天涯在线书库《www.tianyabook.com》 《蒂凡尼的早餐》 Breakfast at Tiffanys-1 I am always drawn back to places where I have lived, the houses and theirneighborhoods. For instahere is a brownstone in the East Seventies where,during the early years of the war, I had my first New York apartment. It was oneroom crowded with attic furniture, a sofa and fat chairs upholstered in that itchy,particular red velvet that one associates with hot days on a tram. The walls werestucco, and a color rather like tobacco-spit. Everywhere, ihroom too, therewere prints of Roman ruins freckled brown with age. The single window looked outon a fire escape. Even so, my spirits heightened whenever I felt in my pocket thekey to this apartment; with all its gloom, it still lay own, the first, andmy books were there, and jars of pencils to sharpen, everything I needed, so I felt,to bee the writer I wao be. It never occurred to me in those days to write about Holly Golightly, and probablyit would not now except for a versation I had with Joe Bell that set the wholememory of her in motion again. Holly Golightly had been a tenant in the old brownstone; shed occupied theapartment below mine. As for Joe Bell, he ran a bar around the er on LexingtonAvenue; he still does. Both Holly and I used to go there six, seven times a day, notfor a drink, not always, but to make telephone calls: during the rivatetelephone was hard to e by. Moreover, Joe Bell was good about takingmessages, whi Hollys case was no small favor, for she had a tremendous many. Of course this was a long time ago, and until last week I hadnt seen Joe Bell inseveral years. Off and on wed kept in touch, and occasionally Id stopped by his ba.99lib.rwhen passing through the neighborhood; but actually wed never been strong friendsexcept in as much as we were both friends of Holly Golightly. Joe Bell hasnt an easynature, he admits it himself, he says its because hes a bachelor and has a sourstomach. Anyone who knows him will tell you hes a hard man to talk to. Impossibleif you dont share his fixations, of which Holly is one. Some others are: ice hockey,Weimaraner dogs, al Sunday (a soap serial he has listeo for fifteen years),and Gilbert and Sullivan -- he claims to be related to one or the other, I tremember which. And so when, late last Tuesday afternoon, the telephone ra?９9liｂ?ng and I heard "JoeBell here," I k must be about Holly. He didnt say so, just: " you rattle rightover here? Its important," and there was a croak of excitement in his froggy voice. I took a taxi in a downpour of October rain, and on my way I even thought shemight be there, that I would see Holly again. But there was no one on the premises except the proprietor. Joe Bells is a quietplapared to most Lexington Avenue bars. It boasts her neon nortelevision. Two old mirrors reflect the weather from the streets; and behind the bar,in a niche surrounded b九九藏书y photographs of ice-hockey stars, there is always a largebowl of fresh flowers that Joe Bell himself arranges with matronly care. That is whathe was doing when I came in. "Naturally," he said, rooting a gladiola deep into the bowl, "naturally I wouldnthave got you over here if it wasnt I wanted your opinion. Its peculiar. A verypeculiar thing has happened." "You heard from Holly?" He fingered a leaf, as though uain of how to answer. A small man with a finehead of coarse white hair, he has a bony, sloping face better suited to someone fartaller; his plexion seems permaly sunburned: now it grew even redder. "It say exactly heard from her. I mean, I dont know. Thats why I want youropinio me build you a drink. Somethihey call it a White Angel," hesaid, mixing on.99ｌｉｂ?e-half vodka, one-half gin, no vermouth. While I drank the result, JoeBell stood sug on a Tums and turning over in his mind what he had to tell me. Breakfast at Tiffanys-2 Then: "You recall a certain Mr. I.Y. Yunioshi? A gentleman from Japan." "From California," I said, recalling Mr. Yunioshi perfectly. Hes a photographer onone of the picture magazines, and when I knew him he lived iudio apartmentoop floor of the brownstone. "Dont go mixing me up. All Im asking, you know who I mean? Okay. So lastnight who es waltzing in here but this selfsame Mr. I. Y. Yunioshi. I havent seenhim, I guess its over two years. And where do you think hes been those two years?" "Africa." Joe Bell stopped g on his Tums, his eyes narrowed. "So how did youknow?" "Read it in Winchell." Which I had, as a matter of fact. He rang open his cash register, and produced a manila envelope. "Well, see didyou read this in Winchell." In the envelope were three photographs, more or less the same, though takenfrom different angles: a tall delicate Negro man wearing a calico skirt and with a shy,yet vain smile, displaying in his hands an odd wood sculpture, an elongated carvingof a head, a girls, her hair sleek and short as a young mans, her smooth wood eyestoe and tilted iapering face, her mouth wide, overdrawn, not unlike-lips. On a gla resembled most primitive carving; and then it didnt, forhere was the spit-image of Holly Golightly, at least as much of a likeness as a darkstill thing could be. "Now what do you make of that?" said Joe Bell, satisfied with my puzzlement. "It looks like her." "Listen, boy," and he slapped his hand on the bar, "it is her. Sure as Im a man fitto wear britches. The little Jap k was her the minute he saw her." "He saw her? In Africa?" "Well. Just the statue there. But it es to the same thing. Read the facts foryourself," he said, turning over one of the photographs. On the reverse was written:Wood Carving, S Tribe, Tococul, East Anglia, Christmas Day, 1956. He said, "Heres what the Jap says," and the story was this: On Christmas day Mr. Yunioshi had passed with his camera through Tococul, a village iangles ofnowhere and of no i, merely a gregation of mud huts with monkeys in theyards and buzzards on the roofs. Hed decided to move on when he saw suddenly aNegro squatting in a doorway carving monkeys on a walking stick. Mr. Yunioshi ressed and asked to see more of his work. Whereupon he was shown the carvingof the girls head: a, so he told Joe Bell, as if he were falling in a dream. Butwhen he offered to buy it the Negro cupped his private parts in his hand (apparentlya tender gesture, parable to tapping ones heart.) and said no. A pound of saltand ten dollars, a wristwatd two pounds of salt and twenty dollars, nothingswayed him. Mr. Yunioshi was in all events determio learn how the carvingcame to be made. It cost him his salt and his watch, and the i was veyedin Afri and pig-English and fialk. But it would seem that in the spring of thatyear a party of three white persons had appeared out of the brush riding horseback. Breakfast at Tiffanys-3 A young woman and two men. The men, both red-eyed with fever, were forced forseveral weeks to stay shut and shivering in an isolated hut, while the young woman,having presently taken a fancy to the wood-carver, shared the woodcarvers mat. "I dont credit that part," Joe Bell said squeamishly. "I know she had her ways,but I dont think shed be up to anything as much as that." "And then?" "Then nothing," he shrugged. "By and by she went like she e, rode away on ahorse." "Alone, or with the two men?" Joe Bell blinked. "With the two men, I guess. Now the Jap, he asked about her upand down the try. But nobody else had ever seen her." Then it was as if hecould feel my own sense of９9lｉｂ? letdown transmitting itself to him, and he wanted no partof it. "Ohing you got to admit, its the only definite news in I dont know howmany" -- he ted on his fingers: there werent enough -- "years. All I hope, Ihope shes rich. She must be rich. You got to be rich to go mug around inAfrica." "Shes probably never set foot in Africa," I said, believing it; yet I could see herthere, it was somewhere she would have gone. And the carved head: I looked at thephotographs again. "You know so much, where is she?" "Dead. Or in a crazy house. Or married. I think shes married and quieted downand maybe right in this very city." He sidered a moment. "No," he said, and shook his head. "Ill tell you why. Ifshe was in this city Id have seen her. You take a man that likes to walk, a man likeme, a mans been walking in the streets going on ten or twelve years, and all thoseyears hes got his eye out for one person, and nobodys ever her, dont it stand toreason shes not there? I see pieces of her all the time, a flat little bottom, anyskinny girl that walks fast and straight -- " He paused, as though too aware of howily I was looking at him. "You think Im round the bend?" "Its just that I didnt know youd been in love with her. Not like that." I was sorry Id said it; it discerted him. He scooped up the photographs andput them ba their envelope. I looked at my watch. I hadnt any place to go, butI thought it was better to leave. "Hold on," he said, gripping my wrist. "Sure I loved her. But it wasnt that Iwao touch her." And he added, without smiling: "Not that I dont think aboutthat side of things. Even at my age, and Ill be sixty-seven January ten. Its apeculiar fact -- but, the row, that side of things seems to be on my mindmore and more. I dont remember thinking about it so much even when I was ayoungster and its every other minute. Maybe the older you grow and the less easy itis to put thought into aaybe thats why it gets all locked up in your head andbees a burden. Whenever I read in the paper about an old man disgraghimself, I know its because of this burden. But" -- he poured himself a jigger ofwhiskey and swallowed it -- "Ill never disgrace myself. And I swear, it nevercrossed my mind about Holly. You love somebody without it being like that. Youkeep them a stranger, a stranger whos a friend." Breakfast at Tiffanys-4 Two men came into the bar, and it seemed the moment to leave. Joe Bell followedme to the door. He caught my wrist again. "Do you believe it?" "That you didnt want to touch her?" "I mean about Africa." At that moment I couldo remember the story, only the image of herriding away on a horse. "Anyway, shes gone." "Yeah," he said, opening the door. "Just gone." Outside, the rain had stopped, there was only a mist of it in the air, so I turhe er and walked along the street where the brownstoands. It is a streetwith trees that in the summer make cool patterns on the pave..ment; but now theleaves were yellowed and mostly down, and the rain had made them slippery, theyskidded underfoot. The brownstone is midway in the bloext to a church where ablue tower-clock tolls the hours. It has been sleeked up since my day; a smart blackdoor has replaced the old frosted glass, and gray elegant shutters frame thewindows. No one I remember still lives there except Madame Sapphia Spanella, ahusky coloratura ?９９ｌｉｂ?who every afternoo roller-skating iral Park. I knowshes still there because I went up the steps and looked at the mailboxes. It was ohese mailboxes that had first made me aware of Holly Golightly. Id been living in the house about a week when I noticed that the mailboxbelonging to Apt. 2 had a name-slot fitted with a curious card. Printed, ratherCartier-formal, it read: Miss Holiday Golightly; and, underh, in the er,Traveling. It nagged me like a tune: Miss Holiday Golightly, Traveling. One night, it was long past twelve, I woke up at the sound of Mr. Yunioshi callingdowairs. Since he lived oop floor, his voice fell through the wholehouse, exasperated and stern. "Miss Golightly! I must protest!" The voice that came back, welling up from the bottom of the stairs, was sillyyoungand self-amused. "Oh, darling, I am sorry. I lost the goddamn key." "You ot go ing my bell. You must please, please have yourself a keymade." "But I lose.. them all." "I work, I have to sleep," Mr. Yunioshi shouted. "bbr>;But always you are ringing mybell…" "Oh, dont be angry, you dear little man: I wont do it again. And if you promisenot to be angry" -- her voice was ing nearer, she was climbing the stairs -- "Imight let you take those pictures we mentioned." By now Id left my bed and opehe door an inch. I could hear Mr. Yunioshissilence: hear, because it was apanied by an audible ge of breath. "When?" he said. The girl laughed. "Sometime," she answered, slurring the word. Breakfast at Tiffanys-5 "Any time," he said, and closed his door. I went out into the hall and leaned over the banister, just enough to see withoutbeing seen. She was still oairs, now she reached the landing, and the ragbagcolors of her boys hair, tawny streaks, strands of albino-blond and yellow, caughtthe hall light. It was a warm evening, nearly summer, and she wore a slim cool blackdress, black sandals, a pearl choker. For all her chic thinness, she had an almostbreakfast-cereal air of health, a soap and lemon ness, a rough pink darkeningin the cheeks. Her mouth was large, her urned. A pair of dark glassesblotted out her eyes. It was a face beyond childhood, yet this side of belonging to awoman. I thought her anywhere between sixteen and thirty; as it turned out, shewas shy two months of her eenth birthday. She was not alohere was a man following behihe way his plumphand clutched at her hip seemed somehow improper; not morally, aesthetically. Hewas short and vast, sun-lamped ..and pomaded, a man in a buttressed pin-stripe suitwith a red ation withering in the lapel. When they reached her door sherummaged her purse in search of a key, and took no notice of the fact that his thicklips were nuzzling the nape of her neck. At last, though, finding the key and openingher door, she turo him cordially: "Bless you, darling -- you were sweet to seeme home." "Hey, baby!" he said, for the door was closing in his face. "Yes, Harry?" "Harry was the uy. Im Sid. Sid Arbuck. You like me." "I worship you, Mr. Arbuck. But good night, Mr. Arbuck." Mr. Arbuck stared with disbelief as the door shut firmly. "Hey, baby, let me inbaby. You like me baby. "Im a liked guy. Didnt I pick up the check, five people, your friends, I never seenthem before? Dont that give me the right you should like me? You like me, baby." He tapped on the dently, then louder; finally he took several steps back, hisbody hunched and l, ..as though he meant to charge it, crash it down. Instead,he plunged dowairs, slamming a fist against the wall. Just as he reached thebottom, the door of the girls apartment opened and she poked out her head. "Oh, Mr. Arbuck ... " He turned back, a smile of relief oiling his face: shed only been teasing. "The ime a girl wants a little powder-room ge," she called, not teasingat all, "take my advice, darling: dont give her twenty-ts!" She kept her promise to Mr. Yunioshi; or I assume she did n his bell again,for in the days she started ringing mine, sometimes at two in the m,three and four: she had no qualms at what hour she got me out of bed to push thebuzzer that released the downstairs door. As I had few friends, and none who woulde around so late, I always khat it was her. But on the first occasions of itshappening, I went to my door, half-?９９ｌib.expeg bad news, a telegram; and MissGolightly would call up: "Sorry, darling -- I fot my key." Breakfast at Tiffanys-6 Of course wed never met. Though actually, oairs, ireet, we oftencame face-to-face; but she seemed not quite to see me. She was never without darkglasses, she was always well groomed, there was a sequential good taste in theplainness of her clothes, the blues and grays and lack of luster that made her,herself, shine so. One might have thought her a photographers model, perhaps ayoung actress, except that it was obvious, judging from her hours, she hadnt timeto be either. Now and then I ran across her outside our neighborhood. Once a visitiivetook me to "21," and there, at a superior table, surrounded by four men, hem Mr. Arbuck, yet all of them intergeable with him, was Miss Golightly, idly,publicly bing her hair; and her expression, an unrealized yawn, put, by example,a dampener, on the excitement I felt over dining at so swanky a place. Anht, deep in the summer, the heat of my room se into the streets. Iwalked down Third Aveo Fifty-first Street, where there was an antique storewith an obje its window I admired: a palace of a bird cage, a mosque ofmis and bamboo rooms yearning to be filled with talkative parrots. But the pricewas three hundred and fifty dollars. On the way home I noticed a cab-driver crowdgathered in front of P. J. Clarks saloon, apparentbbr>藏书网ly attracted there by a happy groupof whiskey-eyed Australian army officers baritoning, "Waltzing Matilda." As they saook turns spin-dang a girl over the cobbles uhe El; and the girl, MissGolightly, to be sure, floated round in their, arms light as a scarf. But if Miss Golightly remained unscious of my existence, except as a doorbellvenience, I became, through the summer, rather an authority on hers. Idiscovered, from the trash-basket outside her door, that her regularreading sisted of tabloids and travel folders and astrological charts; that shesmoked aeric cigarette called Pies; survived on cottage cheese andmelba toast; that her vari-colored hair was somewhat s.