cars, with the city rising up across the river in white heaps and sugar lumps all built with a wish out of nonolfactory money. The city seen from the Queensboro Bridge[61 - the Queensboro Bridge – the bridge over the East River in New York City] is always the city seen for the first time, in its first wild promise of all the mystery and the beauty in the world.

A dead man passed us in a hearse heaped with blooms, followed by two carriages with drawn blinds, and by more cheerful carriages for friends. The friends looked out at us with the tragic eyes and short upper lips of south-eastern Europe, and I was glad that the sight of Gatsby’s splendid car was included in their sombre holiday. As we crossed Blackwell’s Island[62 - Blackwell’s Island – the former name of Roosevelt Island on the East River between the boroughs of Manhattan and Queens in New York City] a limousine passed us, driven by a white chauffeur, in which sat three modish negroes, two bucks and a girl.

�Anything can happen now that we’ve slid over this bridge,’ I thought; �anything at all…’

Even Gatsby could happen, without any particular wonder.

* * *

Roaring noon.