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I mean the kids the wives bring. It should be sad, seeing the kids there, but it isn't, they have ribbons in their hair and lots of shine on their shoes, you'd think there was going to be ice cream; and sometimes that's what it's like in the visitors' room, a party.

Anyway it's not like the movies: you know, grim whisperings through a grille. There isn't any grille, just a counter between you and them, and the kids can stand on it to be hugged; all you have to do to kiss somebody is lean across.

What I like most, they're so happy to see each other, they've saved up so much to talk about, it isn't possible to be dull, they keep laughing and holding hands.

It's different afterwards," she said. They sit so quiet watching the river go by. Go to sleep. I'm interested. That's why I want you to go to sleep.

Because if I keep on, I'll tell you about Sally. I'm not sure that would be quite cricket. 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, reaching for another apple, "you've got to cross your heart and kiss your elbow — " Perhaps contortionists can kiss their elbow; she had to accept an approximation.

His name is Sally Tomato, and I speak Yiddish better than he speaks English; but he's a darling old man, terribly pious. He'd look like a monk if it weren't for the gold 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 him now, after all I've been going to see him every Thursday for seven months, and I think I'd go even if he didn't pay me.

This one's mushy," she said, and aimed the rest of the apple out the window. He used to come to Joe Bell's bar, the one around the corner: never talked to anybody, just stand there, like the kind of man who lives in hotel rooms.

But it's funny to remember back and realize how closely he must have been watching me, because right after they sent him up Joe Bell showed me his picture in the paper.

All that mumbo jumbo: but they gave him five years along came this telegram from a lawyer. It said to contact him immediately for information to my advantage.

I figured Bergdorf was trying to collect. But I took the gamble and went to see this lawyer if he is a lawyer, which I doubt, since he doesn't seem to have an office, just an answering service, and he always wants to meet you in Hamburg Heaven: that's because he's fat, he can eat ten hamburgers and two bowls of relish and a whole lemon meringue pie.

He asked me how I'd like to cheer up a lonely old man, at the same time pick up a hundred a week. I told him look, darling, you've got the wrong Miss Golightly, I'm not a nurse that does tricks on the side.

I wasn't impressed by the honorarium either; you can do as well as that on trips to the powder room: any gent with the slightest chic will give you fifty for the girl's john, and I always ask for cab fare too, that's another fifty.

But then he told me his client was Sally Tomato. Well, I couldn't: it was too romantic. It doesn't sound right. In fact they make quite a boring fuss.

I'm supposed to be his niece. For an hour's conversation he gives you a hundred dollars? O'Shaughnessy mails it to me in cash as soon as I leave the weather report.

After all, you're not his niece. And what about this weather report? Just messages I leave with the answering service so Mr.

O'Shaughnessy will know for sure that I've been up there. Sally tells me what to say, things like, oh, 'there's a hurricane in Cuba' and 'it's snowing in Palermo.

I only want to rest a moment. So let's don't say another word. Bells in the tower of the next-door church rang the half-hour, the hour. It was six when she put her hand on my arm, a fragile touch careful not to waken.

Because it's cold. There's snow in the wind. Please forgive the other night. You were an angel about the whole thing. Mille tendresse — Holly.

I won't bother you again. I replied, Please do , and left this note at her door with what I could afford, a bunch of street- vendor violets.

But apparently she'd meant what she said; I neither saw nor heard from her, and I gathered she'd gone so far as to obtain a downstairs key. At any rate she no longer rang my bell.

I missed that; and as the days merged I began to feel toward her certain far-fetched resentments, as if I were being neglected by my closest friend.

A disquieting loneliness came into my life, but it induced no hunger for friends of longer acquaintance: they seemed now like a salt-free, sugarless diet.

By Wednesday thoughts of Holly, of Sing Sing and Sally Tomato, of worlds where men forked over fifty dollars for the powder room, were so constant that I couldn't work.

That night I left a message in her mailbox: Tomorrow is Thursday. The next morning rewarded me with a second note in the play-pen script: Bless you for reminding me.

Can you stop 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 shoes sported elevated heels; without these added inches, one might have taken him for a Little Person.

