Читать книгу Великий Гэтсби / The Great Gatsby онлайн на КулЛиб

“We're getting off!” he insisted. “I want you to meet my girl.”

He definitely decided to have my company. He thought that on Sunday afternoon I had nothing better to do. I followed him over a low white-washed railroad fence. I saw a garage – Repairs. GEORGE B. WILSON. Cars Bought and Sold – and I followed Tom inside.

The interior was bare; the only automobile visible was the dust-covered Ford which stood in a dim corner. The proprietor himself appeared in the door of an office, wiping his hands on a piece of waste. He was a blonde, spiritless, faintly handsome man.

“Hello, Wilson, old man,” said Tom, slapping him on the shoulder. “How's business?”

“I can't complain,” answered Wilson. “When are you going to sell me that automobile?”

“Next week. My man is working on it now.”

“He is working pretty slow, right?”

“No, he isn't,” said Tom coldly. “And if you think so, maybe I'd better sell it somewhere else after all.”

“I don't mean that,” explained Wilson quickly. “I just meant…”

Tom glanced impatiently around the garage. Then I heard footsteps on a stairs and saw a woman. She was in the middle thirties, and faintly stout, but she carried her surplus flesh sensuously as some women can. She smiled slowly and walking through her husband as if he were a ghost shook hands with Tom. Then she spoke to her husband in a soft, coarse voice:

“Get some chairs, why don't you, so somebody can sit down.”

“Oh, sure,” agreed Wilson hurriedly and went toward the little office.

“I want to see you,” said Tom intently. “Get on the next train.”