９９ｌｉb?elf-ihe same sourcemade it evident that she received V-letters by the bale. They were always torn intostrips like bookmarks. I used occasionally to pluck myself a bookmark in passing. Remember and miss you and rain and please write and damn and goddamhewords that recurred most often on these slips; those, and lonesome and love. Also, she had a cat and she played the guitar. On days when the sun was strong,she would wash her hair, and together with the cat, a red tiger-striped tom, sit outon the fire escape thumbing a guitar while her hair dried. Whenever I heard themusic, I would go stand quietly by my window. She played very well, and sometimessang too. Sang in the hoarse, breaking tones of a boys adolest voice. She knewall the show hits, Cole Porter and Kurt Weill; especially she liked the songs fromOklahoma!, which were hat summer and everywhere. But there were momentswhen she played songs that made you wonder where she learhem, whereindeed she came from. Harsh-tender wandering tunes with words that smacked ofpineywoods or.9９ｌiｂ. prairie. O: Dont wanna sleep, Dont wanna die, Just wannago a-travelin through the pastures of the sky; and this one seemed to gratify her themost, for often she ti long after her hair had dried, after the sun had goneand there were lighted windows in the dusk. But our acquaintance did not make headway until September, an evening with thefirst ripple-chills of autumn running through it. Id been to a movie, e home andgoo bed with a bourbon nightcap and the Simenon: so much my idea offort that I couldnt uand a sense of uhat multiplied until I couldhear my heart beating. It was a feeling Id read about, written about, but neverbefore experiehe feeling of being watched. Of someone in the room. Then: anabrupt rapping at the window, a glimpse of ghostly gray: I spilled the bourbon. Itwas some little while before I could bring myself to open the window, and ask MissGolightly what she wanted. "Ive got the most terrifying man downstairs," she said, stepping off the fireescape into the room. "I mean hes sweet when he isnt drunk, but let him startlapping up the vino, and oh God quel beast! If theres ohing I loathe, its menwho bite." She loosened a gray flannel robe off her shoulder, to show me evidence ofwhat happens if a man bites. The robe was all she was wearing. "Im sorry if Ifrightened you. But when the beast got so tiresome I just went out the window. Ithihinks Im ihroom, not that I give a damn what he thinks, the hellwith him, hell get tired, hell go to sleep, my God he should, eight martinis beforedinner and enough wio wash an elephant. Listen, you throw me out if youwant to. Ive got a gall barging in on you like this. But that fire escape was damnedicy. And you looked so cozy. Like my brother Fred. We used to sleep four in a bed,and he was the only ohat ever let me hug him on a cold night. By the way, doyou mind if I call you Fred?" Shed e pletely into the room now, and shepaused there, staring at me. Id never seen her before not wearing dark glasses, andit was obvious now that they were prescription lenses, for without them her eyes hadan assessing squint, like a jewelers. They were large eyes, a little blue, a littlegreen, dotted with bits of brown: vari-colored, like her hair; and, like her hair, theygave out a lively warm light. "I suppose you think Im very brazen. rave;s fou. Orsomething." Breakfast at Tiffanys-7 "Not at all." She seemed disappointed. "Yes, you do. Everybody does. I dont mind. Itsuseful." She sat down on one of the rickety red-velvet chairs, curved her legs underhher, and glanced round the room, her eyes puckering more pronouncedly. "How you bear it? Its a chamber of horrors." "O??t> you get used to anything," I said, annoyed with myself, for actually I roud of the place. "I dont. Ill never get used to anything. Anybody that does, they might as well bedead." Her dispraising eyes surveyed the room again. "What do you do here all day?" I motiooward a table tall with books and paper. "Write things." "I thought writers were quite old. Of course Saroyan isnt old. I met him at aparty, and really he isnt old at all. In fact," she mused, "if hed give himself a closershave ... by the way, is Hemingway old?" "In his forties, I should think." "Thats not bad. I t get excited by a man until hes forty-two. I know this idiotgirl who keeps telling me I ought to go to a head-shrinker; she says I have a fatherplex. Which is so much merde. I simply trained myself to like older men, and itwas the smartest thing I ever did. How old is W. Somerset Maugham?" "Im not sure. Sixty-something." "Thats not bad. Ive never been to bed with a writer. No, wait: do you knowBenny Shacklett?" She frowned when I shook my head. "Thats funny. Hes writtenan awfu９9ｌｉｂ?l lot of radio stuff. But quel rat. Tell me, are you a real writer?" "It depends on what you mean by real." "Well, darling, does anyone buy what you write?" "Not yet." "Im going to help you," she said. "I , too. Think of all the people I know whoknow people. Im going to help you because you look like my brother Fred. Onlysmaller. I havent seen him since I was fourteen, thats when I left home, and hewas already six-feet-two. My ot藏书网her brothers were more your size, runts. It was thepeanut butter that made Fred so tall. Everybody thought it was dotty, the way heged himself o butter; he didnt care about anything in this world excepthorses a butter. But he wasnt dotty, just sweet and vague and terriblyslow; hed been in the eighth grade three years when I ran aoor Fred. Iwonder if the Armys generous with their peanut butter. Which reminds me, Imstarving." I poio a bowl of apples, at the same time asked her how and why shed lefthome so young. She looked at me blankly, and rubbed her nose, as though it tickled:a gesture, seeing ofteed, I came tnize as a signal that one wastrespassing. Like many people with a bold fondness for volunteering intimateinformation, anything that suggested a direct question, a pinning-down, put her onguard. She took a bite of apple, and said: "Tell me something youve written. Thestory part." "Thats one of the troubles. Theyre not the kind of stories you tell." Breakfast at Tiffanys-8 "Too dirty?" "Maybe Ill let you read one sometime." "Whiskey and apples go together. Fix me a drink, darling. Then you read me astory yourself." Very few authors, especially the unpublished, resist an invitation to readaloud. I made us both a drink and, settling in a chair opposite, began to read to her,my voice a little shaky with a bination of stage fright ahusiasm: it was aory, Id fi the day before, and that iable sense of shortinghad not had time to develop. It was about two women who share a house,schoolteachers, one of whom, wheher bees engaged, spreads withanonymous notes a sdal that prevents the marriage.９9ｌib? As I read, each glimpse Istole of Holly made my heart tract. She fidgeted. She picked apart the butts in anashtray, she mooned over her fingernails, as though longing for a file; worse, when Idid seem to have her i, there was actually a telltale frost over her eyes, as ifshe were w whether to buy a pair of shoes shed seen in some window. "Is that the end?" she asked, waking up. She floundered for something more tosay. "Of course I like dykes themselves. They dont scare me a bit. But stories aboutdykes bore the bejesus out of me. I just t put myself in their shoes. Well really,darling," she said, because ..I was clearly puzzled, "if its not about a couple of oldbull-dykes, what the hell is it about?" But I was in no mood to pound the mistake of havihe story with thefurther embarrassment of explaining it. The same vanity that had led to suchexposure, now forced me to mark her down as an iive, mindless show-off. "Ially," she said, "do you happen to know any nice lesbians? Im lookingfor a roommate. Well, dont laugh. Im so disanized, I simply t afford a maid;and really, dykes are wonderful home-makers, they love to do all the work,.. younever have to bother about brooms and defrosting and sending out the laundry. Ihad a roommate in Hollywood, she played ierns, they called her the Ler; but Ill say this for her, she was better than a man around the house. Ofcourse people couldnt help but think I must be a bit of a dyke myself. And of courseI am. Everyone is: a bit. So what? That never disced a ma, in fact itseems to goad them on. Look at the Ler, married twice. Usually dykes o married once, just for the seems to carry such cachet later on to becalled Mrs. Something Ahats not true!" She was staring at an alarm clo the table. "It t be four-thirty!" The window was turning blue. A sunrise breeze bahe curtains. "What is today?" "Thursday." "Thursday." She stood up. "My God," she said, and sat down again with a moan. "Its too gruesome." I was tired enough not to be curious. I lay down on the bed and closed my eyes. Still it was irresistible: "Whats gruesome about Thursday?" "Nothing. Except that I ever remember when its ing. You see, onThursdays I have to catch the eight forty-five. Theyre so particular about visitinghours, so if youre there by ten that gives you an hour before the poor melunch. Think of it, lunch at eleven. You go at two, and Id so much rather, but helikes me to e in the m, he says it sets him up for the rest of the day. Ivegot to stay awake," she said, ping her cheeks until the roses came, "there isnttime to sleep, Id look ptive, Id sag like a te, and that wouldnt befair: a girl t go to Sing Sing with a green face." "I suppose not." The anger I felt at her over my story was ebbing; she absorbedme again. "All the visitors do make an effort to look their best, and its very tender, itssweet as hell, the way the womeheir prettiest everything, I mean the oldones and the really poor ooo, they make the dearest effort to look nidsmell oo, and I love them for it. I love the kids too, especially the colored ones. Breakfast at Tiffanys-9 I mean the kids the wives bring. It should be sad, seeing the kids there, but it isnt,they have ribbons in their hair and lots of shine on their shoes, youd think there wasgoing to be ice cream; and sometimes thats what its like in the visitors room, aparty. Anyway its not like the movies: you know, grim whisperings through a grille. There isnt any grille, just a ter between you and them, and the kids standon it to be hugged; all you have to do to kiss somebody is lean across. What I likemost, theyre so happy to see each other, theyve saved up so much to talk about, itisnt possible to be dull, they keep laughing and holding hands. Its differentafterwards," she said. "I see them orain. They sit so quiet watg the rivergo by." She stretched a strand of hair to the er of her mouth and nibbled itthoughtfully. "Im keeping you awake. Go to sleep." "Please. Im ied." "I know you are. Thats why I want you to go to sleep. Because if I keep on, Illtell you about Sally. Im not sure that would be quite cricket." She chewed her hairsilently. "They old me not to tell anyone. In so many words. And it is funny. Maybe you could put it in a story with different names and whatnot. Listen, Fred," she said, reag for another apple, "youve got to cross your heart and kiss yourelbow -- " Perhaps to.９９ｌｉb.ionists kiss their elbow; she had to accept an approximation. "Well," she said, with a mouthful of apple, "you may have read about him in thepapers. His name is Sally Tomato, and I speak Yiddish better than he speaks English;but hes a darling old man, terribly pious. Hed look like a monk if it werent for thegold teeth; he says he prays for me every night. Of course he was never my lover;as far as that goes, I never knew him until he was already in jail. But I adore himnow, after all Ive been going to see him every Thursday for seven months, and Ithink Id go even if he didnt pay me. This ones mushy," she said, and aimed therest of the apple out the window. "By the way, I did know Sally by sight. He use..oe to Joe Bells bar, the one around the er: alked to anybody, juststand there, like the kind of man who lives in hotel rooms. But its funny toremember bad realize how closely he must have been watg me, becauseright after they sent him up (Joe Bell showed me his picture in the paper. Blad. Mafia. All that mumbo jumbo: but they gave him five years) along came thistelegram from a lawyer. It said to tact him immediately for information to myadvantage." "You thought somebody had left you a million?" "Not at all. I figured Bergdorf was trying to collect. But I took the gamble ao see this lawyer (if he is a lawyer, which I doubt, since he doesohave an office, just an answering service, and he always wants to meet you inHamburg Heaven: thats because hes fat, he eat ten hamburgers and two bowlsof relish and a whole lemon meringue pie). He asked me how Id like to cheer up alonely old man, at the same time pick up a hundred a week. I told him look, darling,youve got th..e wrong Miss Golightly, Im not a hat does tricks on the side. Iwasnt impressed by the honorarium either; you do as well as that on trips to thepowder room: a with the slightest chic will give you fifty for the girls john,and I always ask for cab fare too, thats another fifty. But theold me his twas Sally Tomato. He said dear old Sally had long admired me à la distance, sowouldnt it be a good deed if I went to visit him once a week. Well, I couldnt: it wastoo romantic." "I dont know. It doesnt sound right." She smiled. "You think Im lying?" "For ohing, ?they t simply let anyone visit a prisoner." "Oh, they dont. In fact they make quite a b fuss. Im supposed to be hisniece." "And its as simple as that? For an hours versation he gives you a hundreddollars?" "He doesnt, the lawyer does. Mr. OShaughnessy mails it to me in cash as soon asI leave the weather report." "I think you could get into a lot of trouble," I said, and switched off a lamp; therewas no need of it now, m was in the room and pigeons were gargling on thefire escape. "How?" she said seriously. "There must be something in the law books about false identity. After all, yourenot his niece. And what about this weather report?" Breakfast at Tiffanys-10 She patted a yawn. "But its nothing. Just messages I leave with the answeringservir. OShaughnessy will know for sure that Ive been up there. Sally tellsme what to say, things like, oh, theres a hurrie in Cuba and its snowing inPalermo. Dont worry, darling," she said, moving to the bed, "Ive taken care ofmyself a long time." The m light seemed refracted through her: as she pulledthe bed covers up to my she gleamed like a transparent child; then she laydown beside me. "Do you mind? I only want to rest a moment. So lets dont sayanother wo to sleep." I preteo, I made my breathing heavy and regular. Bells iower of the-door church rang the half-hour, the hour. It was six whe her hand onmy arm, a fragile touch careful not to waken. "Poor Fred," she whispered, and itseemed she eaking to me, but she was not. "Where are you, Fred? Becauseits cold. Theres snow in the wind." Her cheek came to rest against my shoulder, awarm damp weight. "Why are y?" She sprang back, sat up. "Oh, fods sake," she said, starting for the windowand the fire escape, "I hate snoops." The day, Friday, I came home to find outside my drand-luxe Charles &Co. basket with her card: Miss Holiday Golightly, Traveling: and scribbled on theba a freakishly awkward, kindergarten hand: Bless you darling Fred. Pleasefive the ht. You were an angel about the whole thing. Mille tendresse --Holly. P.S. I wont bother you again. I replied, Please do, ahis herdoor with what I could afford, a bunch of street-vendor violets. But apparently shedmeant what she said; I her saw nor heard from her, and I gathered shed goneso far as to obtain a downstairs key. At any rate she no longer rang my bell. Imissed that; and as the days merged I began to feel toward her certain far-fetchedreses, as if I were being ed by my closest friend. A disquietingloneliness came into my life, but it induo hunger for friends of longeracquaintahey seemed now like a salt-free, sugarless diet. By Wednesdaythoughts of Holly, of Sing Sing and Sally Tomato, of worlds where men forked overfifty dollars for the powder room, were so stant that I couldnt work. That night Ileft a message in her mailbox: Tomorrow is Thursday. The m rewardedme with a sed note in the play-pen script: Bless you for rem?