Breakfast at Tiffanys-1

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    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 the<strike></strike>key 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<cite>.99lib.</cite>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<strike>?９9liｂ?</strike>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<dfn>九九藏书</dfn>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<samp>.99ｌｉｂ?</samp>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.

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