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About six weeks ago, Jordan said, Daisy had heard the name Gatsby for the first time in years, and had come into Jordan’s room with that strange voice, asking, “What Gatsby?” It was only then that Jordan had understood the man in West Egg was the same officer in Daisy’s white car.
They had left the Plaza now, and were driving in a victoria through Central Park, the clear voices of children rising through the twilight.
“It was a strange coincidence,” said Nick.
“But it wasn’t a coincidence at all,” said Jordan. “Gatsby bought that house so that Daisy would be just across the bay.”
The modesty of the demand that followed shook Nick. Gatsby, who had waited five years and bought a mansion where he dispensed starlight to casual moths, only wanted to come over one afternoon to a stranger’s garden.
“He wants to know,” said Jordan, “if you’ll invite Daisy to your house for tea, and then let him come over.”
It was a small thing, and an enormous thing, and Nick found he could not refuse.
VI
An ambitious young New York reporter knocked on Gatsby’s door one morning, asking for a statement about the half-formed rumors of the millionaire floating around his office, his day off driving him to seek out the subject he couldn’t quite name or explain. For months, Gatsby’s notoriety had grown just short of newsworthiness, fueled by the hundreds who’d accepted his lavish hospitality and spun tall tales of his past: an underground pipeline to Canada, a houseboat secretly shuttled up and down the Long Island shore. James Gatz, the 17-year-old North Dakota farm boy who’d loathed his shiftless, unsuccessful parents and crafted a Platonic ideal of himself as Jay Gatsby, a “son of God” tasked with serving vast, vulgar beauty, found these fictions a quiet satisfaction.
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