See the World Again
主CP：Gatsby X Nick
了不起的盖茨比语言：英语（dbq大概又有一堆语法错误）
总结：Nick在旧地重游时见到了他以为已经去世的Gatsby，浪漫的故事发生了，并且Nick慢慢了解到了Gatsby的一个秘密计划。（因为一些麻烦的事情刚才把原文贴在这儿了，有一些词因为莫名的原因连在一起（例如Daisyhave应该是Daisy have）我一时改不过来，还请见谅）
Chapter 1
So Tom and Daisy have gone, possibly hunting for another football match. Jordan is married, to acricket judge possibly, or a wealthy man capable of driving. Wilson didn’t moveaway, escape was not the way for him. He would know Gatsby There, and may evenshake hands with Gatsby’s Father, who must be delighted to see his son comehome so quickly. The world is not a lovely garden for His son after all.
I eloped with thefirst temptress in my life, whose sweet and bitter name almost killed my soul. M-e-m-o-r-y,her blade was on my neck until I finally reached the heaven that she depicts tome with her eyes reflecting the blue moonlight, with her rosy lips tearing upmy moaning soul, in my dreams as I lie down every day, in my endless daydreamsas long as my mind is alive.
My siren criesecstatically as she takes her tender fingers off my eyes to display her heavenin front of me, an actual lost voyager. A blue garden, paradise for sirens,their flame-like lips sipping the breath of invisible voyagers, hundreds, thousandsof them, with laughter delicate and chilly like crystals crying. Flowers madeof sapphire have drowned all the young and innocent grass and all those alivehere. The blue-eyed maidens in crystal gowns have been crowned as the Queens ofthe Blue Gardens by the King of the Mansion, Absolute Silence the Great.
Unsatisfied withhis choice of companions, I attempt to murder the King by turning on all thelights I can find in the mansion. The magnificent mansion is nothing but amaze, imprisoning the purest crystal made of a schoolboy’s tears. I sit down infront of the piano. A boy and a woman danced here, I know. Why was that boyobsessed with the same siren haunting me? I took his mistress after he fellasleep in the swimming pool. He would no longer think of the girl with goldenskin standing by my side, crying inside my mind. His father is with him now, heis home now, I am now the only one who is lost in the cold shining light on theemerald and somehow golden floor brighter than the warm sunset glowing throughthe windows.
The night falls asmy mistress is teaching me an old song, an old friend of this particular piano.I have told the keys everything they want to hear about their old or not so oldfriends , nothing true，of course.
Suddenly, Iabandon the dreaming piano and the singing lights, walking towards the lawn forno reason, for every reason. The green light is shining again, with the vitalityof Dracula and countenance of Venus. I see a lonely figure in the light, hestands still and stretches out his arms towards the light in the mansion. Mymistress’s blade is on my heart again as I walk to the dock dreamily, probablywith my face frozen with no expression, with all human expressions.
I walk to thefigure of a young roughneck, and touch his left shoulder to see if he is real. Anembrace and a rare smile again filled with eternal reassurance. I kept cryingin his arms, in my bed, in my dream，until his clothes are all wet in my tears. ‘What’s up, old sport ？’The figure moves even closer to my trembling body. Whycannot San Francisco just be in the Middle West？I fall down to the ground，starting crying again. Then his arms arearound my trembling body, and his lips wandering in my hair. I dare not move, noteven for half a second. At least now, here in my crazy dream, San Francisco ispart of the Middle West.
In the glowinggreen light, our lips finally become petals of a same burning rose with thecolor of desire, covered with tender green leaves , so calm and content，so much resemble the symbol of eternity.Eternal daydream.
By the morning Iam lying in velvet and silk, and the young roughneck lies beside me, I noticehis eyes glancing at my face instantly while he pretends to be sleeping. Drivenby the desire haunting me for two years, I slap him in the face, as my palmfalls on one side of his cheeks, I finally become a slave of this burningdesire .Another slap，another slap, more slaps, never satisfied. I know its madness, and I amgod knows where, god knows with whom. If he’s real, the ironic resemblancewould escort me to an asylum. If he’s not, I want to embrace and slap him tillthe dream vanishes.
