Breakfast at Tiffanys-12
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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<cite>.９９lｉｂ?</cite>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 re<cite></cite>move 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?"
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