９9ｌib?inding me. youstop for a drink tonight 6-ish? I waited until ten past six, then made myself delay five minutes more. A creature answered the door. He smelled of cigars and Knize cologne. His shoessported elevated heels; without these added inches, one might have taken him for aLittle Person. His bald freckled head was dwarf-big: attached to it were a pair ofpoiruly elfin ears. He had Pekingese eyes, unpitying and slightly bulged. Tuftsof hair sprouted from his ears, from his nose; his jowls were gray with afternoonbeard, and his handshake almost furry. "Kids in the shower," he said, motioning a cigar toward a sound of water hissingin another room. The room in which we stood (we were standing because there wasnothing to sit on) seemed as though it were being just moved into; you expected tosmell wet paint. Suitcases and unpacked crates were the only furniture. The cratesserved as tables. One supported the mixings of a martini; another a lamp, aLibertyphone, Hollys red cat and a bowl of yellow roses. Bookcases, c onewall, boasted a half-shelf of literature. I warmed to the room at once, I liked its flyby-night look. The man cleared his throat. "You expected?" He found my nod uain. His cold eyes operated on me, made ,exploratory incisions. "A lot of characters e here, theyre not expected. You knowthe kid long?" "Not very." "So you dont know the kid long?" "I live upstairs." The answer seemed to explain enough to relax him. "You got the same layout?" "Much smaller." He tapped ash on the floor. "This is a dump. This is unbelievable. But the kid dontknow how to live even when shes got the dough." His speech had a jerky metallicrhythm, like a teletype. "So," he said, "what do you think: is she or aint she?" "Aint she what?" "A phony." "I wouldnt have thought so.99ｌｉb?t>" "Youre wrong. She is a phony. But oher hand youre right. She isnt aphony because shes a real phony. She believes all this crap she believes. You ttalk her out of it. Ive tried with tears running down my cheeks. Benny Polan,respected everywhere, Benny Polan tried. Benny had it on his mind to marry her,she dont go for it, Benny spent maybe thousands sendio head-shrinkers. Breakfast at Tiffanys-11 Even the famous ohe one only speak German, boy, did he throw iowel. You t talk her out of these" -- he made a fist, as though to crush anintangible -- "ideas. Try it sometime. Get her to tell you some of the stuff shebelieves. Mind you," he said, "I like the kid. Everybody does, but theres lots thatdont. I do. I sincerely like the kid. Im sensitive, thats. why. Youve got to besensitive to appreciate her: a streak of the poet. But Ill tell you the truth. You beat your brains out for her, and shell hand you horseshit on a platter. To give anexample -- who is she like you see her today? Shes strictly a girl youll read whereshe ends up at the bottom of a bottle of Seals. Ive seen it happen more timesthan youve got toes: and those kids, they werent even nuts. Shes nuts." "But young. And with a great deal of youth ahead of her." "If you mean future, youre wrong again. Now a couple of years back, out on theCoast, there was a time it couldve been different. She had something w forher, she had them ied, she couldve really rolled. But when you walk out on athing like that, you dont walk back. Ask Luise Rainer. And Rainer was a star. Sure,Holly was no star; she never got out of the still department. But that was before TheStory of D９９lib.r. Wassell. Then she couldve really rolled. I know, see, cause Im the guywas givihe push." He pointed his cigar at himself. "O.J. Berman." He expected reition, and I didnt mind obliging him, it was all right by me,except Id never heard of O.J. Berman. It developed that he was a Hollywood actent. "Im the first one saw her. Out at Santa Anita. Shes hanging around the trackevery day. Im ied: professionally. I find out shes some jocks regular, shesliving with the shrimp. I get the jock told Drop It if he dont want versation withthe vice boys: see, the kids fifteen. But stylish: shes okay, she es across. Evenwhen shes wearing glasses this thick; even when she opens her mouth and youdont know if shes a hillbilly or an Okie or what. I still dont. My guess, nobodyllever know where she came from. Shes such a goddamn liar, maybe she dont knowherself any more. But it took us a year to smooth out that at. How we did itfinally, we gave her French lessons: after she could imitate French, it wasnt so longshe could imitate English. We modeled her along the Margaret Sullavan type, but .shecould pite curves of her own, people were ied, big ones, and to top itall, Benny Polan, a respected guy, Benny wants to marry her. A could ask formore? Then wham! The Story of Dr. Wassell. You see that picture? Cecil B. DeMille. Gary Cooper. Jesus. I kill myself, its all set: theyre going to test her for the part ofDr. Wassells nurse. One of his nurses, anyway. Then wham! The phs." Hepicked a telepho of the air and held it to his ear. "She says, this is Holly, I sayhoney, you sound far away, she says Im in New York, I say what the hell are youdoing in New York when its Sunday and you got the test tomorrow? She says Im inNew York cause Ive never been to New York. I say get your ass on a plane aback here, she says I dont want it. I say whats yle, doll? She says you gotto want it to be good and I dont want it, I say well, what the hell do you want, andshe says when I find out youll be the first to know. See what I mean: horseshit on aplatter." The red cat jumped off its crate and rubbed againsbbr>藏书网t his leg. He lifted the cat ooe of his shoe and gave him a toss, which was hateful of him except he seemednot aware of the cat but merely his own irritableness. "This is what she wants?" he said, flinging out his arms. "A lot of characters theyarent expected? Living off tips. Running around with bums. So maybe she arry Rusty Trawler? You should pin a medal on her for that?" He waited, glaring. "Sorry, I dont know him." "You dont know Rusty Trawler, you t know much about the kid. Bad deal," hesaid, his tongue clug in his huge head. "I was hoping you maybe had influence. Could level with the kid before its too late." "But acc to you, it already is." He blew a sm, let it fade before he smiled; the smile altered his face,made somethile happen. "I could get it rolling again. Like I told you," he said,and now it sourue, "I sincerely like the kid." "What sdals are you spreading, O.J.?" Holly splashed into the room, a towelmore or less ed round her and her wet feet dripping footmarks on the floor. "Just the usual. That youre nuts. "Fred knows that already." "But you dont." "Light me a cigarette, darling," she said, snatg off a bathing cap and shakingher hair. "I dont mean you, O.J. Youre such a slob. You always nigger-lip." She scooped up the cat and swung him onto her shoulder. He perched there withthe balance of a bird, his paws tangled in her hair as if it were knitting yarn; a,despite these amiable antics, it was a grim cat with a pirates cutthroat face; one eyewas gluey-blind, the other sparkled with dark deeds. "O.J. is a slob," she told me, taking the cigarette Id lighted. "But he does know aterrific lot of phone numbers. Whats David O. Selzniumber, O.J.?" "Lay off." "Its not a joke, darling. I want you to call him up and tell him what a genius Fredis. Hes written barrels of the most marvelous stories. Well, dont blush, Fred: youdidnt say you were a genius, I did. e on, O.J. What are you going to do to makeFred rich?" "Suppose you let me settle that with Fred." "Remember," she said, leaving us, "Im his agent. Ahing: if I holler, ezipper me up. And if anybody knocks, let them in." Breakfast at Tiffanys-12 A multitude did. Within the quarter-hour a stag party had takeheapartment, several of them in uniform. I ted two Naval officers and an Air Forceel; but they were outnumbered by graying arrivals beyond draft status. Exceptfor a lack of youth, the guests had no on theme, they seemed strangersamong strangers; indeed, each face, oering, had struggled to ceal dismay atseeing others there. It was as if the hostess had distri.９９lｉｂ?buted her invitations whilezigzagging through various bars; which robably the case. After the initialfrowns, however, they mixed without grumbling, especially O.J. Berman, who avidlyexploited the new pany to avoid discussing my Hollywood future. I was leftabandoned by the bookshelves; of the books there, more than half were abouthorses, the rest baseball. Pretending an i in Horseflesh and How to Tell Itgave me suffitly private opportunity for sizing Hollys friends. Presently one of these became promi. He was a middle-aged child that hadnever shed its baby fat, though some gifted tailor had almost succeeded incamouflaging his plump and spankable bottom. There wasnt a suspi of bone inhis body; his face, a zero filled in with pretty miniature features, had an unused, avirginal quality: it was as if hed been born, then expanded, his skin remainingunlined as a blown-up balloon, and his mouth, though ready for squalls andtantrums, a spoiled sweet puckering. But it was not appearahat singled him out;preserved infants arent all that rare. It was, rather, his duct; for he wasbehaving as though the party were his: like aic octopus, he was shakingmartinis, making introdus, manipulating the phonograph. In fairness, most ofhis activities were dictated by the hostess herself: Rusty, would you mind; Rusty,would you please. If he was in love with her, then clearly he had his jealousy incheck. A jealous man might have lost trol, watg her as she skimmed aroundthe room, carrying her cat in one hand but leaving the other free thten a tieor remove lapel lint; the Air Force el wore a medal that came in for quite apolish. The mans name was Rutherfurd ("Rusty") Trawler. In 1908 hed lost both hisparents, his father the victim of an anarchist and his mother of shock, which doublemisfortune had made Rusty an orphan, a millionaire, and a celebrity, all at the age offive. Hed been a stand-by of the Sunday supplements ever since, a seque had gathered hurrie momentum when, still a schoolboy, he had caused hisgodfather-custodian to be arrested on charges of sodomy. After that, marriage anddivorce sustained his pla the tabloid-sun. His first wife had taken herself, andher alimony, to a rival of Father Divihe sed wife seems unated for,but the third had sued him in New York State with a full satchel of the kind oftestimony that entails. He himself divorced the last Mrs. Trawler, his principalplaint stating that shed started a mutiny aboard his yacht, said mutiingin his being deposited on the Dry Tas. Though hed been a bachelor since,apparently before the war hed proposed to Unity Mitford, at least he was supposedto have sent her a cable to marry her if Hitler didnt. This was said to be thereason Winchell always referred to him as a Nazi; that, and the fact that he attendedrallies in Yorkville. I was not told these things. I read them in The Baseball Guide, another seleoff Hollys shelf which she seemed to use for a scrapbook. Tucked between the pageswere Sunday features, together with scissored snippings from gossip ns. RustyTrawler and Holly Golightly two-on-the-aisle at "Oouch of Venus" preem. Hollycame up from behind, and caught me reading: Miss Holiday Golightly, of the BostonGolightlys, making every day a holiday for the 24-karat Rusty Trawler. "Admiring my publicity, or are you just a baseball fan?" she said, adjusting herdark glasses as she glanced over my shoulder. I said, "What was this weeks weather report?" She wi me, but it was humorl?ess: a wink of warning, "Im all for horses,but I loathe baseball," she said, and the sub-message in her, voice was saying shewished me tet shed ever mentioned Sally Tomato. "I hate the sound of it on aradio, but I have to listen, its part of my research. Therere so few things men talk about. If a ma like baseball, then he must like horses, and if he doesntlike either of them, well, Im in trouble anyway: he dont like girls. And how are youmaking out with O.J.?" "Weve separated by mutual agreement" "Hes an opportunity, believe me." "I do believe you. But what have I to offer that would strike him as anopportunity?" She persisted. "Go over there and make him think he isnt funny-looking. Hereally help you, Fred." "I uand you werent too appreciative." She seemed puzzled until I said:"The Story of Doctor Wassell" "Hes still harping?" she said, and cast across the room an affeate look atBerman. "But hes got a point, I should feel guilty. Not because they would havegivehe part or because I would have been good: they wouldnt and I wouldnt. If I do feel guilty, I guess its because I let him go on dreaming when I wasntdreaming a bit. I was just vamping for time to make a few self-improvements: Iknew damn well Id never be a movie star. Its too hard; and if youre intelligent, itstoo embarrassing. My plexes arent inferior enough: being a movie star andhaving a big fat ego are supposed to go hand-in-hand; actually, its essential not tohave any ego at all. I dont mean Id mind being rid famous. Thats very muy schedule, and someday Ill try to get around to it; but if ithappens, Id like to have my ego tagging along. I want to still be me when I wake upone fine m and have breakfast at Tiffanys. You need a glass," she said,notig my empty hands. "Rusty! Will y my friend a drink?" Breakfast at Tiffanys-13 She was still hugging the cat. "Poor slob," she said, tig his head, "poor slobwithout a s a little inve, his not having a name. But I havent anyright to give him one: hell have to wait until he belongs to somebody. We just sortof took up by the river one day, we dont belong to each other: hes an indepe,and so am I. I dont want to own anything until I know Ive found the place whereme and things belong together. Im not quite sure where that is just yet. But I knowwhat its like." She smiled, ahe cat drop to the floor. "Its like Tiffanys," sh藏书网esaid. "Not that I give a hoot about jewelry. Diamonds, yes. But its tacky to weardiamonds before youre forty; and even thats risky. They only lht on thereally old girls. Maria Ouspenskaya. Wrinkles and bones, white hair and diamonds: It wait. But thats not why Im mad about Tiffanys. Listen. You know those dayswhen youve got the mean reds?" "Same as the blues?" "No," she said slowly. "No, the blues are because yetting fat or maybe itsbeen raining too long. Youre sad, thats all. But the mean reds are horrible. Youreafraid and you sweat like hell, but you dont know what youre afraid of. Exceptsomething bad is going to happen, only you dont know what it is. Youve had thatfeeling?" "Quite often. Some people call it angst." "All right. Angst. But what do you do about it?９9lib?" "Well, a drink helps." "Ive tried that. Ive tried aspirin, too. Rusty thinks I should smoke marijuana, andI did for a while, but it only makes me giggle. What Ive found does the most good isjust to get into a taxi and go to Tiffanys. It calms me dht away, thequietness and the proud look of it; nothing very bad could happen to you there, notwith those kind men in their nice suits, and that lovely smell of silver and alligatorwallets. If I could find a real-life place that made me feel like Tiffanys, then Id buysome furniture and give the cat a name. Ive thought maybe after the war, Fred andI -- " She pushed up her dark glasses, and her eyes, the differing colors of them, thegrays and wisps of blue and green, had taken on a far-seeing sharpness. "I went toMexice. Its wonderful try for raising horses. I saw one plaear the sea. Freds good with horses." Rusty Trawlebbr>r came carrying a martini; he ha over without looking at me. "Im hungry," he announced, and his voice, retarded as the rest of him, produced anunnerving brat-whihat seemed to blame Holly. "Its seven-thirty, and Im hungry. You know what the doctor said." "Yes, Rusty. I know what the doctor said." "Well, then break it up. Lets go." "I want you to behave, Rusty." She spoke softly, but there was a goverhreatof punishment iohat caused an odd flush of pleasure, of gratitude, to pinkhis face. "You dont love me," he plained, as though they were alone."Nobody loves naughtiness." Obviously shed said what he wao hear; it appeared to both excite and relaxhim. Still he tinued, as though it were a ritual: "Do you love me?" She patted him. "Tend to your chores, Rusty. And when Im ready, well go eatwherever you want." "atown?" "But that doesnt mea and sour spareribs. You know what the doctor said." As he returo his duties with a satisfied waddle, I could remindihat she hadnt answered his question. "Do you love him?" "I told you: you make yourself love anybody. Besides, he had a stinkingchildhood." "If it was so stinking, why does he g to it?" "Use your head. t you see its just that Rusty feels safer in diapers than hewould in a skirt? Which is really the choice, only hes awfully touchy about it. He triedto stab me with a butter knife because I told him to grow up and face the issue,settle dolay house with a herly truck driver. Meantime, Ive got himon my hands; which is okay, hes harmless, he thinks girls are dolls, literally." "Thank God." "Well, if it were true of most men, Id hardly be thanking God." "I meant thank God youre not going to marry Mr. Trawler." She lifted an eyebrow. "By the way, Im not pretending I dont know hes rich. Even land in Mexico >sts something. Now," she said, motioning me forward, "letsget hold of O.J." I held back while my mind worked to ostpo. Then I remembered:"Why Traveling?" "On my card?" she said, discerted. "You think its funny?" "Not funny. Just provocative." She shrugged. "After all, how do I know where Ill be living tomorrow? So I toldthem to put Traveling. Anyway, it was a waste of money, those cards. Except I felt I owed it to them to buy some little something. Theyre from Tiffanys." She reached for my martini, I hadnt touched it; she drai in two swallows, andtook my hand. "Quit stalling. Yoing to make friends with O.J." An occurre the door intervened. It was a young woman, and she enteredlike a wind-rush, a squall of scarves and jangling gold. "H-H-Holly," she said,wagging a finger as she advanced, "you miserable h-h-hoarder. Hogging all thesesimply r-r-riveting m-m-men!" Breakfast at Tiffanys-14 She was well over six feet, taller than most men there. They straighteheirspines, sucked in their stomachs; there was a general test to match her swayi. Holly said, "What are you doing here?" and her lips were taut as drawn string. "Why, n-n-nothing, sugar. Ive been upstairs w with Yunioshi. Christmasstuff for the Ba-ba-zaar. But you sound vexed, sugar?" She scattered a roundaboutsmile. "You b-b-boys not vexed at me for butting in on your p-p-party?" Rusty Trawler tittered. He squeezed her arm, as though to admire her muscle,and asked her if she could use a drink. "I surely could," she said. "Make mine bourbon." Holly told her, "There isnt any." Whereupon the Air Force el suggested herun out for a bottle. "Oh, I declare, dos have a f-f-fuss. Im happy with ammonia. Holly, honey," s.