‘Are you drunk, old sport?’ His fingersrunning through my hair, too tender even for this fragile dream of mine. So hewears a formal suit for parties and even meetings while sleeping. A perfectgentleman from Middle West has evoked confusion, admiration and compassion fromme, I could feel my body, my eyes, my heart, everything, tremble unceasinglyunder his breath.
‘Who are you?’My voice trembling, regrettingwhat I let go out of my lips.
He takes out abook. He is so gorgeous that no books in the world could match his wit, but he kissesit, and opens it with his fingers touching the pages tenderly in thisincredibly long and tangible dream of mine. I lie on his knees dreamily as hesits up and reads to me like if I am a child. ‘Gatsby believes in the greenlight, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded usthen, but that’s no matter—tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our armsfarther…. And one fine morning——’ So that’s a sign of welcome to my visit, afunny joke with the temperature of absolute zero. Tear up that book, tear upthis talented actor, tear up everything and let Absolute Silence rule thecastle again. But I did nothing except glancing at the clumsy actor in a wayall the actors want to be looked at. ‘You must understand how much help I get fromthe dictionaries in my library while struggling to read this.’ I am trapped inhis smile and another sudden embrace, again and again. ‘Who are you?’ I couldsense the gorgeous flame of anger burning inside me. ‘Do you think I am somemagician?’ A kiss imprisons every word that is about to get out of my lips.
‘All these years,I am here for you, Mr. Nick Caraway. ’ So it’s all real, even Gatsby cansurvive, in the foul dust floating on the ground of Long Island. I laugh withabsolute madness till the moment my heart is about to break. No, it’s broken,and no magician in the world could repair it. Why? Once a magician murmurs ‘Abracadabra’and changes something inside it, it is doomed to break at the moment thismiraculous magician, or the great sorcerer, dies. The combination of aheartless joke and a heartless audience forms another joke cooler than theworld.
‘We kissed in thegreen light, just as I planned.’ He pauses for a second or two, ‘old sport?’
‘So what else haveyou planned, Mr. Magician?’
‘Just you wait.’His eyes fall on my face, a moment of sadness over my obvious ironic smilestubbornly stays in the smiling sapphires for a few seconds, and the crystalsare obviously wounded by its ruthlessness. ‘Swe…….Old sport?’
Fragile,sensitive, warm, clumsy. It can’t be wrong. So he really survives. Anythingincredible could happen in this incredibly foul world.
‘Yes, of course,Mr. Thomas Jefferson. ’I stop myself from offering him another slap and burstinto tears like a child who has found the final scene a warm, clumsy and happyone in a sad, harsh story.
Chapter 2
Gatsby has gonesomewhere after I fell asleep in ecstasy sometime between nine or ten, in thebeaming sunlight and groaning silk with orgastic velvet. Now I am finally awakefrom the most ecstatic dream, stepping into the most ecstatic part of my life.Walking around the glamorous castle wearing an evening gown decorated with goldand silver, sapphire and ruby, emerald and crystal, rose and lavender, I try tosmile dreamily like a schoolboy does upon its inherited airs and graces, butthe vivid light in those glistening rooms breaks into small, various shapes infront of me like a princess’s mirror at the night after she turns into a queen.Innocence can be lost in less than a second, and could be buried inside anabandoned ship filled with other treasures, and guarded by the wings of memory,my forgotten mistress. Maybe I can never abandon her, and I will never be freefrom her murmuring.
He once desireswealth for glory and pride, then acquires wealth for a girl whose voice is fullof money, then he asks that girl, already a woman then, for his lost innocence.What does he want now? My advantages, claimed by my father, serve as an ironyin my attempt to understand him, his passion and struggle, his view about dreamand reality, his lies and confession. I really want to believe in whatever hehas said as I see his true self sitting, strolling, talking, drinking in frontof me, a boy who never grows up, a little sunflower of eternal youth andvitality, but the overwhelming voice of reality forces me to doubt upon all theoverwhelming things he claims.