His bald freckled head was dwarf-big: attached to it were a pair of pointed, truly elfin ears. He had Pekingese eyes, unpitying and slightly bulged.

Tufts of hair sprouted from his ears, from his nose; his jowls were gray with afternoon beard, and his handshake almost furry.

The room in which we stood we were standing because there was nothing to sit on seemed as though it were being just moved into; you expected to smell wet paint.

Suitcases and unpacked crates were the only furniture. The crates served as tables. One supported the mixings of a martini; another a lamp, a Libertyphone, Holly's red cat and a bowl of yellow roses.

Bookcases, covering one wall, boasted a half-shelf of literature. I warmed to the room at once, I liked its fly-by-night look. The man cleared his throat.

His cold eyes operated on me, made neat, exploratory incisions. You know the kid long? This is unbelievable. But the kid don't know how to live even when she's got the dough.

She is a phony. But on the other hand you're right. She isn't a phony because she's a real phony. She believes all this crap she believes.

You can't talk her out of it. I've tried with tears running down my cheeks. Benny Polan, respected everywhere, Benny Polan tried.

Benny had it on his mind to marry her, she don't go for it, Benny spent maybe thousands sending her to head-shrinkers.

Even the famous one, the one can only speak German, boy, did he throw in the towel. You can't talk her out of these" — he made a fist, as though to crush an intangible — "ideas.

Try it sometime. Get her to tell you some of the stuff she believes. Mind you," he said, "I like the kid. Everybody does, but there's lots that don't.

I sincerely like the kid. I'm sensitive, that's why. You've got to be sensitive to appreciate her: a streak of the poet. But I'll tell you the truth.

You can beat your brains out for her, and she'll hand you horseshit on a platter. To give an example — who is she like you see her today?

She's strictly a girl you'll read where she ends up at the bottom of a bottle of Seconals. I've seen it happen more times than you've got toes: and those kids, they weren't even nuts.

She's nuts. And with a great deal of youth ahead of her. Now a couple of years back, out on the Coast, there was a time it could've been different.

She had something working for her, she had them interested, she could've really rolled. But when you walk out on a thing like that, you don't 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 The Story of Dr.

Then she could've really rolled. I know, see, cause I'm the guy was giving her the push. It developed that he was a Hollywood actor's agent.

Out at Santa Anita. She's hanging around the track every day. I'm interested: professionally. I find out she's some jock's regular, she's living with the shrimp.

I get the jock told Drop It if he don't want conversation with the vice boys: see, the kid's fifteen. But stylish: she's okay, she comes across.

Even when she's wearing glasses this thick; even when she opens her mouth and you don't know if she's a hillbilly or an Okie or what. I still don't.

My guess, nobody'll ever know where she came from. She's such a goddamn liar, maybe she don't know herself any more. But it took us a year to smooth out that accent.

How we did it finally, we gave her French lessons: after she could imitate French, it wasn't so long she could imitate English. We modeled her along the Margaret Sullavan type, but she could pitch some curves of her own, people were interested, big ones, and to top it all, Benny Polan, a respected guy, Benny wants to marry her.

An agent could ask for more? Then wham! The Story of Dr. You see that picture? Cecil B. Gary Cooper. I kill myself, it's all set: they're going to test her for the part of Dr.

Wassell's nurse. One of his nurses, anyway. The phone rings. I say get your ass on a plane and get back here, she says I don't want it. I say what's your angle, doll?

She says you got to want it to be good and I don't want it, I say well, what the hell do you want, and she says when I find out you'll be the first to know.

See what I mean: horseshit on a platter. He lifted the cat on the toe of his shoe and gave him a toss, which was hateful of him except he seemed not aware of the cat but merely his own irritableness.

Living off tips. Running around with bums. So maybe she could marry Rusty Trawler? You should pin a medal on her for that?

Bad deal," he said, his tongue clucking in his huge head. Could level with the kid before it's too late. Like I told you," he said, and now it sounded true, "I sincerely like the kid.

That you're nuts. You're such a slob. You always nigger-lip. He perched there with the balance of a bird, his paws tangled in her hair as if it were knitting yarn; and yet, despite these amiable antics, it was a grim cat with a pirate's cutthroat face; one eye was gluey-blind, the other sparkled with dark deeds.

