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50
El Gran Gatsby
Capítulo 3, Página 1
There
was
music
from
my
neighbour’s
house
through
the
summer
nights.
In
his
blue
gardens
men
and
girls
came
and
went
like
moths
among
the
whisperings
and
the
champagne
and
the
stars.
At
high
tide
in
the
afternoon
I
watched
his
guests
diving
from
the
tower
of
his
raft,
or
taking
the
sun
on
the
hot
sand
of
his
beach
while
his
two
motorboats
slit
the
waters
of
the
Sound,
drawing
aquaplanes
over
cataracts
of
foam.
On
weekends
his
Rolls-Royce
became
an
omnibus,
bearing
parties
to
and
from
the
city
between
nine
in
the
morning
and
long
past
midnight,
while
his
station
wagon
scampered
like
a
brisk
yellow
bug
to
meet
all
trains.
And
on
Mondays
eight
servants,
including
an
extra
gardener,
toiled
all
day
with
mops
and
scrubbing-brushes
and
hammers
and
garden-shears,
repairing
the
ravages
of
the
night
before.
Every
Friday
five
crates
of
oranges
and
lemons
arrived
from
a
fruiterer
in
New
York—every
Monday
these
same
oranges
and
lemons
left
his
back
door
in
a
pyramid
of
pulpless
halves.
There
was
a
machine
in
the
kitchen
which
could
extract
the
juice
of
two
hundred
oranges
in
half
an
hour
if
a
little
button
was
pressed
two
hundred
times
by
a
butler’s
thumb.
At
least
once
a
fortnight
a
corps
of
caterers
came
down
with
several
hundred
feet
of
canvas
and
enough
coloured
lights
to
make
a
Christmas
tree
of
Gatsby’s
enormous
garden.
On
buffet
tables,
garnished
with
glistening
hors-d’oeuvre,
spiced
baked
hams
crowded
against
salads
of
harlequin
designs
and
pastry
pigs
and
turkeys
bewitched
to
a
dark
gold.
In
the
main
hall
a
bar
with
a
real
brass
rail
was
set
up,
and
stocked
with
gins
and
liquors
and
with
cordials
so
long
forgotten
that
most
of
his
female
guests
were
too
young
to
know
one
from
another.
By
seven
o’clock
the
orchestra
has
arrived,
no
thin
five-piece
affair,
but
a
whole
pitful
of
oboes
and
trombones
and
saxophones
and
viols
and
cornets
and
piccolos,
and
low
and
high
drums.
The
last
swimmers
have
come
in
from
the
beach
now
and
are
dressing
upstairs;
the
cars
from
New
York
are
parked
five
deep
in
the
drive,
and
already
the
halls
and
salons
and
verandas
are
gaudy
with
primary
colours,
and
hair
bobbed
in
strange
new
ways,
and
shawls
beyond
the
dreams
of
Castile.
The
bar
is
in
full
swing,
and
floating
rounds
of
cocktails
permeate
the
garden
outside,
until
the
air
is
alive
with
chatter
and
laughter,
and
casual
innuendo
and
introductions
forgotten
on
the
spot,
and
enthusiastic
meetings
between
women
who
never
knew
each
other’s
names.
The
lights
grow
brighter
as
the
earth
lurches
away
from
the
sun,
and
now
the
orchestra
is
playing
yellow
cocktail
music,
and
the
opera
of
voices
pitches
a
key
higher.
Laughter
is
easier
minute
by
minute,
spilled
with
prodigality,
tipped
out
at
a
cheerful
word.
The
groups
change
more
swiftly,
swell
with
new
arrivals,
dissolve
and
form
in
the
same
breath;
already
there
are
wanderers,
confident
girls
who
weave
here
and
there
among
the
stouter
and
more
stable,
become
for
a
sharp,
joyous
moment
the
centre
of
a
group,
and
then,
excited
with
triumph,
glide
on
through
the
sea-change
of
faces
and
voices
and
colour
under
the
constantly
changing
light.
Suddenly
one
of
these
gypsies,
in
trembling
opal,
seizes
a
cocktail
out
of
the
air,
dumps
it
down
for
courage
and,
moving
her
hands
like
Frisco,
dances
out
alone
on
the
canvas
platform.
A
momentary
hush;
the
orchestra
leader
varies
his
rhythm
obligingly
for
her,
and
there
is
a
burst
of
chatter
as
the
erroneous
news
goes
around
that
she
is
Gilda
Gray’s
understudy
from
the
Follies.
The
party
has
begun.
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El Gran Gatsby — C1 Inglés | Cuentana