９9ｌｉｂ.said, slightly shoving her, "dont you bother about me. I introduce myself." She stooped toward O.J. Berman, who, like many short men in the presence of tallwomen, had an aspiring mist in his eye. "Im Mag ood, from Wild-ood,Arkansas. Thats hill try." It seemed a dance, Berman perf some fancy footwork to prevent his rivalscutting in. He lost her to a quadrille of partners who gobbled up her stammeredjokes like pop tossed to pigeons. It was a prehensible success. She was atriumph liness, so often more beguiling than real beauty, if only because ittains paradox. In this case, as opposed to the scrupulous method of plain goodtaste and stifiing, the trick had been worked by exaggeratis;shed made them oral by admitting them boldly. Heels that emphasized herheight, so steep her arembled; a flat tight bodice that indicated she could goto a bea bathing trunks; hair that ulled straight back, atuating thespareness, the starvation of her fashion-model face. Eveutter, certainlyge still a bit laid on, had been turo adva was the masterstroke, that stutter; for it trived to make her banalities sound somehinal,and sedly, despite her tallness, her assura served to inspire in malelisteners a protective feeling. To illustrate: Berman had to be pounded on the backbecause she said, "Who tell me here is the j-j-john?"; then, pletingthe cycle, he offered an arm to guide her himself. "That," said Holly, "wont be necessary. Shes been here before. She knows whereit is." She was emptying ashtrays, and after Mag Wildwood had left the room, sheemptied ahen said, sighed rather: "Its really very sad." She paused longenough to calculate the number of inquiring expressions; it was suffit. "And somysterious. Youd think it would show more. But heaven knows, she looks healthy. So, well, . Thats the extraordinary part. Wouldnt you," she asked with, but of no one in particular, "wouldnt you say she looked ?" Someone coughed, several swallowed. A Naval officer, who had been holding MagWildwoods drink, put it down. "But then," said Holly, "I hear so many of these Southern girls have the sametrouble." She shuddered delicately, ao the kit for more ice. Mag Wildwood couldnt uand it, the abrupt absence of warmth ourn; the versations she began behaved like green logs, they fumed but wouldnot fire. More unfivably, people were leaving without takielephonehe Air Force el decamped while her back was turned, and this wasthe straw too much: hed asked bbr>her to dinner. Suddenly she was blind. And since ginto artifice bears the same relation as tears to mascara, her attras at oncedissembled. She took it out on everyone. She called her hostess a Hollywooddegee. She invited a man in his fifties to fight. She told Berman, Hitler wasright. She exhilarated Rusty Trawler by stiff-arming him into a er. "You knowwhats going to happen to you?" she said, with no hint of a stutter. "Im going tomarch you over to the zoo and feed you to the yak." He looked altogether willing,but she disappointed him by sliding to the floor, where she sat humming. "Youre a bet up from there," Holly said, stretg on a pair of gloves. Theremnants of the party were waiting at the door, and when the bore didnt budgeHolly cast me an apologetic glance. "Be an angel, would you, Fred? Put her in a taxi. She lives at the Winslow." "Dont. Live Barbizent 4-5700. Ask f Wildwood." "You are an angel, Fred." They were gohe prospect of steering an Amazon into a taxi obliteratedwhatever rese I felt. But she solved the problem herself. Rising on her ownsteam, she stared down at me with a lurg loftiness. She said, "Lets go Stork. Catch lucky balloon," and fell full-length like an axed oak. My first thought was to runfor a doctor. But examination proved her pulse fine and her breathing regular. Shewas simply asleep. After finding a pillow for her head, I left her to enjoy it. The following afternoon I collided with Holly oairs. "You" she said, hurryingpast with a package from the druggi藏书网st. "There she is, on the verge of pneumonia. Ahang-over out to here. And the mean reds on top of it." I gathered from this thatMag Wildwood was still in the apartment, but she gave me no ce to explore hersurprising sympathy. Over the weekend, mystery deepened. First, there was theLatin who came to my door: mistakenly, for he was inquiring after Miss Wildwood. Ittook a while to correct his error, our ats seemed mutually i, but by thetime we had I was charmed. Hed been put together with care, his brown head andbullfighters figure had aness, a perfe, like an apple, an e,something nature has made just right. Added to this, as decoration, were an Englishsuit and a brisk cologne and, what is still more unlatin, a bashful mahesed event of the day involved him again. It was toward evening, and I saw himon my way out to dinner. He was arriving in a taxi; the driver helped him totter intothe house with a load of suitcases. That gave me something to chew on: by Sundaymy jaws were quite tired. Then the picture became both darker and clearer. Breakfast at Tiffanys-15 Sunday was an Indian summer day, the sun was strong, my windoen,and I heard voices on the fire escape. Holly and Mag were sprawled there on ablahe cat betweeheir hair, newly washed, hung lankly. They werebusy, Holly varnishioenails, Mag knitting on a sweater. Mag eaking. "If you ask me, I think youre l-l-lucky. At least theres ohing you say forRusty. Hes an Ameri." "Bully for him." "Sugar. Theres a war on." "And when its over, youve seen the last of me, boy." "I dont feel that way. Im p-p-proud of my try. The men in my family weregreat soldiers. Theres a statue of Papadaddy Wildwood sma the ter ofWildwood." "Freds a soldier," said Holly. "But I doubt if hell ever be a statue. Could be. Theysay the more stupid you are the braver. Hes pretty stupid." "Freds that boy upstairs? I didnt realize he was a soldier. But he does lookstupid." "Yearning. Not stupid. He wants awfully to be on the iaring out: anybodywith their nose pressed against a glass is liable to look stupid. Anyhow, hes adifferent Fred. Freds my brother." "You call your own f-f-flesh and b-b-blood stupid?" "If he is he is." "Well, its poor taste to say so. A boy thats fighting for you and me and all of us." "What is this: a bond rally?" "I just want you to know where I stand. I appreciate a joke, but underh Im as-s-serious person. Proud to be an Ameri. Thats why Im sorry about José." Sheput down her knitting needles. "You do thierribly good-looking, dont you?" Holly said Hmn, and swiped the cats whiskers with her lacquer brush. "If only I couldget used to the idea of m-m-marrying a Brazilian. And being a B-b-brazilian myself. Its such a yon to cross. Six thousand miles, and not knowing the language -- " "Go to Berlitz." "Why oh would they be teag P-p-puese? It isnt as though anyonespoke it. No, my only ce is to try and make José fet politid bee anAmeri. Its such a useless thing for a man to want to be: the p-p-president ofBrazil." She sighed and picked up her knitting. "I must be madly in love. You saw ustogether. Do you think Im madly in love?" "Well. Does he bite?" Mag dropped a stitch. "Bite?" "You. In bed." "Why, no. Should he?" Then she added, soriously: "But he does laugh." "Good. Thats the right spirit. I like a man who sees the humor; most of them,theyre all pant and puff." Mag withdrew her plaint; she accepted the ent as flattery refleg onherself. "Yes. I suppose." "Okay. He doesnt bite9９ｌib?. He laughs. What else?" Mag ted up her dropped stitd began again, knit, purl, purl. "I said -- " "I heard you. And it isnt that I dont want to tell you. But its so difficult toremember. I dont d-d-dwell ohings. The way you seem to. They go out ofmy head like a dream. Im sure thats the n-n-normal attitude." "It may be normal, darling; but Id rather be natural." Holly paused in the processof reddening the rest of the cats whiskers. "Listen. If you t remember, tryleaving the lights on." "Please uand me, Holly. Im a very-very-very ventional person." "Oh, balls. Whats wrong with a det look at a guy you like? Men are beautiful,a lot of them are, José is, and if you dont even want to look at him, well, Id say hesgetting a pretty cold plate of mai." "L-l-lower your voice." "You t possibly be in love with him. Now. Does that answer your question?" "No. Because Im not a cold plate of m-m-mai. Im a warm-hearted person. Its the basis of my character." "Okay. Youve got a warm heart. But if I were a man on my way to bed, Id rathertake along a hot-water bottle. Its more tangible." "You wont hear any squawks out of José," she said platly, her needlesflashing in the sunlight. "Whats more, I am in love with him. Do you realize Iveken pairs yles ihan three months? And this is the sedsweater." She stretched the sweater and tossed it aside. "Whats the point, though? Sweaters in Brazil. I ought to be making s-s-sus." Holly lay bad yawned. "It must be winter sometime." "It rains, that I know. Heat. Rain. J-j-jungles." "Heat. Jungles. Actually, Id like that." "Better you than me." "Yes," said Holly, with a sleepihat was not sleepy. "Better me than you." On Monday, when I went down for the m mail, the card on Hollys box hadbeen altered, a name added: Miss Golightly and Miss Wildwood were now travelingtogether. This might have held my i longer except for a letter in my ownmailbox. It was from a small uy review to whom Id sent a story. They likedit; and, though I must uand they could not afford to pay, they inteopublish. Publish: that meant print. Dizzy with excitement is no mere phrase. I had totell someone: and, taking the stairs two at a time, I pounded on Hollys door. I didnt trust my voice to tell the news; as soon as she came to the door, her eyessquinty with sleep, I thrust the letter at her. It seemed as though shed had time toread sixty pages before she ha back. "I wouldhem do it, not if theydont pay you," she said, yawning. Perhaps my face explained shed misstrued,that Id not wanted advice but gratulations: her mouth shifted from a yawn into asmile. "Oh, I see. Its wonderful. Well, e in," she said. "Well make a pot of coffeeand celebrate. No. Ill get dressed and take you to lunch." Her bedroom was sistent with her parlor: it perpetuated the same camping-outatmosphere; crates and suitcases, everything packed and ready to go, like thebelongings of a criminal who feels the law not far behind. In the parlor there was noventional furniture, but the bedroom had the bed itself, a double o that, andquite flashy: blond wood, tufted satin. She left the door of the bathroom open, and versed from there; between theflushing and the brushing, most of what she said was unintelligible, but the gist of itwas: she supposed I knew Mag Wildwood had moved in and wasnt that ve? Breakfast at Tiffanys-16 because if yoing to have a roommate, and she isnt a dyke, then the bestthing is a perfect fool, which Mag was, because then you dump the lease onthem ahem out for the laundry. One could see that Holly had a laundry problem; the room was strewn, like a girlsgymnasium. " -- and you know, shes quite a successful model: isnt that fantastic! But a goodthing," she said, hobbling out of the bathroom as she adjusted a garter. "It ought tokeep her out of my hair most of the day. And there shouldoo much trouble onthe man front. Shes engaged. Nice guy, too. Though theres a tiny differenheight: Id say a foot, her favor. Where the hell -- " She was on her knees pokinguhe bed. After shed found what she was looking for, a pair of lizard shoes, shehad to search for a blouse, a belt, and it was a subject to ponder, how, from suchwreckage, she evolved the eventual effect: pampered, calmly immaculate, as thoughshed been attended by Cleopatras maids. She said, "Listen," and cupped her handunder my , "Im glad about the story. Really I am." That Monday in October, 1943. A beautiful day with the buoyancy of a bird. Tostart, we had Manhattans at Joe Bells; and, when he heard of my good luck,champagne cocktails on the house. Later, we waoward Fifth Avenue, wherethere arade. The flags in the wind, the thump of military bands and militaryfeet, seemed to have nothing to do with war, but to be, rather, a fanfare arranged inmy personal honor. We ate lunch at the cafeteria in the park. Afterwards, avoiding the zoo (Holly saidshe couldo see anything in a cage), we giggled, ran, sang along the pathstoward the old wooden boathouse, now gone. Leaves floated on the lake; on theshore, a park-man was fanning a bonfire of them, and the smoke, rising like Indiansignals, was the only smudge on the quivering air. Aprils have never meant mue, autumhat season of beginning, spring; which is how I felt sitting withHolly on the railings of the boathouse porch. I thought of the future, and spoke ofthe past. Because Holly wao know about my childhood. She talked of her own,too; but it was elusive, nameless, placeless, an impressionistic recital, though theimpression received was trary to what one expected, for she gave an almostvoluptuous at of swimming and su藏书网mmer, Christmas trees, pretty cousins andparties: in short, happy in a way that she was not, and never, certainly, thebackground of a child who had run away. Or, I asked, wasnt it true that shed b９９ｌiｂ?een out on her own since she was fourteen? She rubbed her nose. "Thats true. The other isnt. But really, darling, you made sucha tragedy out of your childhood I didnt feel I should pete." She hopped off the railing. "Anyway, it reminds me: I ought to send Fred somepeanut butter." The rest of the afternoon we were east a w out ofrelut grocers s of peanut butter, a wartime scarcity; dark came before wedrounded up a half-dozen jars, the last at a delicatessen on Third Ave was he antique shop with the palace of a bird cage in its window, so I took her there tosee it, and she ehe point, its fantasy: "But still, its a cage." Passing a Woolworths, she gripped my arm: "Lets steal something," she said,pullio the store, where at ohere seemed a pressure of eyes, as thoughwe were already under suspi. "e on. Dont be chi." She scouted ater piled with paper pumpkins and Halloween masks. The saleslady wasoccupied with a group of nuns who were trying on masks. Holly picked up a maskand slipped it over her face; she chose another and put it on miheook myhand and we walked away. It was as simple as that. Outside, we ran a few blocks, Ithink to make it more dramatic; but also because, as Id discovered, successful theftexhilarates. I wondered if shed often stolen. "I used to," she said. "I mean I had to. If I wanted anything. But I still do it every now and then, sort of to keep my handin." We wore the masks all the way home. I have a memory of spending many hither and yonning days with Holly; and itstrue, we did at odd moments see a great deal of each other; but on the whole, thememory is false. Because toward the end of the mon>藏书网th I found a job: what is thereto add? The less the better, except to say it was necessary and lasted from ofive. Which made our hours, Hollys and miremely different. Unless it wasThursday, her Sing Sing day, or unless shed gone horseback riding in the park, asshe did occasionally, Holly was hardly up when I came home. Sometimes, stoppingthere, I shared her wake-up coffee while she dressed for the evening. She wasforever on her way out, not always with Rusty Trawler, but usually, and usually, too,they were joined by Mag Wildwood and the handsome Brazilian, whose name wasJosé Ybarra-Jaegar: his mother was German. As a quartet, they stru unmusiote, primarily the fault of Ybarra-Jaegar, who seemed as out of pla theirpany as a violin in a jazz band. He was intelligent, he resentable, heappeared to have a serious link with his work, which was obscurely goveral,vaguely important, and took him to Washington several days a week. How, then,could he survive night after night in La Rue, El Morocco, listening to the Wildwoodch-ch-chatter and staring into Rustys raw baby-buttocks face? Perhaps, like most ofus in a fn try, he was incapable of plag people, seleg a frame fortheir picture, as he would at home; therefore all Ameris had to be judged in apretty equal light, and on this basis his panions appeared to be tolerableexamples of local color and national character. That would explain much; Hollysdetermination explains the rest. Breakfast at Tiffanys-17 Late oernoon, while waiting for a Fifth Avenue bus, I noticed a taxi stopacross the street to let out a girl who ran up the steps of the Forty-sed Streetpublic library. She was through the doors before I reized her, which ardonable, for Holly and libraries were not an easy association to make. I letcuriosity guide me between the lions, debating on the way whether I should admitfollowing her or pretend ce. In the end I did her, but cealed