What's David O. Selznick's number, O. I want you to call him up and tell him what a genius Fred is. He's written barrels of the most marvelous stories.

Well, don't blush, Fred: you didn't say you were a genius, I did. Come on, O. What are you going to do to make Fred rich?

Another thing: if I holler, come zipper me up. And if anybody knocks, let them in. Within the next quarter-hour a stag party had taken over the apartment, several of them in uniform.

I counted two Naval officers and an Air Force colonel; but they were outnumbered by graying arrivals beyond draft status. Except for a lack of youth, the guests had no common theme, they seemed strangers among strangers; indeed, each face, on entering, had struggled to conceal dismay at seeing others there.

It was as if the hostess had distributed her invitations while zigzagging through various bars; which was probably the case.

After the initial frowns, however, they mixed without grumbling, especially O. Berman, who avidly exploited the new company to avoid discussing my Hollywood future.

I was left abandoned by the bookshelves; of the books there, more than half were about horses, the rest baseball. Pretending an interest in Horseflesh and How to Tell It gave me sufficiently private opportunity for sizing Holly's friends.

Presently one of these became prominent. He was a middle-aged child that had never shed its baby fat, though some gifted tailor had almost succeeded in camouflaging his plump and spankable bottom.

There wasn't a suspicion of bone in his body; his face, a zero filled in with pretty miniature features, had an unused, a virginal quality: it was as if he'd been born, then expanded, his skin remaining unlined as a blown-up balloon, and his mouth, though ready for squalls and tantrums, a spoiled sweet puckering.

But it was not appearance that singled him out; preserved infants aren't all that rare. It was, rather, his conduct; for he was behaving as though the party were his: like an energetic octopus, he was shaking martinis, making introductions, manipulating the phonograph.

In fairness, most of his 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 in check. A jealous man might have lost control, watching her as she skimmed around the room, carrying her cat in one hand but leaving the other free to straighten a tie or remove lapel lint; the Air Force colonel wore a medal that came in for quite a polish.

The man's name was Rutherfurd "Rusty" Trawler. In he'd lost both his parents, his father the victim of an anarchist and his mother of shock, which double misfortune had made Rusty an orphan, a millionaire, and a celebrity, all at the age of five.

He'd been a stand-by of the Sunday supplements ever since, a consequence that had gathered hurricane momentum when, still a schoolboy, he had caused his godfather-custodian to be arrested on charges of sodomy.

After that, marriage and divorce sustained his place in the tabloid-sun. His first wife had taken herself, and her alimony, to a rival of Father Divine's.

The second wife seems unaccounted for, but the third had sued him in New York State with a full satchel of the kind of testimony that entails. He himself divorced the last Mrs.

Trawler, his principal complaint stating that she'd started a mutiny aboard his yacht, said mutiny resulting in his being deposited on the Dry Tortugas.

Though he'd been a bachelor since, apparently before the war he'd proposed to Unity Mitford, at least he was supposed to have sent her a cable offering to marry her if Hitler didn't.

This was said to be the reason Winchell always referred to him as a Nazi; that, and the fact that he attended rallies in Yorkville.

I was not told these things. I read them in The Baseball Guide , another selection off Holly's shelf which she seemed to use for a scrapbook.

Tucked between the pages were Sunday features, together with scissored snippings from gossip columns. Holly came up from behind, and caught me reading: Miss Holiday Golightly, of the Boston Golightlys, making every day a holiday for the karat Rusty Trawler.

I said, "What was this week's weather report? There're so few things men can talk about. If a man doesn't like baseball, then he must like horses, and if he doesn't like either of them, well, I'm in trouble anyway: he don't like girls.

And how are you making out with O. But what have I to offer that would strike him as an opportunity? He really can help you, Fred. Not because they would have given me the part or because I would have been good: they wouldn't and I wouldn't.

If I do feel guilty, I guess it's because I let him go on dreaming when I wasn't dreaming a bit. I was just vamping for time to make a few self-improvements: I knew damn well I'd never be a movie star.