The only thing Icould believe in is that Gatsby does not desire my company or assistance. Icannot even trace the shadow of my innocence that went away from me, into thescent of rose and lavender in those summer days, in Annabel Lee’s white robe.Nor can I build up a castle made of glorious illusion and treasures acquired bythe Viking like those in the fabulous tales. The only thing I could be ismerely one of the audiences listening to and appreciating the tales told by agifted poet. The tales will be full of extraordinary romance or adventure evenif there is no audience. Why am I wandering like a lonely bird in this cold,empty mansion with no birds singing? I see ghosts, hundreds of them, emergingfrom the mirrors, the books, the paintings, the tables, the flowers, thewardrobes, every corner of this gigantic castle. One after another, theycomment on my hilarious presence, laughing harshly with undisguised mockery,with their transparent body trembling in a way as hilarious as my presence inthis strange place, the palace of the major character in my published novelwhom I never understand.
The telephonerings. No answer. There should be nobody answering it. The owner of the househasn’t come back, and the only one breathing in this cold palace built for adiminished dream is a guest, coming uninvited and staying the whole night, thenwandering here the whole morning. However, the guest is supposed to answer itand bring the message to the host, at least out of politeness. So I hurry tothe crying baby and feed it with…well, pacifier, the only thing I could give.
‘Oh, my rose, howlong has it taken for you to pick up the phone? Tom claimed that you must haveleft Jay’s mansion to hang out with some girl, Jay……oh, Jordan was reallyannoyed by his suggestion. Can you imagine she’s still thinking about you afterall those years?’
‘I dare notbelieve that.’ A usual, polite, hollow answer to the usual boring question. Twoyears. Just two years. Every second in the twenty four months. Each momentduring the about seven hundred days. His shadow in the water of the pool, hisfigure watching the guests leaving, his countenance in the sunlight whiledriving, his voice breaking out against my denial of his dream , his complaintabout the marriage of a couple of the same category, his fake but lovely smile shiningin my eyes on the first day we met. Everything about him imprisons me likeghosts with smile colder than the swimming pool in autumn for two years. Now Iam still a prisoner, although have changed from a prisoner of his illusion toHis prisoner.
‘Would you come tothe afternoon tea tomorrow? Don’t take Tom.’ It is really Daisy’s voice then,and this observation confuses me to the extent that I want to leave the cryingbaby alone and go back to the warm and familiar embrace of the hotel Icurrently live in. ‘Who is Tom?’ I tried to smile even without this young ladyin front of me. I hate her, I admit, and that’s why I am training myself tosmile at her in case we have to meet again. But what is this trick all about?Isn’t Daisy supposed to leave? Isn’t Gatsby supposed to……...No, everythingwould be fine as long as he survives. Now, if Daisy is around here and Gatsbyis alive, then……
‘None of mybusiness!’ I shout to myself after feeling my soul tore up into blades and thenattacking my heart physically. The physical pain in my breast forces this cryout from me, and forces the crying baby out of my trembling hand. ‘What’s up?’ ‘Hemisunderstood, I suppose.’ ‘Should we explain, Jay? At least tell himsomething. ’ Broken pieces of voices from the telephone come to my broken earslike pieces of a forgotten dream, and I decide to lie on the floor and pretendthat everything is a dream. Ridiculous, of course, but I will soon be awakefrom this ridiculous fantasy and get some breakfast in the hotel. No, I couldsense that I don’t want to leave this scene of a crazy drama, I don’t want tostay either. Let there be another dream, I murmur to my mind as I stopthinking.
‘Old sport, whathappened?’ Someone carried me upstairs to somewhere. Gatsby. Upon the silk andvelvet again. He stays with me this time, sharing with me the incredible warmthof his healthy, strong body. I couldn’t help imagining the way he fights at waras his arms around my waist, my cold back against his warm breast, the marks ofyouth, passion and glory were left on his body forever, all I could think aboutat this moment is how that lad laughs with pride so pure and cherish.