myselfsome tables away from her in the general reading room, where she sat behind herdark glasses and a fortress of literature shed gathered at the desk. She sped fromone book to the , itently lingering on a page, always with a frown, as if itwere printed upside down. She had a pencil poised above paper -- nothing seemedto catch her fancy, still now and then, as though for the hell of it, she made laboriousscribblings. Watg her, I remembered a girl Id known in school, a grind, MildredGrossman. Mildred: with her moist hair and greasy spectacles, her stained fihat dissected frogs and carried coffee to picket lines, her flat eyes that only turoward the stars to estimate their chemical tonnage. Earth and air could not be moreopposite than Mildred and Holly, yet in my head they acquired a Siamese twinship,and the thread of thought that had sewogether ran like this: the averagepersonality reshapes frequently, every few years even our bodies undergo aplete overhaul -- desirable or not, it is a natural thing that we should ge. Allright, here were two people who never would. That is what Mildred Grossman had inon with Holly Golightly. They would never ge because theyd been giventheir character too soon; which, like sudden riches, leads to a lack of proportion: theone had splurged herself into a top-heavy realist, the other a lopsided romantic. Iimagihem in a restaurant of the future, Mildred still studying the menu for itsnutritional values, Holly still gluttonous for everything on it. It would never bedifferent. They would walk through life and out of it with the same determiepthat took small notice of those cliffs at the left. Such profound observations made mefet where I was; I came to, startled to find myself in the gloom of the library, andsurprised all ain to see Holly there. It was after seven, she was fresheningher lipstid perking up her appearance from what she deemed correct for alibrary to what, by adding a bit of scarf, some earrings, she sidered suitable forthe y. When shed left, I wandered over to the table where her booksremaihey were what I had wao see. South by Thunderbird. Byways ofBrazil. The Political Mind of Latin America. And so forth. On Christmas Eve she and Mag gave a party. Holly asked me to e early arim the tree. Im still not sure how they maneuvered that tree into theapartment. The top branches were crushed against the ceiling, the lower ones spreadwall-to-wall; altogether it was not uhe yuletide giant we see in RockefellerPlaza. Moreover, it would have taken a Rockefeller to decorate it, for it soaked upbaubles and tinsel like melting snow. Holly suggested she run out to Woolworths andsteal some balloons; she did: and they turhe tree into a fairly goo?d show. Wemade a toast to our work, and Holly said: "Look in the bedroom. Theres a presentfor you." I had one for her, too: a small package in my pocket that felt even smaller when Isaw, square on the bed and ed with a red ribbon, the beautiful bird cage. "But,Holly! Its dreadful!" "I couldnt agree more; but I thought you wa." "The mohree hundred and fifty dollars!" She shrugged. "A few extra trips to the powder room. Promise me, though. Promise youll never put a living thing in it." I started to kiss her, but she held out her hand "Gimme," she said, tapping thebulge in my pocket. "Im afraid it isnt much," and it wasnt: a St. Christophers medal. But at least itcame from Tiffanys. Holly was not a girl who could keep anything, and surely bynow she has lost that medal, left it in a suitcase or some hotel drawer. But the birdcage is still mine. Ive lugged it to New Orleans, Nantucket, all over Europe, Morocco,the West Indies. Yet I seldom remember that it was Holly who gave it to me,because at one point I chose tet: we had a big falling-out, and among theobjects rotating in the eye of our hurrie were the bird cage and O.J. Berman andmy story, a copy of which Id given Holly when it appeared in the uy review. Sometime in February, Holly had gone on a wirip with Rusty, Mag and JoséYbarra-Jaegar. Our altercation happened soon after she returned. She was brown asiodine, her hair was sun-bleached to a ghost-color, shed had a wonderful time:"Well, first of all we were in Key West, and Rusty got mad at some sailors, or viceversa, anyway hell have to wear a spine brace the rest of his life. Dearest Magended up in the hospital, too. First-degree sunburn. Disgusting: all blisters andcitronella. We couldnt stand the smell of her. So José and I left them in the hospitalao Havana. He says wait till I see Rio; but as far as Im ed Havana take my money right now. We had an irresistible guide, most of him Negro andthe rest of him ese, and while I dont go much for one or the other, thebination was fairly riveting: so I let him play kneesie uhe table, becausefrankly I didnt find him at all banal; but then one night he took us to a blue movie,and what do you suppose? There he was on the s. Of course whe backto Key West, Mag ositive Id spent ..the whole time sleeping with José. So wasRusty: but he doesnt care about that, he simply wants to hear the details. Actually,things were pretty teil I had a heart-to-heart with Mag." We were in the front room, where, though it was now nearly March, the enormousChristmas tree, turned brown and stless, its balloons shriveled as an old cowsdugs, still occupied most of the space. A reizable piece of furniture had beeo the room: an army cot; and Holly, trying to preserve her tropic look, rawled on it under a sun lamp. "And you vinced her?" "That I hadnt slept with José? God, yes. I simply told -- but you know: made itsound like an agonized fession -- simply told her I was a dyke." "She couldnt have believed that." "The hell she didnt. Why do you think she went out and bought this army cot? Leave it to me: Im always top banana in the shock department. Be a darling,darling, rub some oil on my back." While I erf this service, she said:"O.J. Bermans in town, and listen, I gave him your story in the magazine. He wasquite impressed. He thinks maybe youre worth helping. But he says youre on thewrong traegroes and children: who cares?" "Not Mr. Berman, I gather." "Well, I agree with him. I read that story twice. Brats and niggers. Tremblingleaves. Description. It doesnt mean anything." My hand, smoothing oil on her skin, seemed to have a temper of its own: ityearo raise itself and e down on her buttocks. "Give me an example," I saidquietly. "Of something that means something. In your opinion." "Wutheris," she said, without hesitation. The urge in my hand was growing beyond trol. "But thats unreasonable. Youre talking about a work of genius." "It was, wasnt it? My wild sweet Cathy. God, I cried buckets. I saw it ten times." I said, "Oh" with reizable relief, "oh" with a shameful, rising iion, "themovie." Her muscles hardehe touch of her was like stone warmed by the sun. "Everybody has to feel superior to somebody," she said. "But its ary topresent a little proof before you take the privilege." "I dont pare myself to you. Or, Berman. Therefore I t feel superior. Wewant different things." "Dont you want to make money?" "I havent plahat far." "Thats how your stories sound. As though youd written them without knowingthe end. Well, Ill tell you: I youd better make money. You have an expensiveimagination. Not many people are going to buy you bird cages." "Sorry." "You will be if you hit me. You wao a minute ago: I could feel it in yourhand; and you want to now." I did, terribly; my hand, my heart was shaking as I recapped the bottle of oil. "Ohno, I would that. Im only so?９9lib.rry you wasted your money on me: RustyTrawler is too hard a way of earning it." She sat up on the army cot, her face, her naked breasts coldly blue in the sunlamplight. "It should take you about four seds to walk from here to the door. Illgive you two." Breakfast at Tiffanys-18 I went straight upstairs, got the bird cage, took it down a it in front of herdoor. That settled that. Or so I imagined until the m when, as I wasleaving for work, I saw the cage perched on a sidewalk ash- waiting for thegarbage collector. Rather sheepishly, I rescued it and carried it bay room, acapitulation that did not lessen my resolve to put Holly Golightly absolutely out of mylife. She was, I decided, "a crude exhibitionist," "a time waster," "an utter fake":someone o be spoken to again. And I didnt. Not for a long while. We passed each other oairs with loweredeyes. If she walked into Joe Bells, I walked out. At one point, Madame SapphiaSpanella, the coloratura and roller-skatihusiast who lived on the first floor,circulated a petition among the brownstoher tenants asking them to join herin having Miss Golightly evicted: she was, said Madame Spanella, "morallyobjeable" and the "perpetrator of all-night gatherings that endahesafety and sanity of her neighbors." Though I refused to sigly I felt MadameSpanella had cause to plain. But her petition failed, and as April approachedMay, the open-windowed, warm spring nights were lurid with the party sounds, theloud-playing phonograph and martini laughter that emanated from Apt. 2. It was no y to enter suspicious spes among Hollys callers, quitethe trary; but one day late that spring, while passing through the brownstoibule, I noticed a very provocative man examining her mailbox. A person in hisearly fifties with a hard, weathered face, gray forlorn eyes. He wore an old sweatstainedgray hat, and his cheap summer suit, a pale blue, hung too loosely on hislanky frame; his shoes were brown and brandnew. He seemed to have no iioning Hollys bell. Slowly, as though he were reading Braille, he kept rubbing afinger across the embossed lettering of her name. That evening, on my way to supper, I saw the man again. He was standing acrossthe street, leaning against a tree and staring up at Hollys windows. Sinisterspeculations rushed through my head. Was he a detective? Or some underwent ected with her Sing Sing friend, Sally Tomato? The situation revived mytenderer feelings for Holly; it was only fair to interrupt our feud long enough to warhat she was being watched. As I walked to the er, headi toward theHamburg Heaven at Seventy-ninth and Madison, I could feel the mans attentionfocused on９9lｉb? me. Presently, without turning my head, I khat he was followingme. Because I could hear him whistling. Not any ordinary tune, but the plaintive,prairie melody Holly sometimes played on her guitar: Dont wanna sleep, dontwanna die, just wanna go a-travelin through the pastures of the sky. The whistlingtinued across Park Avenue and up Madison. Once, while waiting for a traffic lightto ge, I watched him out of the er of my eye as he stooped to pet a sleazyPomeranian. "Thats a fine animal you got there," he told the owner in a hoarse,trified drawl. Hamburg Heaven was empty. heless, he took a seat right beside me at thelong ter. He smelled of tobacd sweat. He ordered a cup of coffee, but whenit came he didnt touch it. Instead, he chewed on a toothpid studied me in thewall mirror fag us. "Excuse me," I said, speaking to him via the mirror, "but what do you want?" The question didnt embarrass him; he seemed relieved to have had it asked. "Son," he said, "I need a friend." He brought out a wallet. It was as worn as his leathery hands, almost falling topieces; and so was the brittle, cracked, blurred snapshot he handed me. There wereseven people in the picture, all grouped together on the sagging porch of a starkwooden house, and all children, except for the man himself, who had his arm aroundthe waist of a plump blond little girl with a hand shading her eyes against the sun. "Thats me," he said, pointing at himself. "Thats her . . ." he tapped the plumpgirl. "And this one over here," he added, indig a tow-headed beanpole, "thatsher brother, Fred." I looked at "her" again: and yes, now I see it, an embryonic resemblaoHolly in the squinting, fat-cheeked child. At the same moment, I realized who theman must be. "Youre Hollys father." He blinked, he frowned. "Her names not Holly. She was a Lulamae Barnes. Was," he said, shifting the toothpi his mouth, "till she married me. Im her husband. Doc Golightly. Im a horse doctor, animal man. Do some farming, too. ulip,Texas. Son, why are you laughin?" It wasnt real laughter: it was nerves. I took a swallow of water and choked; hepounded me on the back. "This heres no humorous matter, son. Im a tired man. Ive been five years lookin for my woman. Soon as I got that letter from Fred,saying where she was, I bought myself a ticket on the Greyhound. Lulamae belongshome with her husband and her churren." "Children?" "Thems her churren," he said, almost shouted. He meant the four other youngfaces in the picture, two bare-footed girls and a pair of overalled boys. Well, ofcourse: the man was deranged. "But Holly t be the mother of those children. Theyre older than she is. Bigger." "Now, son," he said in a reasoning voice, "I didnt claim they was her natural-bornchurren. Their own preother, precious woman, Jesus rest her soul, shepassed away July 4th, Independence Day, 1936. The year of the drought. When Imarried Lulamae, that was in December, 1938, she was going on fourteen. Maybe anordinary person, being only fourteen, wouldnt know their right mind. But you takeLulamae, she was an exceptional woman. She knew g>ood-and-well what she wasdoing when she promised to be my wife and the mother of my churren. She plainbroke our hearts when she ran off like she done." He sipped his cold coffee, andgla me with a searg earness. "Now, son, do you doubt me? Do youbelieve what Im saying is so?" Breakfast at Tiffanys-19 I did. It was too implausible not to be fact; moreover, it dovetailed with O.J. Bermans description of the Holly hed first entered in California: "You dontknow whether shes a hillbilly or an Okie or what." Berman couldnt be blamed fornot guessing that she was a child-wife from Tulip, Texas. "Plain broke our hearts when she ran off like she done," the horse doctorrepeated. "She had no cause. All the housework was done by her daughters. Lulamae could just take it easy: fuss in front of mirrors and wash her hair. Our owncows, our own garden, chis, pigs: son, that woman got positively fat. While herbrrowed into a giant. Which is a sight different from how they e to us. Twas Nellie, my oldest girl, twas Nellie brought em into the house. She e to meone m, and said: Papa, I got two wild yunguns locked i. I caughtem outside stealing milk and turkey eggs. That was Lulamae and Fred. Well, younever saw a more pitiful something. Ribs stig out everywhere, legs so puny theyt hardly stand, teeth wobbling so bad they t chew mush. Story was: theirmother died of the TB, and their papa dohe same -- and all the churren, a wholeraft of em, they bee off to live with different mean people. Now Lulamae andher brother, them two been living with some mean, no-t people a hundred mileseast of Tulip. She had good cause to run off from that house. She didnt have o leave miwas her home." He leaned his elbows on the ter and, pressinghis closed eyes with his fiips, sighed. "She plumped out to be a real prettywoman. Lively, too. Talky as a jaybird. With something smart to say on everysubject: better than the radio. First thing you know, Im out pig flowers. I tamedher a crow and taught it to say her name. I showed her how to play the guitar. Justto look at her made the tears spring to my eyes. The night I proposed, I cried like ababy. She said: What you want to cry for, Doc? Course well be married. Ive neverbeen married before. Well, I had to laugh, hug and squeeze her: never beenmarried before!" He chuckled, chewed on his toothpick a moment. "Dont tell me thatwoman wasnt happy!" he said, challengingly. "We all doted on her. She didnt haveto lift a finger, cept to eat a piece of pie. Cept to b her hair and send away forall the magazines. We mustve had a hunnerd dollars worth of magazines e intothat house. Ask me, thats what do. Looking at show-off pictures. Readingdreams. Thats what started her walking down the road. Every day shed walk a littlefurther: a mile, and e home. Two miles, and e home. One day she just kepton." He put his hands over his eyes again; his breathing made a ragged noise. "Thecrow I give her went wild and flew away. All summer you could hear him. In theyard. In the garden. In the woods. All summer that damned bird was calling:Lulamae, Lulamae." He stayed hunched over and silent, as though listening to the long-ago summersound. I carried our checks to the cashier. While I aying, he joined me. We lefttogether and walked over to Park Ave was a cool, blowy evening; swankyawnings flapped in the breeze. The quietness between us tinued until I said: "Butwhat about her brother? He didnt leave?" "No, sir," he said, clearing his throat. "Fred was with us right till they took him inthe Army. A fine boy. Fih horses. He didnt know what got into Lulamae, howe she left her brother and husband and churren. After he was in the Army,though, Fred started hearing from her. The other day he wrote me her address. So Ie to get her. I know hes sorry for what she done. I know she wants to gohome." He seemed to be askio agree with him. I told him that I thought hedfind Holly, or Lulamae, somewhat ged. "Listen, son," he said, as we reached thesteps of the brownstone, "I advised