Gatsby, Gatsby

I added a final touch of my enticing Coco Chanel and strutted out in the flowing red gown for today’s soiree. Watson stood outside, waiting for me and as he regarded me, he flashed his lightbulb smile. A cyclamen pink blush fell on his face as he bowed and helped me into the carriage.

After ten minutes of sound trotting, the horses halted, for we had reached. In the silvery moonlight, the Gatsby mansion gleamed like a new-born baby. The paint was fresh, the wavy carpet refurbished and as the waves crashed against the shore to the right, a salty yet calmly refreshing breeze wafted through the air, tickling my senses alive. This reprieve was short lived, for soon came roaring, all the other invitees in their cars and carriages. Along also came with them, a burden of mocking odours and a confusion of colours. I noticed the arrival of Mr Brown and his moustache. Oh, how I hated it! It seemed to have a mind of its own, twirling arrogantly of its own will. Mr Brown also brought along his inexplicable fashion: today, he wore a tie so psychedelic that it was detrimental to my eyesight, so I soon ushered Watson in the mansion.

We blended in like sardines, for money ran in all our blood. We flowed into the ballroom, where Mozart was playing. As he expertly descended into a glissando of notes, the chandeliers overhead dimmed. Watson and I looked around, clearly surprised by this unexpected happening. A spotlight soon found its way to the centre. Mozart stopped. Everything was golden: the gem-encrusted walls, the linen tablecloths nearby, the shimmering gowns and the silence. The crowd parted – almost cinematically – to reveal a man extremely ravishing: Gatsby.

A smile began to travel up his left cheek like a snail trail and soon, he was beaming. He shone now, in the light, like the white plume of Navarre; royal, regal and resplendent. Everyone broke into cheers and applause. With his gloved hands and perfect smile, he waved at each and everyone of us, yet he seemed to look through our hearts and sprinkle his charm all over.

After drinks, I gazed out from the balcony on the first floor. Alcohol had guaranteed the incessant easy flow of chatter on all topics and soon, the evening had manifested into a jamboree.

“The night sky sure is beautiful at this time,” a voice behind me spoke.

“Ah, yes,” I replied and turned round to come face-to-face with Gatsby, “What a wonderful party you have thrown. Impressive indeed. This evening warrants the popping of corks.”

I reached for a bottle of Scotch, but was stopped short by him.

“I guess I’ve had my share,” he spoke with the slightest gin-and-tonic slur.

I nodded my approval. His eyes seemed distant, as he gazed out at the other end of the island at a blinking light. Then, with an abrupt swing, he mentioned,” Why don’t you join me for a dance?”

I felt blood rush to my cheeks. Bowing down, I accompanied him to the place where I had first met him. On our arrival, Mozart played again and we drowned in each other’s arms. His perfume was exquisite and his eyes a deep blue. If personality is a wave of emotions, he was a storm and I, a puddle. His arms were so soothing that I never knew when he slumped over me and blood poured out of his abdomen.

-Vedatman Sonpal