‘Please tell me,what happened?’ He looks like a homeless man about to lose his shelter againafter he had it, helpless and hopeless, reminding me of the grass about to seeits beloved flower be bit by a sheep. Beloved? I am completely mad at last.
I shut down myeyelids and lock myself in an ivory tower whose name I haven’t acquired,throwing the key into a swimming pool somewhere.
Chapter 3
Cards on thetable. I do not deserve being one piece of decoration to this beaming, charmingand overwhelming castle built in the honor of the son of the God who inheritsall the glorious beauty of mankind. It will be more suitable if I could just goback to the normal hotel and continue my normal life as a normal peasant,taking everything about here as a ridiculous and normal dream, the dream allthe normal and mediocre would cling to as they snore in their old beds andannoy their old or new neighbors.
‘I will go back toMinnesota tonight. I have been there for these two years, and it is morecomfortable than my mansion here next door. ’ I cannot say much, I am forced tothrow away my toy gun as the eyes of a young and sentimental boy staring at me,a cruel, selfish and hollow adult. As adults try to make up some sweet lies ortricks, children would just stay silent when there is nothing in their warmlittle hearts they want to express to you. Oh, yes, old sport. That’s quite along way. Enjoy your journey. Don’t hesitate if you want to come to see me. Icannot figure out which hurts more because the trace of hurt on his silent face,from his silent lips, in his silent eyes, is sucking blood from me like Draculaand all his army of vampires, or may be more like Lamia taking my life awaywith her long, cold kiss turning warmer second by second with greed and joy.
A couple of hoursafter I announce my unimportant departure, about ten minutes after we havetasted some silent cuisine and some quiet wine, a minute or two after the quietnight with her motionless raven tress and warm dark gown reigns again, I standup and say Goodbye without my eyes falling on his face like how he avoided myeyes while telling me those fabulous tales about his past as a gloriousdescendant of a family from San Francisco, Middle West. Middle West? I see. SanFrancisco? I see. Arrange the afternoon tea? I see. Trim the grass? I see.Leave you there? I see. Go back to the past as a wealthy gentleman? I see. Staywith you during midnight and listen to the original version of your story? Isee. Go swimming at noon? I see. I am never truly within the story, but anarrator of this golden, green, scarlet and silvery white story. I could neverjoin the plot. I am a wise, immortal librarian telling readers from all timeperiods the story of a stupid, mortal man. My advantages, my education, myexperiences, have thrown me into a dungeon with one single lantern shining likethe hair clips of a mediocre prostitute made of rhinestone, away from the truesunlight singing above me and my prison built with my own obsession.
Before finishingthis hilarious poem in my mind, Gatsby knocks me down on the cold floor. He isright. I should just calm down and leave, and this knock helps me, possibly.Then, I am caught in the tears of the goddesses, the fairies and the deadmaidens with my head swimming. A rain of rum, whiskey, vintage, champagne, andall the shiny or dull liquid Gatsby suddenly spreads out of the crystalbottles. A bath? My swimming head does not agree with this reasonablehypothesis. He drinks a quarter of a bottle of wine and invites my tremblingand actually thrilled body to share the rest with him. I sit up and raise myempty eyes to meet the curious ecstasy in his lively eyes, with my hair wetlike the silk and velvet under a lively couple when they are enjoying theirhoneymoon.
Given the order ofpleasing him with all my talent, vulgarly decorated lies and tricks, I amcarried by an artist under pressure as a mediocre actress wearing dramatic andfragile dress to a cold bed in need of warmth.
Chapter 4
I don’t know whereI am. White quilt of fairies, white robes of angels, white roses of winter,white frost of a wedding cake, white tears of parted lovers, white dreams of alovesick young poet. A prison built with albinotic sunflowers for my albinoticmind, which refuses the dazzling smile of the burning sun. Yet I fall asleep onthis warm, white bed with my mind shiftless, starting to dream of a white boy,but with the scenery of scarlet sunrise in his mind, then come tender, blueclouds. The clouds become pink after five years, and this boy has got a greysuit. He seeks that warm, white little heart, weaving the remaining white smileand the seemingly white color of the clouds into a white, cold, burning key,which he believes to be the key to the autumn night, to the white sidewalks, tothe white face, to the white breath, to the white kiss, to the white words.
