The Great Gatsby And Wolfsheim Relationship

Gatsby was a peculiar man. He came from nothing to become something. Although this had always perplexed me, I thought it could be explained through his association with Wolfsheim. Meyer Wolfsheim was also peculiar, but it seemed to be of his nature. For that reason, I had never inquired Gatsby’s relationship with the man. The most I knew at the time was that Wolfsheim and Gatsby had sold alcohol together and that was that. Up until this fateful day, I had been none the wiser. So many years ago had this happened yet I still remember the day like it was yesterday.
The sky dripped onto the earth as the humidity lingered on my back and brow. I gazed upon my neighbor’s house wistfully. How elegant, I thought, is he to have the luxury of servants
“I’m a wizard, Nick.” To tell you the truth, I had no idea what to say that. But the words “Well, that’s swanky,” rolled nonsensically off my loose tongue. Gatsby sighed and continued on. “I never wanted to tell you this before, nor was it my intention to ever admit it. I can trust you, right?” I nodded slightly, partially because something in Wolfsheim’s eyes showed that I wouldn’t want to disagree and partially because I thought it was all a joke.
“So… that must be a wand, correct?” I pointed at Wolfsheim’s rough hand. Gatsby nodded. “Yes. And the package is something that might interest you. Relashio!” As he spoke, the box flew from Wolfsheim's hands. Gatsby opened it carefully. “Now, I would say Wolfsheim and I make lovely business partners, selling liquid luck and whatnot, but this was a bit out of the way.” He held up a vial. “Polyjuice potion. My rescue.”
Wolfsheim scoffed. “Poor little bunny,” he nodded his sharp nose at me. “He’s so lost.” Gatsby frowned slightly, ever so slightly, and continued on. “Polyjuice potion, old sport, will allow me to take the form of Tom. And I’ll convince Daisy I’m leaving her for good. As Tom, I mean.” Head spinning, I asked him to continue. “Well, Daisy won’t have Tom. She’ll have me!” He smiled as if he genuinely believed it would work. “Wolfsheim! Do you have the hair?” Wolfsheim procured a strand of hair from a cloth. Gatsby grabbed at it greedily and popped the top off the vial, tossing the hair
The potion turned blue then brown. “Wait, wait!” I exclaimed. What do you do with the real Tom?” Gatsby stopped smiling. “He’s with Myrtle, according to Wolfsheim. I can’t say he will for much longer.” The last thing I remember is Gatsby muttering about the taste of garlic and Wolfsheim hitting me in the back of the head.
When I arose, I was back home. My head was throbbing and the whole situation with the wizards had me perplexed. What was liquid luck and pooljuice, or whatever he had called it? In time, I had convinced myself it was all a mirage from the heat. Gatsby was just a bootlegger, not a wizard. Though I thought it was suspicious that Tom had disappeared, I never questioned it. Nevermore did I consider that my silly dream was real. Not until today.
Some may say that the drinking did me in. Others could say that it was the loneliness. I, for one, think that it was the guilt of knowing Gatsby took advantage of Daisy and did god knows what to Tom. But, as I lay on my deathbed writing this, I can say for sure that it wasn’t a dream. Gatsby came in earlier and explained it all. “It was out of empathy I let you forget,” he had said. “Old sport, thank you for keeping it secret. It’s time you