you I need a friend. Because I dont want tosurprise her. Scare her hats why Ive held off. Be my friend: let her know Imhere." The notion of introdug Mrs. Golightly to her husband had its satisfying aspects;and, glang up at her lighted windows, I hoped her friends were there, for theprospect of watg the Texan shake hands with Mag and Rusty and José was moresatisfying still. But Doc Golightlys proud ear eyes and sweat-stained hat mademe ashamed of suticipations. He followed me into the house and prepared towait at the bottom of the stairs. "Do I look nice?" he whispered, brushing his sleeves,tightening the knot of his tie. Holly was alone. She answered the door at once; in fact, she was on her way out-- white satin dang pumps and quantities of perfume announced gala iions. "Well, idiot," she said, and playfully slapped me with her purse. "Im in too much of ahurry to make up now. Well smoke the pipe tomorrow, okay?" "Sure, Lulamae. If youre still around tomorrow." She took off her dark glasses and squi me. It was as though her eyes wereshattered prisms, the dots of blue and gray and green like broken bits of sparkle. "He told you that," she said in a small, shivering voice. "Oh, please. Where is he?" She ran past me into the hall. "Fred!" she called dowairs. "Fred! Where are you, darling?" I could hear Doc Golightlys footsteps climbing the stairs. His head appearedabove the banisters, and Holly backed away from him, not as though she werefrightened, but as though she were retreating into a shell of disappoi. Then hewas standing in front of her, .99lｉb?ngdog and shy. "Gosh, Lulamae," he began, aated, for Holly was gazing at him vatly, as though she couldnt place him. "Gee, honey," he said, "dont they feed you up here? Youre so skinny. Like when Ifirst saw you. All wild around the eye." Holly touched his face; her fiested the reality of his , his beard stubble. &quo?9９lｉｂ?t;Hello, Doc," she said gently, and kissed him on the cheek. "Hello, Doc," sherepeated happily, as he lifted her off her feet in a rib-crushing grip. Whoops ofrelieved laughter shook him. "Gosh, Lulamae. Kingdom e." her of them noticed me when I squeezed past them a up to my room. Nor did they seem aware of Madame Sapphia Spanella, who opened her door andyelled: "Shut up! Its a disgrace. Do your wh elsewhere." "Divorce him? Of course I never divorced him. I was only fourteen, fods sake. It couldnt have been legal." Holly tapped ay martini glass. "Two more, mydarling Mr. Bell." Joe Bell, in whose bar we were sitting, accepted the order relutly. "Yourero the boat kinda early," he plained, g on a Tums. It was not yetnoon, acc to the black mahogany clock behind the bar, and hed alreadyserved us three rounds. "But its Sunday, Mr. Bell. Clocks are slow on Sundays. Besides, I haveobed yet," she told him, and fided to me: "Not to sleep." She blushed, and glancedaway guiltily. For the first time since Id known her, she seemed to feel a ojustify herself: "Well, I had to. Doc really loves me, you know. And I love him. Hemay have looked old and tacky to you. But you dont know the sweetness of him, thefidence he give to birds and brats and fragile things like that. Anyone whave you fidence, you owe them a lot. Ive always remembered Do myprayers. Please stop smirking!" she demanded, stabbing out a cigarette. "I do saymy prayers." "Im not smirking. Im smiling. Youre the most amazing person." "I suppose I am," she said, and her face, wan, rather bruised-looking in them light, brightened; she smoothed her tousled hair, and the colors of itglimmered like a shampoo advertisement. "I must look fierce. But who wouldnt? Wespent the rest of the night roaming around in a bus statiht up till the lastminute Doc thought I was going to go with him. Even though I kept telling him: But,Doc, Im not fourteen any more, and Im not Lulamae. But the terrible part is (and Irealized it while we were standing there) I am. Im still stealing turkey eggs andrunning through a brier patch. Only now I call it having the mean reds." Joe Bell disdainfully settled the fresh martinis in front of us. Breakfast at Tiffanys-20 "Never love a wild thing, Mr. Bell," Holly advised him. "That was Docs mistake. Hewas always lugging home wild things. A hawk with a hurt wing. Oime it was afull-grown bobcat with a broken leg. But you t give your heart to a wild thing:the more you do, the strohey get. Until theyre strong enough to run into thewoods. Or fly into a tree. Then a taller tree. Then the sky. Thats how youll end up,Mr. Bell. If you let yourself love a wild thing. Youll end up looking at the sky." "Shes drunk," Joe.. Bell informed me. "Moderately," Holly fessed. "But Doew what I meant. I explai to himvery carefully, and it was something he could uand. We shook hands and heldon to each other and he wished me luck." She gla the clock. "He must be inthe Blue Mountains by now." "Whats she talkin about?" Joe Bell asked me. Holly lifted her martini. "Lets wish the Doc luck, too," she said, toug her glassagainst mine. "Good luck: and believe me, dearest Doc -- its better to look at thesky than live there. Su empty place; so vague. Just a try where thethunder goes and things disappear." TRAWLER MARRIES FOURTH. I was on a subway somewhere in Brooklyn when Isaw that headlihe paper that ba beloo another passeheonly part of the text that I could see read: Rutherfurd "Rusty" Trawler, themillionaire playboy often accused of pro-Nazi sympathies, eloped to Greenwichyesterday with a beautiful -- Not that I wao read any more. Holly had marriedhim: well, well. I wished I were uhe wheels of the train. But Id been wishingthat before I spotted the headline. For a headful of reasons. I hadnt seen Holly, notreally, since our drunken Sunday at Joe Bells bar. The intervening weeks had givenme my own case of the mean reds. First off, Id been fired from my job: deservedly,and for an amusing misdemeanor too plicated to ret here. Also, my draftboard was displaying an unfortable i; and, having so retly escaped theregimentation of a small town, the idea of entering another form of disciplined lifemade me desperate. Between the uainty of my draft status and a lack ofspecific experience, I couldo find another job. That was what.９9ｌib. I was doingon a subway in Brooklyurning from a discing interview with aor ofthe now defuneer, PM. All this, bined with the city heat of the summer,had reduced me to a state of nervous iia. So I more than half meant it when Iwished I were uhe wheels of the train. The headline made the desire quitepositive. If Holly could marry that "absurd foetus," then the army nessrampant in the world might as well march over me. Or, and the question is apparent,was my e a little the result of being in love with Holly myself? A little. For Iwas in love with her. Just as Id once been in love with my mothers elderly coloredcook and a postman who let me follow him on his rounds and a whole family namedMdrick. That category of love gees jealousy, too. When I reached my station I bought a paper; and, reading the tail-end of thatsentence, discovered that Rustys bride was: a beautiful cirl from the Arkansashills, Miss Margaret Thatcher Fitzhue Wildwood. Mag! My legs went so limp with reliefI took a taxi the rest of the way home. Madame Sapphia Spanella met me in the hall, wild-eyed and wringing her hands. "Run," she said. &qu the police. She is killing somebody! Somebody is killing her!" It sounded like it. As though tigers were loose in Hollys apartment. A riot ofcrashing glass, of rippings and callings and overturned furniture. But there were noquarreling voices ihe uproar, which made it seem unnatural. "Run," shriekedMadame Spanella, pushing me. "Tell the police murder!" I ran; but only upstairs to. Hollys door. Pounding on it had o: the racketsubsided. Stopped altogether. But leading to let me i unanswered, and myefforts to break down the door merely culminated in a bruised shoulder. Then belowI heard Madame Spanella anding some newer to go for the police. "Shutup," she was told, "a out of my way." It was José Ybarra-Jaegar. Looking not at all the smart Brazilian diplomat; butsweaty and frightened. He ordered me out of his way, too. And, using his own key,opehe door. "In here, Dr. Goldman," he said, being to a manapanying him. Sino one prevented me, I followed them into the apartment, which wastremendously wrecked. At last the Christmas tree had been dismantled, veryliterally: its brown dry branches sprawled in a welter of torn-up books, broken lampsand phonograph records. Even the icebox had beeied, its tents tossedaround the room: raw eggs were sliding down the walls and in the midst of thedebris Hollys no- was calmly lig a puddle of milk. In the bedroom, the smell of smashed perfume bottles made me gag. I steppedon Hollys dark glasses; they were lying on the floor, the lenses already shattered,the frames cracked in half. Perhaps that is why Holly, a rigid figure on the bed,stared at José so blindly, seemed not to see the doctor, who, testing her pulse,ed: "Youre a tired young lady. Very tired. You want to go to sleep, dont you? Sleep." Holly rubbed her forehead, leaving a smear of blood from a cut finger. "Sleep," she said, and whimpered like an exhausted, fretful child. "Hes the only one wouldever let me. Let me hug him on cold nights. I sala Mexico. With horses. Bythe sea." "With horses by the sea," lullabied the doctor, seleg from his black case ahypodermic. José averted his face, queasy at the sight of a needle. "Her siess is only grief?" he asked, his difficult English lending the question an unintended irony. "She isgrieving only?" "Didnt hurt a bit, now did it?" inquired the doctor, smugly dabbing Hollys armwith a scrap of cotton. She came to suffitly to focus the doctor. "Everything hurts. Where are myglasses?" But she didhem. Her eyes were closing of their own accord. "She is only grieving?" insisted José. "Please, sir," the doctor was quite short with him, "if you will leave me alohthe patient." José withdrew to the front room, where he released his temper ?99ｌｉb.t>on the snooping,tiptoeing presenadame Spanella. "Dont touch me! Ill call the police," shethreatened as he whipped her to the door with Puese oaths. He sidered throwi, too; or so I surmised from his expression. Instead, he invited me to have a drink. The only unbroken bottle we could findtained dry vermouth. "I have a worry," he fided. "I have a worry that thisshould cause sdal. Her crashing everything. dug like a crazy. I must haveno public sdal. It is too delicate: my name, my work." He seemed cheered to learn that I saw no reason for a "sdal"; demolishingones own possessions resumably, a private affair. "It is only a question of grieving," he firmly declared. "When the sadness came,first she throws the drink she is drinking. The bottle. Those books. A lamp. Then Iam scared. I hurry t a doctor." "But why?" I wao know. "Why should she have a fit over, Rusty? If I wereher, Id celebrate." "Rusty?" I was still carrying my neer, and showed him the headline. Breakfast at Tiffanys-21 "Oh, that." He grinned rather sfully. "They do us a grand favor, Rusty andMag. We laugh over it: how they think they break our hearts when all the time wewant them to run away. I assure you, we were laughing when the sadness came." His eyes searched the litter on the floor; he picked up a ball of yelloer. "This," he said. It was a telegram from Tulip, Texas: Received notice young Fred killed in aoverseas stop your husband and children join in the sorrow of our mutual loss stopletter follows love Doc. Holly never mentioned her brain: except once. Moreover, she stopped calling me Fred. June, July, all through the warm months shehibernated like a winter animal who did not know spring had e and gone. Herhair darkened, she put o. She became rather careless about her clothes:used to rush round to the delicatessen wearing a rain-slicker and nothingunderh. José moved into the apartment, his name replag Mag Wildwoods onthe mailbox. Still, Holly was a good deal alone, for José stayed in Washington threedays a week. During his absences she eained no one and seldom left theapartment -- except on Thursdays, when she made her weekly trip to Ossining. Which is not to imply that she had lost i in life; far from it, she seemedmore tent, altogether happier than Id ever seen her. A keen sudden un-Holly-likeenthusiasm for homemakied in several un-Holly-like purchases: at a Parke-Ber au she acquired a stag-at-bay hunting tapestry and, from the WilliamRandolph Hearst estate, a gloomy pair of Gothic "easy" chairs; she bought theplete Modern Library, shelves of classical records, innumerable. MetropolitanMuseum reprodus (including a statue of a ese cat that her own cat hatedand hissed at and ultimately broke), a Waring mixer and a pressure cooker and alibrary of cook books. She spent whole hausfrau afternoons slopping about in thesweatbox of her midget kit: "José says Im better than the y. Really, whowould have dreamed I had such a great natural talent? A month ago I couldntscramble eggs." And still couldnt, for that matter. Simple dishes, steak, a propersalad, were beyond her. Instead, she fed José, and occasionally myself, outré soups(brandied black terrapin poured into avocado shells) Nero-ish ies (roastedpheasant stuffed with pomegranates and persimmons) and other dubious innovations(chi and saffron rice served with a chocolate sauce: "A Indian classic, mydear.") Wartime sugar and cream rationiricted her imaginatio cameto sweets -- heless, she once managed something called Tobacco Tapioca:best not describe it. Nor describe her attempts to master Puese, an ordeal as tedious to me as itwas to her, for whenever I visited her an album of Linguaphone records neverceased rotating on the phonograph. Now, too, she rarely spoke a sentehat didnot begin, "After were married -- " or "When we move to Rio -- " Yet José had neversuggested marriage. She admitted it. "But, after all, he knows Im preggers. Well, Iam, darling. Six weeks gone. I dont see why that should surprise you. It didnt me. Not un peu bit. Im delighted. I want to have at least nine. Im sure some of themwill be rather dark -- José has a touch of le nègre, I suppose you guessed that? Which is fine by me: what could be prettier than a quite y baby with brightgreeiful eyes? I wish, please dont laugh -- but I wish Id been a virgin forhim, for José. Not that Ive warmed the multitudes some people say: I dont blamethe bastards for saying it, Ive always thrown out such a jazzy line. Really, though, Itoted up the ht, and Ive only had eleven lovers -- not ting anythingthat happened before I was thirteen because, after all, that just doesnt t. Eleven. Does that make me a whore? Look at Mag Wildwood. Or Houcker. OrRose Ellen Ward. Theyve had the old clap-yo-hands so many times it amounts toapplause. Of course I havent anything against whores. Except this: some of themmay have an hoo they all have disho hearts. I mean, you tbang the guy and cash his checks and at least not try to believe you love him. Inever have. Even Benny Shacklett and all those rodents. I sort of hypnotized myselfinto thinking their sheer rattiness had a certain allure. Actually, except for Doc, if youwant to t Doc, José is my first non-rat romance. Oh, hes not my idea of theabsolute finito. He tells little lies and he worries eople think aakesabout fifty baths a day: men ought to smell somewhat. Hes too prim, too cautious tobe my guy ideal; he always turns his back to get undressed and he makes too muoise whes and I dont like to see him run because theres something funnylookingabout him when he runs. If I were free to choose from everybody alive, justsnap my fingers a藏书网nd say e here you, I wouldnt pick José. Nehru, hes hemark. Wendell Wilkie. Id settle farbo any day. Why not? A person ought to beable to marry men or women or -- listen, if you came to me and said you waohitch up with Man o War, Id respect your feeling. No, Im serious. Love should beallowed. Im all for it. Now that Ive got a pretty good idea what it is. Because I dolove José -- Id stop smoking if he asked me to. Hes friendly, he laugh me out ofthe mean reds, only I dont have them muy more, except sometimes, ahen theyre not so hideola that I gulp Seal or have to haul myself to Tiffanys: Itake his suit to the er, or stuff some mushrooms, and I feel fine, just great. Ahing, Ive thrown away my horoscopes. I must have spent a dollar on everygoddamn star in the goddamn plaarium. Its a bore, but the answer, is goodthings only happen to you if yood. Good? Ho is more what I mean. Notlaw-type ho -- Id rob a grave, Id steal two-bits off a dead mans eyes if Ithought it would tribute to the days enjoyment -- but unto-thyself-type ho. Be anything but a coward, a pretender, aional crook, a whore: Id rather havecer than a disho heart. Which isnt being pious. Just practical. cer maycool you, but the others sure to. Oh, screw it, cookie -- hand me my guitar, and Illsing you a fada in the most perfect Puese." Those final weeks, spanning end of summer and the beginning of another autumn,are blurred in memory, perhaps because our uanding of each other hadreached that sweet depth where two people unicate more often in silehanin words: an affeate quietness replaces the tensions, the unrelaxed chatter andchasing about that