A man called Gatsby

CEBU, Philippines - T he 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

“Do you come to these parties often?” inquired Jordan of the girl beside her.

“The last one was the one I met you at,” answered the girl in an alert confident voice. She turned to her companion: “Wasn’t it for you, Lucille?”

“I like to come,” Lucille said. “I never care what I do, so I always have a good time. When I was here, I tore my gown on a chair, and he asked my name and address—inside of a week I got a package from Croirier’s with a new evening gown in it.”

There was dancing now on the canvas in the garden; old men pushing young girls backward in eternal graceless circles, superior couples holding each other tortuously, fashionably, and keeping in the corners.

I was still with Jordan Baker. We were sitting at a table with a man of about my age and a rowdy little girl, who gave way upon the slightest provocation to uncontrollable laughter.

At a lull in the entertainment, the man looked at me and smiled.

It was on the tip of my tongue to ask his name when Jordan looked around and smiled.

“Having a gay time now?” she inquired.

“Much better.”

I turned again to my new acquaintance. “This is an unusual party for me. I haven’t even seen the host, and this man Gatsby sent over his chauffeur with an invitation.”

For a moment he looked at me as if he failed to understand.

“I’m Gatsby,” he said suddenly.

—The Great Gatsby, Chapter 3