‘No, I think he’snot gonna come for tea. It’s almost four. ’
‘He has been herefor almost ten minutes, Jay.’ Daisy Buchanan’s sweet voice flowing like a riverof white chocolate seems to be mixed with vanilla ice cream.
Some whitewhispers I cannot hear. The tricks of a fairy.
The silver castlebegins to fall apart, with the scarlet blood of all those loyal, handsomesoldiers released by the golden blades from an evil prince spilling onto thesnowy skin of a virgin princess and her unstained robe. After the castle isfully crushed, the princess kissed by the prince cries ecstatically in thesweet cream, spilling champagne, rose petals and gold foil, sitting upon aruined wedding cake.
Perfect plot. ButI am not a princess, and should not be one buried in a huge cake.
‘Hey, it’s angel’sfood cake and there’s no cream.’ Tom Buchanan opens another bottle of champagneand helps me clean my white suit. I can’t even recognize him without that senseof coldness on his face, but he is laughing like a child, the way he was backin Yale. Daisy Buchanan stands beside him, with the sweet smile of a bride. Helooks back at her, and they kiss in a way all lovers aspire.
Anxiously, I lookup at Gatsby as he ridiculously gets down on his knees in front of me. I thinkof giving him a hug as a little and actually useless mean of comfort, butbefore that, he puts his arms around my waist and pulls me into a breathtakingkiss. I am pushed into his burningbreath by his heated lips, and his tongue tastes me in such an elegant way likeif I am a cup of exotic tea tasted by an upper class gentleman, slowly, littleby little, he is going to spend a whole afternoon enjoying this exquisite taste.Gatsby, the fake gentleman, is going to spend the afternoon, and likely, thefollowing evening to slowly drink up everything, including all the scent, in mymouth.
‘Oh, come on, youdon’t even give him much in return.’ Observed by Daisy.
‘He’s not gonna besatisfied with your gentle obedience.’ Followed by Tom.
But I have almostlost my breath, and I keep drowning in his increasingly burning breath.
Chapter 5
Gatsby tried tohide that book, my complete confession, with some newspapers as he notices Ihave just awaken from a painful and strange dream. I could guess that he hasbeen sitting on that ivory chair next to the bed the whole night, which couldbe supported by one glance of the beautiful bookmarks and those gorgeoushighlighting in the book. Maybe the color used by him to highlight every singleword like a fascinated child is from the blossoms in his blue gardens, or thesilk in his wardrobes, or the crystals decorated on his lamps. Something in hiseyes stops me from these silly thoughts, something as if he is considering howto convey a millionaire to join some business. He must consider what this ‘oldsport’ desires, how he could convince him that he could get what he wants inthis trade, how much this wealthy man trusts him and how much profit he couldpossibly get from this deal. I could see his eyes wandering, avoiding mine,and, more importantly, his lips keep trembling. I know I must break the silenceto save him from tension and embarrassment. But why? What have I done? Could itbe because what I said or even yelled as I was in that horrible dream? Possibly,and that may be why he is studying my words to try to understand those wordsbroke out from my dreaming self yesterday.
‘I had a reallystrange dream, and that’s why I probably said something strange in my dream,which may not even be understood by myself. ’ I dare not think about thosecrazy stuff in that dream, and I’ve got to do anything to prevent him fromknowing that ridiculous kiss. But my mind keeps questioning, why afternoon tea,why the presence of Tom and Daisy, why the intimacy between them, why Gatsbykissed me. Once my mind reminds me something about the revelation ofunconscious desire by dreams, I really dare not think further, hoping Gatsbycould somehow drag me out of this stupid struggle.
‘What kind ofdream?’ He seems relieved, and his lips unconsciously, or consciously, stoptrembling. For the sake of stopping him from being worried about me or tryingto figure out what I went through in my dream, it would be better to answerhim. To make up a piece of convincing lie, you’ve got to mix something true andgenuine in it.
