Breakfast at Tiffanys-15
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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 <tt></tt>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. Doe<s></s>s 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 wa<bdi></bdi>nted 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?
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