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
to fan over him. I picked up the phone to dial Gatsby. Instantly, it slipped from my grasp and fell to the floor with a crash. Terrific. Being too bothered to pick it up, I walked out the door, letting it slam behind me. The short walk felt like miles under the raging sun. Ocean waves seemed to tempt me, screaming my name. Nevertheless, I traveled on. Only once or twice did I dream of laying in the grass and drifting into sleep. When I arrived on Gatsby’s doorstep, there laid a package. How strange, I thought. I picked up the package and approached the door. Once I knocked. No answer. The second brought the same result. Holding the package as if I was holding my own offspring, I gently cracked the door open and peered in. “Aguamenti!” Rung out a voice slightly familiar to me. I saw water fly overhead. Pushing the door all the way open, I saw that the water was spurting from the end of some sort of stick into the mouth of Gatsby. Creeeaaaak. The steps sounded as I stepped in. Immediately, Gatsby shot up. I waved awkwardly, still confused by the situation.
“I saw you had a package. I thought you’d like to have it-” Before I could finish my sentence, Wolfsheim shot up.
“Accio!” He proclaimed while waving his stick. The package flew from my hands into his. When I opened my mouth in awe, Gatsby tackled me, waving a stick of his own. “Stupefy!” I remember little more than falling under Gatsby and reawakening on his couch.“We have to kill him,” Wolfsheim said blatantly.Gatsby tsked in disagreement. “We can’t just bump him off, old sport. Surely we can fix this situation,” he continued. At this moment, I struck his leg from behind. Gatsby whimpered in pain. As I charged towards Wolfsheim, he flicked his stick calmly and muttered, “Impedimenta,” as if nothing had happened. Suddenly, it felt like I was moving through molasses. Without effort, he threw me back on the ground. Gatsby glared at me in disapproval, spitting on me as he spoke.“Nick, you sap!” He turned to face Wolfsheim. “We still shouldn’t kill him.” Wolfsheim rolled his eyes in disapproval. “Rhatz,” he proclaimed rather unenthusiastically. Gatsby lifted me up and laid me gently on the couch, hobbling quite a bit. “Nick,” he said cautiously, “I have no reason to hurt you unless you give me one. Please hear me out.” Wolfsheim stood in the corner, clenching his stick with white knuckles.
“Nick, look at me.”
I stared at him blankly.
“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
inside.
Hisssss.
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
knew.”
His story began like this. “I was a young man working on a farm when I first knew there was something different. When I was eleven, I got a letter from the Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I attended it for a few years. I never was much good and eventually got thrown out for using polyjuice to cheat on my O.W.L.s. Yet, I still won the Excellence in Potions Cup during my last year. Meyer Wolfsheim, a man a few years older than I, noticed my knack for potions. He and I became partners selling abundant amounts of liquid luck to muggles and wizards alike. You see, that’s how we fixed the World Series. We also made a pretty penny selling alcohol to you muggles. Nevertheless, no magic in the world could change how I felt for Daisy. Daisy, such a pretty little muggle-”
I had stopped him there. “A muggle?” “Why yes,” he continued. “A non-magic person. Anyhow, when I went overseas to visit Diagon Alley to establish my own ready-mix potions store, Daisy moved on. A beautiful fool… She fell for another muggle, Tom, as you know.” “What happened to Tom?” I asked impatiently. Never had his disappearance not haunted my dreams. “Well,” Gatsby spoke delicately, resting his wrinkled hand on my hospital bed. “The day you walked in was the day Tom died. I’ll do you the favor of never revealing how, just know that he did. But I drank that polyjuice potion, and for one glorious hour, I was him. I told Daisy I hated her. That I never loved her. That every single one of my mistresses were so far beyond her social class and beauty. I hated hurting her but I knew this is what Tom felt. He hurt her by staying. At least I did him a favor. As him, I hurt her one last time and never again would he do it. Old sport, it broke my heart. But after that hour, she came running back to me. Ever since that day, she has been mine. I loved her and raised her daughter as my own.” He laughed and smiled, as if destroying another man’s life then literally destroying him was the funniest thing in the world. I detested him in that moment, and until my near approaching dying breath, I will despise him. “Thanks,” he said. I was too weak to scream at him and vocalize my hatred so I just nodded goodbye. Dear Daisy, I write my dying letter to you. After a lifetime of guilt, I must hurt you one last time to relieve your pain, like Gatsby did to you so many years ago. My dying wish is that you know and understand that your life with Gatsby has been a lie.