‘I was buried in ahuge cake.’ I give him my brightest smile to clear the snow on his cheeks andlips. How long has he been hiding himself behind those worthless fortune which heldso much in his eyes of shiny stones placed in the eyes of the Greek statues, behindthat stiff image so priceless to his heart of crystals inside of those young,beautiful statues? How long has he forgotten the laughter of girls and boys onthe farm, the laughter of wheat and apples, the laughter of birds, all withoutpretension and the need to pretend? How long has he been such a lonely teenagerbearing all the consequences of all those breathtaking and turbulent emotion?
‘Who did this toyou?’ He has given up on remaining serious after his creeping and hidinglaughter was caught by me more than once. His eyes have caught that magicalsunshine again as my laugher mingling with his.
‘Mr. Jay Gatsby.’I tried to look less playful.
‘Then,’ His voicebecomes serious again, although with that burning smile hanging on his face, Icould hear my heart dancing as I notice this, ‘How do you think of that dream?I mean, are you, umm, are you afraid of something in that dream, or, umm, canyou accept everything in this dream if it’s, umm, if it’s not a dream, I mean,yeah, I mean what if it’s not a, umm, dream. Forget about what I said, I amkidding, yeah, just kidding. Sorry, I know this sounds a bit, umm, a bitstrange.’ His gesture seems as stiff as it did when he gave me his past inrubies and medals.
I have no ideawhat he is talking about, only knowing he is definitely hiding something. It’sbetter to give an honest answer as I couldn’t deceive an innocent child even ifthat child is obviously lying. Ashamed, I am ashamed to dream about the coldblood murders of the greatest soul, ashamed to rewind, and mostly, ashamed todream about that unreasonable romance.
‘It’s quiteridiculous, so unbelievably silly that I am a little ashamed, I mean, I wasburied in that cake.’ I should not lead him into more doubts and worries.
‘So you mean theother parts are okay?’ His reaction seems so unnatural, to the extent that Idoubt that he entered my dream and had designed it before I fell asleep.
‘Yeah, it’s justtoo funny. I do regard it as something terribly delightful.’ I cannot say ‘terrible’,I’ve got to hide all the clues from an experienced, sensitive, intelligentbusinessman.
‘Funny? Do youwant to say you can’t take it as reality?’ His eyes are staring at me, tearingup the temporary shelter I built for the possible clues.
‘It’s fine for me,but you won’t want it to be true.’ I slap on his back to break the weirdtension.
‘You know what? I’msure I can. Tell me all about it.’ His eyes, cheeks and lips are all grinning,as if the deal could be made in a second and the profit he could get outweighseverything he decided to put into this deal.
I have forgottenwords. I don’t want to lie to someone so precious, and don’t want to scare himas well.
‘Just tell me, allright?’ He breaks the silence as he notices I am not trying to say anything.
‘I’m hungry, Jay,shall we have some breakfast?’ I almost start running away.
‘Would you justTELL me PLEASE?’ He is shouting, and he puts his hands on my tremblingshoulders. ‘Tell me, old sport.’ His voice suddenly becomes extremely soft,which indeed scares my escaping heart.
‘No, Jay, I can’t.Please stop this.’ I feel even more ashamed, never so ashamed in my life afterI realize that I’ve made that little girl’s or young maiden’s silly request.
‘Then, I tell you,I CAN.’ His lips have captured mine, like a helpless boat on the sea caught bya violent storm. That boat may cry or seek for help as much as it could, butthe cries of a young maiden will be drowned in the claim of the strong stormupon its power, and the flags would become invisible in the deep blue as soonas the variation in the category of colors on the sea is noted by theincredible eyes of the storm. Eventually, that boat would drown in that deep,blue, warm bed, so do my mind in the tenderness and violence of his lips, histongue and even his teeth.
Chapter 6
Jordan Baker comesto the party of the ghosts tonight, and unfortunately, she notices a shadowsitting on the edge of the swimming pool. That shadow is about to use the poolas she shows it her face as charming as scarlet autumn leaves, ‘Hi, Nick. ’
‘Hi, Jordan.’ Honestly,I don’t feel like saying anything, the same as the time we parted months ago.But I am still wondering, what could be the reason for her visit? Her husbandis curious about this mysterious place so request her to come and take somephotos? Some journalists need old news? She is bored with her cool autumn andwants to taste some summer fruit?
