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El Gran Gatsby
Capítulo 9, Página 24
One
of
my
clearest
memories
is
returning
West
from
prep
school
and
later
from
college
at
Christmas.
Those
traveling
beyond
Chicago
would
gather
in
the
old,
dim
Union
Station
at
six
in
the
evening,
with
a
few
Chicago
friends
already
caught
up
in
their
holiday
excitement,
to
say
a
quick
goodbye.
I
remember
the
fur
coats
of
the
girls
returning
from
their
schools,
the
frozen
breath
conversations,
and
the
hands
waving
as
we
spotted
old
friends,
matching
invitations:
“Are
you
going
to
the
Ordways’?
The
Herseys’?
The
Schultzes’?”
and
the
long
green
tickets
held
tightly
in
our
gloved
hands.
Finally,
the
murky
yellow
cars
of
the
Chicago,
Milwaukee,
and
St.
Paul
railroad
seemed
as
cheerful
as
Christmas
itself
on
the
tracks
by
the
gate.
As
we
left
into
the
winter
night
and
the
real
snow,
our
snow,
stretched
out
beside
us
and
twinkled
against
the
windows,
and
the
dim
lights
of
small
Wisconsin
stations
passed
by,
a
sharp,
wild
chill
filled
the
air.
We
breathed
it
in
deeply
as
we
walked
back
from
dinner
through
the
cold
vestibules,
acutely
aware
of
our
connection
to
this
country
for
one
strange
hour
before
we
melted
back
into
it.
That’s
my
Middle
West—not
the
wheat
or
prairies
or
the
lost
Swede
towns,
but
the
exciting
trains
of
my
youth,
the
street
lamps
and
sleigh
bells
in
the
frosty
dark,
and
the
shadows
of
holly
wreaths
cast
by
lit
windows
on
the
snow.
I
am
part
of
that,
a
bit
solemn
from
those
long
winters,
a
bit
complacent
from
growing
up
in
the
Carraway
house
in
a
city
where
homes
are
still
called
by
a
family’s
name
for
decades.
I
see
now
that
this
has
been
a
story
of
the
West,
after
all—Tom
and
Gatsby,
Daisy
and
Jordan,
and
I,
were
all
Westerners,
and
perhaps
we
shared
some
flaw
that
made
us
subtly
unsuited
to
Eastern
life.
Even
when
the
East
thrilled
me
the
most,
even
when
I
was
most
aware
of
its
superiority
to
the
dull,
sprawling
towns
beyond
the
Ohio,
with
their
endless
inquisitions
sparing
only
children
and
the
very
old—even
then
it
always
had
a
distorted
quality
for
me.
West
Egg,
especially,
appears
in
my
more
fantastic
dreams.
I
picture
it
as
a
night
scene
by
El
Greco:
a
hundred
houses,
both
conventional
and
grotesque,
crouching
under
a
gloomy,
overhanging
sky
and
a
dull
moon.
In
the
foreground,
four
serious
men
in
suits
walk
along
the
sidewalk
with
a
stretcher
carrying
a
drunken
woman
in
a
white
evening
dress.
Her
hand,
hanging
over
the
side,
sparkles
with
cold
jewels.
The
men
turn
into
a
house—the
wrong
house.
But
no
one
knows
her
name,
and
no
one
cares.
After
Gatsby’s
death,
the
East
felt
haunted
for
me,
distorted
beyond
my
eyes’
ability
to
correct
it.
So
when
the
blue
smoke
of
brittle
leaves
filled
the
air
and
the
wind
blew
the
damp
laundry
stiff
on
the
line,
I
decided
to
return
home.
There
was
one
thing
to
do
before
I
left,
an
awkward,
unpleasant
task
that
perhaps
should
have
been
left
alone.
But
I
wanted
to
leave
things
in
order
and
not
rely
on
the
indifferent
sea
to
wash
my
problems
away.
I
saw
Jordan
Baker
and
talked
about
what
had
happened
to
us
and
what
had
happened
to
me
afterward,
and
she
lay
perfectly
still,
listening,
in
a
big
chair.
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El Gran Gatsby — B2 Inglés | Cuentana