produce a friendships more showy, more, in the surface sense,dramatients. Frequently, when he was out of town (Id developed hostileattitudes toward him, and seldom used his name) we speire evenings togetherduring which we exged less than a hundred words; once, we walked all the wayto atown, ate a ein supper, bought some paper lanterns and stole a boxof joss sticks, then moseyed across the Brooklyn Bridge, and on the bridge, as wewatched seaward-moving ships pass between the cliffs of burning skyline, she said:"Years from now, years and years, one of those ships will bring me back, me and mynine Brazilian brats. Because yes, they must see this, these lights, the river -- I loveNew York, even though it isnt mihe way something has to be, a tree or a streetor a house, something, anyway, that belongs to me because I belong to it." And Isaid: "Do shut up," for I felt infuriatingly left out -- a tugboat in drydock while she,glittery voyager of secure destination, steamed down the harbor with whistleswhistling and fetti in the air. So the days, the last days, blow about in memory,hazy, autumnal, all alike as leaves: until a day unlike any other Ive lived. Breakfast at Tiffanys-22 It happeo fall oh of September, my birthday, a fact which had noeffe events, except that, expeg some form of moary remembrance frommy family, I was eager for the postmans m visit. Indeed, I went downstairsand waited for him. If I had not been l in the vestibule, then Holly would nothave asked me to go horseback riding; and would not, sequently, have had theopportunity to save my life. "e on," she said, when she found me awaiting the postman. "Lets walk acouple of horses around the park." She was wearing a windbreaker and a pair of bluejeans and tennis shoes; she slapped her stomach, drawing attention to its flatness:"Dont think Im out to lose the heir. But theres a horse, my darling old MabelMinerva -- I t go without saying good-bye to Mabel Minerva." "Good-bye?" "A week from Saturday. José bought the tickets." In rather a trance, I let her leadme down to the street. "We ge planes in Miami. Thehe sea. Over theAaxi!" Over the Andes. As we rode in a cab across tral Park it seemed to me asthough I, too, were flying, desolately floating over snow-peaked and perilousterritory. "But you t. After all, what about. Well, what about. Well, you t really runoff and leave everyb?9９ｌiｂ.ody." "I dont think anyone will miss me. I have no friends." "I will. Miss you. So will Joe Bell. And oh -- millions. Like Sally. Poor Mr. Tomato." "I loved old Sally," she said, and sighed. "You know I haveo see him in amonth? When I told him I was going away, he was an angel. Actually" -- she frowned-- "he seemed delighted that I was leaving the try. He said it was all for thebest. Because sooner or later there might be trouble. If they found out I wasnt hisreal hat fat lawyer, OShaughnessy, OShaughnessy sent me five hundreddollars. In cash. A wedding present from Sally." I wao be unkind. "You expect a present from me, too. When, and if, thewedding happens." She laughed. "Hell marry me, all right. In church. And with his family there. Thats why were waiting till we get to Rio." "Does he know youre married already?" "Whats the matter with you? Are y to ruin the day? Its a beautiful day:leave it alone!" "But its perfectly possible -- " "It isnt possible. Ive told you, that wasnt legal. It couldnt be." She rubbed hernose, and gla me sideways. "Mention that to a living soul, darling. Ill hangyou by your toes and dress you for a hog." The stables -- I believe they have been replaced by television studios -- were o Sixty-sixth street Holly selected for me an old sway-back blad whitemare: "Dont worry, shes safer than a cradle." Which, in my case, was a necessaryguarantee, for te pony rides at childhood ivals were the limit of myequestrian experience. Holly helped hoist me into the saddle, then mounted her ownhorse, a silvery animal that took the lead as we jogged across the traffic of tralPark West aered a riding path dappled with leaves denuding breezes dancedabout. "See?" she shouted. "Its great!" And suddenly it was. Suddenly, watg thetangled c..olors of Hollys hair flash in the red-yellow leaf light, I loved her enough tet myself, my self-pitying despairs, and be tent that something she thoughthappy was going to happen. Very gently the horses began to trot, waves of windsplashed us, spanked our faces, we plunged in and out of sun and shadow pools, andjoy, a glad-to-be-alive exhilaration, jolted through me like a jigger of nitrogen. Thatwas one mihe introduced far grim disguise. For all at once, like savage members of a jungle ambush, a band of Negro boysleapt out of the shrubbery along the path. Hooting, cursing, they launched rocks andthrashed at the horses rumps with switches. Mihe blad white mare, rose on her hind legs, whieetered like atightrope artist, then blue-streaked dowh, boung my feet out of thestirrups and leaving me scarcely attached. Her hooves made the gravel stones spitsparks. The sky careerees, a lake with little-boy sailboats, statues went bylicketysplit. Nursemaids rushed to rescue their charges from our awesome approach;men, bums and others, yelled: "Pull in the reins!" and "Whoa, boy, whoa!" and"Jump!" It was only later that I remembered these voices; at the time I was simplyscious of Holly, the cowboy-sound of her rag behind me, never quite catgup, and over and over calling encements. Onward: across the park and out intoFifth Aveampeding against the noonday traffic, taxis, buses that screeglyswerved. Past the Duke mansion, the Frick Museum, past the Pierre and the Plaza. But Holly gained ground; moreover, a mounted poli had joihe chase:flanking my runaway mare, one oher side, their horses performed a pinent that brought her to a steamy halt. It was then, at la9９lｉｂ?st, that I fell off herback. Fell off and picked myself up and stood there, not altogether certain where Iwas. A crowd gathered. The poli huffed and wrote in a book: presently he wasmost sympathetic, grinned and said he would arrange for our horses to be returo their stable. Holly put us in a taxi. "Darling. How do you feel?" "Fine." "But you havent any pulse," she said, feeling my wrist. "Then I must be dead." "No, idiot. This is serious. Look at me." The trouble was, I couldnt see her; rather, I saw several Hollys, a trio of sweatyfaces so white with that I was both touched and embarrassed. "Holy. Idont feel anything. Except ashamed." "Please. Are you sure? Tell me the truth. You might have been killed." "But I wasnt. And thank you. For saving my life. Youre wonderful. Unique. I loveyou." "Damn fool." She kissed me on the cheek. Then there were four of her, and Ifainted dead away. That evening, photographs of Holly were frontpaged by the late edition of theJournal-Ameri and by the early editions of both the Daily News and the DailyMirror. The publicity had nothing to do with runaway horses. It ed quiteanother matter, as the headlines revealed: PLAYGIRL ARRESTED IN NARCOTICSSDAL (Journal-Ameri), ARREST DOPE-SMUGGLING ACTRESS (Daily News),DRUG RING EXPOSED, GLAMIRL HELD (Daily Mirror). Breakfast at Tiffanys-23 Of the lot, the News prihe most striking picture: Holly, entering policeheadquarters, wedged between two muscular detectives, one male, one female. Inthis squalid text even her clothes (she was still wearing her riding e,windbreaker and blue jeans) suggested a gang-moll hooligan: an impression darkglasses, disarrayed coiffure and a Pie cigarette dangling from sullen lips did notdiminish. The caption read: Twenty-year-old Holly Golightly, beautiful movie starletand cafe society celebrity D.A. alleges to be key figure in iional drugsmugglingracket lio racketeer Salvatore "Sally" Tomato. Dets. Patrick orand Sheilah Fezzoi (L. and R.) are shown esc her into 67th St. Prect. See story on Pg. 3. The story, featuring a photograph of a maified as Oliver"Father" OShaughnessy (shielding his face with a fedora), ran three full ns. Here, somewhat densed, are the perti paragraphs: Members of café societywere stuoday by the arrest of geous Holly Golightly, twenty-year-oldHollywood starlet and highly publicized girl-about-New York. At the same time, 2P.M., po.liabbed Oliver OShaughnessy, 52, of the Hotel Seabord, W. 49th St., ashe exited from a Hamburg Heaven on Madison Ave. Both are alleged by DistrictAttorney Frank L. Donovan to be important figures in an iional drug ringdominated by the notorious Mafia-führer Salvatore "Sally" Tomato, currently in SingSing serving a five-year rap for political bribery ... OShaughnessy, a defrockedpriest variously known in crimeland circles as "Father" and "The Padre," has a historyof arrests dating back to 1934, when he served two years for operating a phonyRhode Islaal institution, The Monastery. Miss Golightly, who has no previouscriminal record, was arrested in her luxurious apartment at a swa Sideaddress ... Although the D.A.s office has issued no formal statement, responsiblesources insist the blond aiful actress, not long ago the stant panionof multimillioherfurd Trawler, has been ag as "liaison" between theimprisoomato and his chief-lieutenant, OShaughnessy ... Posing as a relativeof Tomatos, Miss Golightly is said to have paid weekly visits to Sing Sing, and onthese occasions Tomato supplied her with verbally coded messages which she thentransmitted to OShaughnessy. Via this link, Tomato, believed to have been born inCefalu, Sicily, in 1874, was able to keep firsthand trol of a world-wide narcotidicate with outposts in Mexico, Cuba, Sicily, Taehran and Dakar. But theD.A.s office refused to offer aail on these allegations or even verify them ... Tipped off, a large number of reporters were on hand at the E. 67th St. Prectstatiohe accused pair arrived for booking. OShaughnessy, a burly redhairedman, refused ent and kicked one cameraman in the groin. But MissGolightly, a fragile eyeful, even though attired like a tomboy in slacks aherjacket, appeared relatively uned. "Dont ask me what the hell this is about," she told reporters. "Parce-que Je ne sais pas, mes chères. (Because I do not know,my dears). Yes -- I have visited Sally Tomato. I used to go to see him every week. Whats wrong with that? He believes in God, and so do I." ... Then, uhe subheading ADMITS OWN DRUG ADDIiss Golightlysmiled when a reporter asked whether or not she herself is a narcotics user. "Ivehad a little go at marijuana. Its not half so destructive as brandy. Cheaper, too. Unfortunately, I prefer brandy. No, Mr. Tomato never mentioned drugs to me. Itmakes me furious, the way these wretched people keep perseg him. Hes asensitive, a religious person. A darling old man." There is one especially gross error in this report: she was not arrested in her"luxurious apartment." It took pla my own bathroom. I was soaking away myhorse-ride pains in a tub of scalding water laced with Epsom salts; Holly, an attentivenurse, was sitting on the edge of the tub waiting to rub me with Sloans li andtuck me into bed. There was a knock at the front door. As the door was unlocked,Holly called e in. In came Madame Sapphia Spanella, trailed by a pair of civilianclotheddetectives, one of them a lady with thick yellow braids roped round her head. "Here she is: the wanted woman!" boomed Madame Spanella, invading thebathroom and leveling a finger, first at Hollys, then my nakedness. "Look. What awhore she is." The male detective seemed embarrassed: by Madame Spane>lla andby the situation; but a harsh enjoyment tehe face of his panion -- sheplumped a hand on Hollys shoulder and, in a surprising baby-child voice, said:"e along, sister. Yoing places." Whereupon Holly coolly told her: "Getthem cotton-pi hands off of me, you dreary, driveling old bull-dyke." Whichrather ehe lady: she slapped Holly damned hard. So hard, her head twistedon her neck, and the bottle of li, flung from her hand, smithereened oile floor -- where I, scampering out of the tub to enrich the fray, stepped on it andall but severed both big toes. Nude and bleeding a path of bloody footprints, Ifollowed the a as far as the hall. "Dont fet," Holly mao instruct me asthe detectives propelled her dowairs, "please feed the cat." Of course I believed Madame Spanella to blame: shed several times called theauthorities to plain about Holly. It didnt occur to me the affair could have diredimensions until that evening when Joe Bell showed up flourishing the neers. He was too agitated to speak sensibly; he caroused the room hitting his fiststogether while I read the ats. Then he said: "You think its so? She was mixed up in this lousy business?" "Well, yes." He popped a Tums in his mouth and, glaring at me, chewed it as though he wereg my bones. "Boy, thats rotten. And you meant to be her friend. What abastard!" "Just a minute. I didnt say she was involved knowingly. She wasnt. But there,she did do it. Carry messages and whatnot -- " He said: "Take it pretty calm, dont you? Jesus, she could get ten years. More." Heyahe papers away from me. "You know her friends. These rich fellows. edown to the bar, well start phoning. irls going to need fancier shysters than I afford." Breakfast at Tiffanys-24 I was too sore and shaky to dress myself; Joe Bell had to help. Back at his bar hepropped me ielephone booth with a triple martini and a brandy tumbler full ofs. But I couldnt think who to tact. José was in Washington, and I had nonotioo reach him there. Rusty Trawler? Not that bastard! Only: what otherfriends of hers did I know? Perhaps shed been right when shed said she had really. I put through a call to Crestview 5-6958 in Beverly Hills, the number longdistanformation gave me for O.J. Berman. The person who answered said Mr. Berman was having a massage and couldnt be disturbed: sorry, try later. Joe Bellwas insed -- told me I should have said it was a life ah matter; and heinsisted on my trying Rusty. First, I spoke to Mr. Trawlers butler -- Mr. and Mrs. Trawler, he announced, were at dinner and might he take a message? Joe Bellshouted into the receiver: "This is urgent, mister. Life ah." The oute wasthat I found myself talking -- listening, rather -- to the f Wildwood: "Areyou starkers?" she demanded. "My husband and I will positively sue anyone whoattempts to ect our names with that ro-ro-rovolting and de-de-degee girl. Ialways knew she -hop-head with no more morals than a hound-bitheat. Prison is where she belongs. And my husband agrees ohousand pert. We will positively sue anyone who -- " Hanging up, I remembered old Doc down inTulip, Texas; but no, Holly wouldnt like it if I called him, shed kill me good. I rang California again; the circuits were busy, stayed busy, and by the time O.J. Berman was on the line Id emptied so many martinis he had to tell me why I honing him: "About the kid, is it? I know already. I spoke already to Iggy Fitelstein. Iggys the best shingle in New York. I said Iggy you take care of it, sehe bill,only keep my name anonymous, see. Well, I owe the kid something. Not that I oweher anything, you want to e down to it. Shes crazy. A phony. But a real phony,you know? Anyway, they only got her ihousand bail. Dont worry, Iggyllsprionight -- it wouldnt surprise me shes home already." But she wasnt; nor had she returhe m when I went down to feedher cat. Having o the apartment, I used the fire escape and gairahrough a window. The cat was in the bedroom, and he was not alone: a man wasthere, croug ove..r a suitcase. The two of us, each thinking the other a burglar,exged unfortable stares as I stepped through the window. He had a prettyface, lacquered hair, he resembled José; moreover, the suitcase hed been pagtaihe wardrobe José kept at Hollys, the shoes and suits she fussed over,was always carting to menders and ers. And I said, certain it was so: "Did Mr. Ybarra-Jaegar send you?" "I am the cousin," he said with a wary grin and just-perable at. "Where is José?" He repeated the question, as though translating it into another language. "Ah,where she is! She is wailing," he said and, seeming to dismiss me, resumed his valetactivities. So: the diplomat lanning a powder. Well, I wasnt amazed; or in theslightest sorry. Still, what a heartbreaking stunt: "He ought to be horse-whipped." The cousin giggled, Im sure he uood me. He shut the suitcase andproduced a letter. "My cousin, she ask me leave that for his chum. You will oblige?" On the envelope was scribbled: For Miss H. Golightly -- Courtesy Bearer. I sat down on Hollys bed, and hugged Hollys cat to me, a as badly forHolly, every iota, as she could feel for herself. "Yes, I will oblige." And I did: without the least wanting to. But I hadnt the ce to destroy theletter; or the will power to keep it in my pocket when Holly very tentatively inquiredif, if by any ce, Id had news of José. It was tws later; I was sitting byher bedside in a room that reeked of iodine and bedpans, a hospital room. She hadbeen there sihe night of her arrest. "Well, darling," shed greeted me, as Itiptoed toward her carrying a carton of Pie cigarettes and a wheel of umnviolets, "I lost the heir." She looked not quite twelve years: her pale vanillahair brushed back, her eyes, for once minus their dark glasses, clear as rain water --one couldnt believe how ill shed been. Yet it was true: "Christ, I nearly cooled. No fooling, the