Jordan, the goldenmaid of the golden girl, smiles at me with the sound of gold, ‘How are youdoing recently, my rose? How did the wind take your lovely petals to thestunning garden of your neighbor’s?’ Half offended, half in love, I am disappointedand thrilled by the way she teases me, although I know she can’t mean it, shecan’t know the strange traps designed by the ghosts here who stare at me allthe time. But she does provide me the key to the gate of the cold and burningtower, the key to escape the fatal work of the gorgeous fireworks.
The hope to escapehas become the motivation for me to talk to her like old friends who have knowneach other for a few years. I am so engaged that I have no idea where theconversation is going. Jordan’s lips suddenly touches my left ear, which makesmy body unconsciously tremble for a second.
‘I had a dreamweeks after I met him, and in this dream he kisses me. A week after, we shareda lovely kiss.’ She sounds like if she is talking to a teenage girl who is herclose friend in a little conversation about crush.
‘So I suppose, asI didn’t resist the kiss in my dream, my mind have accepted him already. Oneweek later, my body accepted him as well.’
‘Interesting.’ Itry to smile.
‘Do you havesimilar experience?’ Her face and her increasingly tender voice is even closer.Now I see, I see.
‘I’m afraid that I’vegot to do my work right now. You may come in and have some tea.’ I haveforgotten to hide my anger. Interestingly, my anger resembles that of a childwho is accused of stealing some sweets from his friends. This kind of feelingis childish and my words even sound like I’m embarrassed rather than actuallyoffended. The only thing I could say for sure is that I feel angry about thissort of deception.
As an undoubtedlyintelligent lady as she always is, Jordan leaves as soon as I invite her tohave some tea. Then, the even more intelligent businessman comes directly tothe pool without the effort of pretending to look for me. I blush like alovesick teenager as I talk to him, ‘I think I am gonna repeat your mistake,old sport. I cannot imagine Jordan came here to visit me, and she was even morecharming than before. She left just a few seconds ago, what a pity! Otherwiseyou could have had a good look at her pretty face. Why this girl is married?But despite her marriage, she can still read my mind! And she had almost thesame dream as I did last night! I am certainly sure this is what soul mates arelike. ’
I am indeedsatisfied as I see the obvious movement of his eyes, his brows and even hislips. ‘No, she doesn’t read your dream, old sport, no……..’ His words are likebirds in front of a gun, so terrified, so interesting. Now I think I am enragedindeed.
‘So why does sheknow?’ Still the lovesick expression on my cold face.
‘You know what? Iknew your dream, and I told her about it.’ His face is pale like if he is a criminal waiting for the final judgment.
‘Not a dream,right?’I look into his eyes, holding the answer to my question in my eyes.
‘You’ve got it.’Said the shrewd businessman.
‘Its name is notwhat, but why.’ I am even terrified by the coldness of my voice.
No answer. Is hedrowned in the pool again? As soon as this cruel phrase comes into my mind, Ibegin trembling at my cruelty towards someone so dear to me, so dear to theworld. A child may play harmless tricks on you, but he still has the heart ofgold, and actually warmer than gold.
‘Sorry, forgetwhat I said, would you? Then let’s have some tea, or go to the Coney Island, oruse the pool, anything you want.’ I try my best to give him a warm, big smilewith the color of miles of sunflowers.
‘But I just wantto know if you can take me as……ah, I mean, if you would accept me as, I mean,yeah, as your…….I know it sounds strange, but would you accept me as your loverif I…..ah, I love you.’ Now he looks like the lovesick one.
‘So you and Jordancarry out that brilliant experiment on me to see if I can accept you with bothmy mind and my body? ’ My words still come out quite sharp, and I really hopethat he is not hurt by their hidden blades.
‘Yes, so….do you?Sorry, I know you’re gonna hate me now.’ A desperate child, I can’t helpembracing him.
