Великий Гэтсби
Chapter 9
"Thepoorson-of-a-bitch,"hesaid.
OneofmymostvividmemoriesisofcomingbackWestfromprepschoolandlaterfromcollegeatChristmastime.ThosewhowentfartherthanChicagowouldgatherintheolddimUnionStationatsixo’clockofaDecemberevening,withafewChicagofriends,alreadycaughtupintotheirownholidaygayeties,tobidthemahastygood-by.IrememberthefurcoatsofthegirlsreturningfromMissThis-or-that’sandthechatteroffrozenbreathandthehandswavingoverheadaswecaughtsightofoldacquaintances,andthematchingsofinvitations:"AreyougoingtotheOrdways’?theHerseys’?theSchultzes’?"andthelonggreenticketsclaspedtightinourglovedhands.AndlastthemurkyyellowcarsoftheChicago,MilwaukeeandSt.PaulrailroadlookingcheerfulasChristmasitselfonthetracksbesidethegate.
Whenwepulledoutintothewinternightandtherealsnow,oursnow,begantostretchoutbesideusandtwinkleagainstthewindows,andthedimlightsofsmallWisconsinstationsmovedby,asharpwildbracecamesuddenlyintotheair.Wedrewindeepbreathsofitaswewalkedbackfromdinnerthroughthecoldvestibules,unutterablyawareofouridentitywiththiscountryforonestrangehour,beforewemeltedindistinguishablyintoitagain.
That’smyMiddleWest—notthewheatortheprairiesorthelostSwedetowns,butthethrillingreturningtrainsofmyyouth,andthestreetlampsandsleighbellsinthefrostydarkandtheshadowsofhollywreathsthrownbylightedwindowsonthesnow.Iampartofthat,alittlesolemnwiththefeelofthoselongwinters,alittlecomplacentfromgrowingupintheCarrawayhouseinacitywheredwellingsarestillcalledthroughdecadesbyafamily’sname.