fat woman almost had me. She was yakking up a storm. I guess I couldnt have told you about the fat woman. Since I didnt know about her myself until my brother died. Right away I wasw where hed gone, what it meant, Freds dying; and then I saw her, shewas there in the room with me, and she had Fred cradled in her arms, a fat meanred bitch rog in a rog chair with Fred on her lap and laughing like a brassband. The mockery of it! But its all thats ahead for us, my friend: this edieing to give you the old razz. Now do you see why I went crazy and brokeeverything?" Except for the lawyer O.J. Berman had hired, I was the only visitor she had beenallowed. Her room was shared by other patients, a trio of triplet-like ladies who,examinih an i not unkind but total, speculated in whispered Italian. Holly explaihat: "They think youre my downfall, darling. The fellow what doneme wrong"; and, to a suggestion that she set them straight, replied: "I t. Theydont speak English. Anyway, I wouldnt dream of spoiling their fun." It was then thatshe asked about José. The instant she saw the letter she squinted her eyes a her lips in a toughtiny smile that advanced her age immeasurably. "Darling," she instructed me, "wouldyou rea the drawer there and give me my purse. A girl doeshis sort ofthing without her lipstick." Guided by a pact mirror, she powdered, painted every vestige of twelve-yearoldout of her face. She shaped her lips with oube, colored her cheeks fromanother. She pehe rims of her eyes, blued the lids, sprinkled her neck with4711; attached pearls to her ears and donned her dark glasses; thus armored, andafter a displeased appraisal of her manicures shabby dition, she ripped opeer a her eyes race through it while her stony small smile grew smaller andharder. Eventually she asked for a Pie. Took a puff: "Tastes bum. But divine," she said and, tossihe letter: "Maybe this will e in handy -- if you everwrite a rat-romance. Dont be hoggy: read it aloud. Id like to hear it myself." It began: "My dearest little girl -- " Holly at oerrupted. She wao know what I thought of the handwriting. I thought nothing: a tight, highly legible, uric script. "Its him to a T. Buttoned up and stipated," she declared. "Go on." "My dearest little girl, I have loved you knowing you were not as others. Butceive of my despair upon disc in such a brutal and public style how verydifferent you are from the manner of woman a man of my faith and career couldhope to make his wife. Verily I grief for the disgrace of your present circumstand do not find it in my heart to add my n to the n that surroundsyou. So I hope you will find it in your heart not to n me. I have my family toprotect, and my name, and I am a coward where those institutioer. Fet me,beautiful child. I am no longer here. I am gone home. But may God always be withyou and your child. May God be not the same as -- José." "Well?" "In a way it seems quite ho. And even toug." "Toug? That square-ball jazz!" "But after all, he says hes a coward; and from his point of view, you must see -- " Holly, however, did not want to admit that she saw; yet her face, despite itsetic disguise, fessed it. "All right, hes not a rat without reason. A supersized,King Kong-type rat like Rusty. Benny Shacklett. But oh gee, golly goddamn," she said, jamming a fist into her mouth like a bawling baby, "I did love him. Therat." The Italian trio imagined a lovers crise and, plag the blame for Hollysgroanings where they felt it belout-tutted their to me. I wasflattered: proud that anyone should think Holly cared for me. She quieted when Ioffered her anarette. She swallowed and said: "Bless you, Buster. And blessyou for being such a bad jockey. If I hadnt had to play Calamity Jane Id still belooking forward to the grub in an unwed mamas home. Strenuous exercise, thatswhat did the trick. But Ive scared la merde out of the whole badge-department bysaying it was because Miss Dykeroo slapped me. Yessir, I sue them on severalts, including false arrest." Until then, wed skirted mention of her more siribulations, and this jestingrefereo them seemed appalling, pathetic, so definitely did it reveal hoable she was nizing the bleak realities before her. "Now, Holly," I said,thinking: be strong, mature, an uncle. "Now, Holly. We t treat it as a joke. Wehave to make plans." "Youre too young to be stuffy. Too small. By the way, what business is it ofyours?" "None. Except youre my friend, and Im worried. I mean to know what you intenddoing." She rubbed her nose, and trated on the ceiling. "Todays Wednesday, isntit? So I suppose Ill sleep until Saturday, really get a good schluffen. Saturdaym Ill skip out to the bank. Then Ill stop by the apartment and pick up anightgown or two and my Mainbocher. Following which, Ill report to Idlewild. Where,as you damn well know, I have a perfectly fine reservation on a perfectly fine plane. And since youre such a friend Ill let you wave me off. Please stop shaking yourhead." "Holly. Holly. You t do that." "Et pourquoi pas? Im not hot-footing after José, if thats what you suppose. Acc to my sus, hes strictly a citizen of Limboville. Its only: why should Iwaste a perfectly fiicket? Already paid for? Besides, Ive never been to Brazil." "Just what kind of pills have they been feeding you here? t you realize, youreunder a criminal indit. If they catch you jumping bail, theyll throw away thekey. Even if you get away with it, youll never be able to e home." "Well, so, tough titty. Anyway, home is where you feel at home. Im still looking." "No, Holly, its stupid. Youre i. Youve got to stick it out." Breakfast at Tiffanys-25 She said, "Rah, team, rah," and blew smoke in my face. She was impressed,however; her eyes were dilated by unhappy visions, as were mine: iron rooms, steelcorridors of gradually closing doors. "Oh, screw it," she said, and stabbed out hercigarette. "I have a fair ce they wont catch me. Provided you keep your bouchefermez. Look. Dont despise me, darling." She put her hand over mine and pressed itwith sudden immense siy. "I havent much choice. I talked it over with thelawyer: oh, I didnt tell him anything regarding Rio -- hed tip the badgers himself,rather than lose his fee, to say nothing of the nickels O.J. put up for bail. Bless O.J.sheart; but on the coast I helped him win more thahou in a single pokerhand: were square. No, heres the real shake: all the badgers want from me is acouple rabs and my services as a states witness against Sally -- nobody hasany iion of proseg me, they havent a ghost of a case. Well, I may berotten to the core, Maude, but: testify against a friend I will not. Not if they prove he doped Sister Kenny. My yardstick is how somebody treats me, and oldSally, all right he wasnt absolutely white with me, say he took a slight advantage,just the same Sallys an okay shooter, and Id let the fat woman snatch me soohahe law-boys pin him down." Tilting her pact mirror above her face,smoothing her lipstick with a crooked pinkie, she said: "And to be ho, that isntall. Certain shades of limelight wreck a girls plexion. Even if a jury gave me thePurple Heart, this neighborhood holds no future: theyd still have up every rope fromLaRue to Peronas Bar and Grill -- take my word, Id be about as wele as Mr. Frank E. Campbell. And if you lived off my particular talents, Cookie, youduand the kind of bankruptcy Im describing. Uh, uh, I dont just fancy a fadeoutthat finds me belly-bumping around Roseland with a pack of West Side hillbillies. While the excellent Madame Trawler sashayes her twat in and out of Tiffanys. Icouldnt take it. Give me the fat woman any day." A nurse, soft-shoeing into the room, advised that visiting hours were over. Hollystarted to plain, and was curtailed by having a thermometer popped in hermouth. But as I took leave, she unstoppered herself to say: "Do me a favor, darling. Call up the Times, or whatever you call, a a list of the fifty richest men inBrazil. Im not kidding. The fifty richest: regardless of race or color. Another favor --poke around my apartment till you find that medal you gave me. The St. Christopher. Ill for the trip." The sky was ?red Friday night, it thundered, and Saturday, departing day, the cityswayed in a squall-like downpour. Sharks might have swum through the air, thoughit seemed improbable a plane could pee it. But Holly, ign my cheerful vi that her flight would not go, tinuedher preparations -- plag, I must say, the chief burden of them on me. For she haddecided it would be unwise of her to e he brownstone. Quite rightly, too: itwas under surveillance, whether by police or reporters or other ied partiesone couldnt tell -- simply a man, sometimes men, who hung around the stoop. Soshed gone from the hospital to a bank and straight then to Joe Bells Bar. "She dontfigure she was followed," Joe Bell told me when he came with a message that Hollywanted me to meet her there as soon as possible, a half-hour at most, bringing:"Her jewelry. Her guitar. Toothbrushes and stuff. And a bottle of hundred-year-oldbrandy: she says youll find it hid down itom of the dirty-clothes basket. Yeah, oh, and the cat. She wants the cat. But hell," he said, "I dont know we shouldhelp her at all. She ought to be protected against herself. Me, I feel like telling thecops. Maybe if I go bad build her some drinks, maybe I get her drunkenough to call it off." Stumbling, skidding up and down the fire escape between Hollys apartment andmine, wind-blown and winded ao the bone (clawed to the bone as well, forthe cat had not looked favorably upon evacuation, especially in suclemeher) I managed a fast, first-rate job of assembling her going-away belongings. Ieven found the St. Christophers medal. Everything iled on the floor of myroom, a poignant pyramid of brassières and dang slippers and pretty things Ipacked in Hollys only suitcase. There was a mass left over that I had to put in papergrocery bags. I couldnt think how to carry the cat; until I thought of stuffing him ina pillowcase. Never mind why, but once I walked from New Orleans to Nancys Landing,Mississippi, just under five hundred miles. It was a light-hearted lark pared tothe jouro Joe Bells bar. The guitar filled with rain, rain softehe papersacks, the sacks spilt and perfume spilled on the pavement, pearls rolled ier: while the wind pushed and the cat scratched, the cat screamed -- but worse,I was frightened, a coward to equal José: those st streets seemed aswarmwith unseen presences waiting to trap, imprison me for aiding an outlaw. The outlaw said: "Youre late, Buster. Did y the brandy?" And the cat, released, leaped and perched on her shoulder: his tail swung like abaton dug rhapsodic music. Holly, too, seemed inhabited by melody, somebouncy bon voyage oompahpah. Unc the brandy, she said: "This was meant tobe part of my hope chest. The idea was, every anniversary wed have a swig. ThankJesus I never bought the chest. Mr. Bell, sir, three glasses." "Youll only wo," he told her. "I wont drink to your foolishness." The more she cajoled him ("Ah, Mr. Bell. The lady doesnt vanish every day. Wontyou toast her?"), the gruffer he was: "Ill have no part of it. If yoing to hell,youll go on your own. With no further help from me." An inaccurate statement:because seds after hed made it a chauffeured limousine drew up outside the bar,and Holly, the first to notice it, put down her brandy, arched her eyebrows, asthough she expected to see the District Attorney himself alight. So did I. And when Isaw Joe Bell blush, I had to think: by God, he did call the police. But then, withburning ears, he announced: "Its nothing. One of them Carey Cadillacs. I hibbr>藏书网red it. Totake you to the airport." He turned his ba us to fiddle with one of his flower arras. Holly said:"Kind, dear Mr. Bell. Look at me, sir." Breakfast at Tiffanys-26 He wouldnt. He wrehe flowers from the vase and thrust them at her; theymissed their mark, scattered on the floor. "Good-bye," he said; and, as though hewere going to vomit, scurried to the mens room. We heard the door lock. The Carey chauffeur was a worldy spe ted our slapdash luggagemost civilly and remained rock-faced when, as the limousine swished uptownthrough a lessening rain, Holly stripped off her clothes, the riding e shednever had a ce to substitute, and struggled into a slim black dress. We didnttalk: talk could have only led tument; and also, Holly seemed too preoccupiedfor versation. She hummed to herself, swigged brandy, she leaned stantlyforward to peer out the windows, as if she were hunting an address -- or, I decided,taking a last impression of a se she wao remember. It was her of these. But this: "Stop here," she ordered the driver, and we pulled to the curb of a street inSpanish Harlem. A savage, a garish, a moody neighborhood garlanded with posterportraitsof movie stars and Madonnas. Sidewalk litterings of fruit-rind and rottednee9９liｂ?r were hurled about by the wind, for the wind still boomed, though the rainhad hushed and there were bursts of blue in the sky. Holly stepped out of the car; she took the cat with her. Cradling him, shescratched his head and asked. "What do you think? This ought to be the right kind ofplace for a tough guy like you. Garbage s. Rats galore. Plenty of cat-bums togang around with. So scram," she said, dropping him; and when he did not moveaway, instead raised his thug-fad questioned her with yellowish pirate-eyes,she stamped her foot: "I said beat it!" He rubbed against her leg. "I said fuck off!" she shouted, then jumped ba the car, slammed the door, and: "Go," she toldthe driver. "Go. Go." I was stunned. "Well, you are. You are a bitch." Wed traveled a block before she replied. "I told you. We just met by the river oneday: thats all. .Indepes, both of us. We never made each other any promises. We never -- " she said, and her voice collapsed, a ti invalid whiteness seized herface. The car had paused for a traffic light. Then she had the door open, she wasrunning dowreet; and I ran after her. But the cat was not at the er where hed bee. There was no one, nothingoreet except a urinating drunk and two Negro nuns herding a file of sweetsingingchildren. Other children emerged from doorways and ladies leaned over theirwindow sills to watch as Holly darted up and down the block, ran bad forthting: "You. Cat. Where are you? Here, cat." She kept it up until a bumpyskinnedboy came forward dangling an old tom by the scruff of its neck: "You wantsa ty, miss? Gimme a dollar." The limousine had followed us. Now Holly let me steer her toward it. At the door,she hesitated; she looked past me, past the boy still his cat ("Haifa dollar. Two-bits, maybe? Two-bits, it aint much"), and she shuddered, she had to grip myarm to stand up: "Oh, Jesus God. We did belong to each other. He was 9９lib?mine." Then I made her a promise, I said Id e bad find her cat: "Ill take careof him, too. I promise." She smiled: that cheerless new pinch of a smile. "But what about me?" she said,whispered, and shivered again. "Im very scared, Buster. Yes, at last. Because itcould go on forever. Not knowing whats yours until youve thrown it away. Themean reds, theyre nothing. The fat woman, she nothing. This, though: my mouthsso dry, if my life depended on it I couldnt spit." She stepped in the car, sank i. "Sorry, driver. Lets go." TOMATOS TOMATO MISSING. And: DRUG-CASE ACTRESS BELIEVED GANGLANDVICTIM. Iime, however, the pres>s reported: FLEEING PLAYGIRL TRACED TORIO. Apparently no attempt was made by Ameri authorities to recover her, andsooter dimio an occasional gossip-ion; as a ory, it was revived only once: on Christmas Day, when Sally Tomato died of aheart attack at Sing Sing. Months went by, a winter of them, and not a word fromHolly. The owner of the brownstone sold her abandoned possessions, the white-satihe tapestry, her precious Gothic chair; a enant acquired the apartment,his name was Quaintance Smith, aertained as malemen callers of anoisy nature as Holly ever had -- though in this instance Madame Spanella did notobject, indeed she doted on the young man and supplied filet mignon whenever hehad a black eye. But in the spring a postcard came: it was scribbled in pencil, andsigned with a lipstick kiss: Brazil was beastly but Buenos Aires the best. NotTiffanys, but almost. Am joi the hip with duhvine $enor. Love? Think so. A藏书网nyhoo am looking for somewhere to live ($enor has wife, 7 brats) and will let youknow address when I know it myself. Mille tendresse. But the address, if it everexisted, never was sent, which made me sad, there was so much I wao writeher: that Id sold two stories, had read where the Trawlers were tersuing fordivorce, was moving out of the brownstone because it was haunted. But mostly, Iwao tell her about her cat. I had kept my promise; I had found him. It tookweeks of after-work roaming through those Spanish Harlem streets, and there weremany false alarms -- flashes of tiger-striped fur that, upon iion, were not him. But one day, one cold sunshiny Sunday winter afternoon, it was. Flanked by pottedplants and framed by lace curtains, he was seated in the window of a warmlookingroom: I wondered what his name was, for I was certain he had one now,certain hed arrived somewhere he belonged. Afri hut or whatever, I hope Hollyhas, too.天涯在线书库《www.tianyabook.com》