But…Love? What’slove? Venus’s countenance? Sweet poems? Heated letters? A little dog? A littledaughter? Green light? For me, it’s none of them, it’s not love. No, it’s not.It has all the beautiful scenery of all the regions on this planet, it has theglamorous shadows of the beauties from all the time period, it has words frompassionate poets in all kinds of context, it cannot be depicted by the foursimple letters. Everything I described above fail to present even one glance ofmy feelings. For the burning charm of it, I’ve accepted my failure to depictits smile.
‘More than love. I’veproved that in my dream and after.’
‘So I was right.’He finally laughs and drags me down into the swimming pool.
‘Since when didyou start your study in speculation, or possibly psychology?’ I know I am notgonna resist.
In the stillwater, our lips lean against each other like a pair of lovers who have justprepared for their honeymoon. So tender like heaven, so quiet likeeternality.
Chapter 7
A mysterious lady cameto our party one year after. In that ghostly library, she told us an incrediblefairy tale.
‘So, are you surethat itz gonna worg?’ That incredibly energetic man and his warm smile.
‘Without a doubt.100 dollars, please.’ My usual confident response.
’Oh my lovelylady, 90 dollars, okay?’ How clever, this Mr. Wolfsheim, who formerly claimedthat he’ll pay anything to bring his closest friend back. Just for the sake ofmy young and inexperienced curiosity, I tried to talk to him about his friend afterhe came to ask, actually, beg for his friend’s already cold life. His friend,Jay Gatsby, helps him a great deal in business, Wolfsheim became so reliant onhis pupil that he cannot win the same amount of benefit without him. That’s howthe crazy idea emerges.
‘Come on, what doyou think you are paying for? You want it to bring a man back to life, remember?I’ve told you the ingredients are extremely rare. Besides, this man was deadthree years ago, which has gone beyond the ability of normal portions I makefor this very purpose. That’s why I’ve got to risk my life to search for newingredients. More importantly, I understand your concern for the future of yourcareer.’ I knew my terrible accent and grammar as a foreigner, the same way asI knew how my client would become a totally obedient wife in this dangerous anddark trade with a bond resembles marriage.
He was my first client in America, and also the one I’ve got the greatest amount of information about. I knew my eyes, so I knew the name and address of his friend. I knew mylips, so I knew his true intention. I knew my skin, so I knew his career as abusinessman. And actually, all my knowledge came from my desire for his andeven his friend’s alcohol. Receiving dollars with unknown faces on them eachday, I worked on our sacred ancient secret beaming in another world that hasbeen abandoned by the most of my generation, even a great number of my kind.Changing my life to dollars, I had lost that distant world and the mystery andbeauty about those secrets. I replace my lost fortune with illusion.Breathtaking and heartbreaking illusion that need extra amount of alcohol,overly-sweet dessert, wild parties, dumb discussion, tough sex, a whole day’ssleep to weave.
The only thing Ikept as a souvenir of my childhood was a little, wicked girl’s deception. And Iused this against unfaithful client, such as Wolfsheim who gave me fake money.
He came back forme months after, with an exquisite knife. I made him use that pretty tool toruin my old, dirty dress, and generously gave him the portion he wanted, butthe turbid red liquid went into the mouth of an alive, healthy man. Counteract,I knew.
For some reason, Iwas some sort of drawn to the mystery around his unlucky friend. Someonegraduated from Oxford would be interested in illegal trade? Someone pennilesscould eventually accumulate such incredible amount of wealth through hisintelligence, passion and plot? A shrewd businessman working in a black marketcould get a shot and just die? I dreamt of him once, and in my dream, he was sodistinct from Wolfsheim who I suppose he must resemble. He had got the heart ofour ancient treasure, treasure buried deep down the Earth in another part ofthe broken world, in another world. We talked about things, things I couldn’tremember, somewhere in the ancient time of my lost realm, somewhere I didn’teven really know about except in my dreams.
I was sure that hewas alive because he must be alive to keep my realm alive.
That’s when I begin to hunt for him.
