Nick Carraway, a Midwesterner bondsman, rents a cottage in West Egg next to the mysterious millionaire Jay Gatsby. Drawn into the world of his cousin Daisy and her brutish husband Tom, Nick becomes the confidant for Gatsby's singular, five-year obsession: to win back Daisy and recreate a perfect past, a dream that ultimately collides with reality and ends in violence.
His attempt to locate his host met only bewilderment. Guests reacted with shock when he asked for Gatsby’s whereabouts, as though he had inquired after a phantom. Unnerved, Nick retreated toward the cocktail table—the only spot where a lone man might linger without appearing pathetic. He was contemplating getting drunk from sheer discomfort when Jordan Baker appeared on the marble steps, surveying the crowd with detached amusement. Grateful for a familiar face, Nick attached himself to her.
They joined two women in matching yellow dresses and a trio of men whose names registered only as mumbles. One of the women, Lucille, recounted how Gatsby had replaced a dress she tore at a previous party, sending a replacement worth hundreds of dollars without being asked. The conversation shifted to speculation about their host’s origins. Someone whispered that Gatsby had killed a man. Another guest insisted he had spied for Germany during the war. The rumors circulated with delicious menace, underscoring how completely the man remained a cipher to his own guests.
Jordan grew restless with the polite East Egg contingent and suggested they find the host. They wandered into a high-ceilinged library lined with carved English oak, where a stout, bespectacled man sat drinking on the edge of a table, examining the shelves with drunken intensity. He demanded their opinion of the books, then answered his own question: the volumes were genuine. He had expected hollow props, but every book contained real pages. He showed them a volume as proof, marveling at the thoroughness of the illusion—Gatsby had even left the pages uncut, as though the books had never been read. The man found this triumph of authenticity both impressive and absurd.
By midnight, Nick had consumed enough champagne to feel the party’s elemental pull. He sat with Jordan and a stranger roughly his own age, a man who recognized him from their shared time in the army. They exchanged memories of damp French villages. The stranger mentioned he had purchased a hydroplane and invited Nick to test it the following morning. Then, with casual suddenness, he introduced himself: he was Gatsby.
Nick stared. He had imagined someone older, fleshier, more conventional. Instead, he found a trim, tanned figure just past thirty, whose careful speech bordered on theatrical. What struck him most was Gatsby’s smile—a concentrated expression that seemed to comprehend and approve of him completely, as though Nick had been assessed and found worthy. The moment passed, and a butler appeared to announce a telephone call from Chicago. Gatsby excused himself with formal courtesy.
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