It's too hard; and if you're intelligent, it's too embarrassing. My complexes aren't inferior enough: being a movie star and having a big fat ego are supposed to go hand-in-hand; actually, it's essential not to have any ego at all.

I don't mean I'd mind being rich and famous. That's very much on my schedule, and someday I'll try to get around to it; but if it happens, I'd like to have my ego tagging along.

I want to still be me when I wake up one fine morning and have breakfast at Tiffany's. You need a glass," she said, noticing my empty hands.

Will you bring my friend a drink? It's a little inconvenient, his not having a name. But I haven't any right to give him one: he'll have to wait until he belongs to somebody.

We just sort of took up by the river one day, we don't belong to each other: he's an independent, and so am I.

I don't want to own anything until I know I've found the place where me and things belong together. I'm not quite sure where that is just yet.

But I know what it's like. Diamonds, yes. But it's tacky to wear diamonds before you're forty; and even that's risky.

They only look right on the really old girls. Maria Ouspenskaya. Wrinkles and bones, white hair and diamonds: I can't wait. But that's not why I'm mad about Tiffany's.

You know those days when you've got the mean reds? You're sad, that's all. But the mean reds are horrible. You're afraid and you sweat like hell, but you don't know what you're afraid of.

Except something bad is going to happen, only you don't know what it is. You've had that feeling? Some people call it angst.

But what do you do about it? I've tried aspirin, too. Rusty thinks I should smoke marijuana, and I did for a while, but it only makes me giggle. What I've found does the most good is just to get into a taxi and go to Tiffany's.

It calms me down right away, the quietness and the proud look of it; nothing very bad could happen to you there, not with those kind men in their nice suits, and that lovely smell of silver and alligator wallets.

If I could find a real-life place that made me feel like Tiffany's, then I'd buy some furniture and give the cat a name. I've thought maybe after the war, Fred and I — " She pushed up her dark glasses, and her eyes, the differing colors of them, the grays and wisps of blue and green, had taken on a far-seeing sharpness.

It's wonderful country for raising horses. I saw one place near the sea. Fred's good with horses. You know what the doctor said. I know what the doctor said.

Let's go. Still he continued, as though it were a ritual: "Do you love me? And when I'm ready, we'll go eat wherever you want. Besides, he had a stinking childhood.

Can't you see it's just that Rusty feels safer in diapers than he would in a skirt? Which is really the choice, only he's awfully touchy about it.

He tried to stab me with a butter knife because I told him to grow up and face the issue, settle down and play house with a nice fatherly truck driver.

Meantime, I've got him on my hands; which is okay, he's harmless, he thinks girls are dolls, literally. Even land in Mexico costs something.

Now," she said, motioning me forward, "let's get hold of O. Then I remembered: "Why Traveling? Just provocative. So I told them to put Traveling.

Anyway, it was a waste of money, ordering those cards. Except I felt I owed it to them to buy some little some thing. They're from Tiffany's.

You're going to make friends with O. It was a young woman, and she entered like a wind-rush, a squall of scarves and jangling gold.

Hogging all these simply r-r-riveting m-m-men! They straightened their spines, sucked in their stomachs; there was a general contest to match her swaying height.

Holly said, "What are you doing here? I've been upstairs working with Yunioshi. Christmas stuff for the Ba-ba-zaar. But you sound vexed, sugar?

He squeezed her arm, as though to admire her muscle, and asked her if she could use a drink. I'm happy with ammonia.

Holly, honey," she said, slightly shoving her, "don't you bother about me. I can introduce myself. Berman, who, like many short men in the presence of tall women, had an aspiring mist in his eye.

That's hill country. He lost her to a quadrille of partners who gobbled up her stammered jokes like popcorn tossed to pigeons. It was a comprehensible success.

She was a triumph over ugliness, so often more beguiling than real beauty, if only because it contains paradox. In this case, as opposed to the scrupulous method of plain good taste and scientific grooming, the trick had been worked by exaggerating defects; she'd made them ornamental by admitting them boldly.

Heels that emphasized her height, so steep her ankles trembled; a flat tight bodice that indicated she could go to a beach in bathing trunks; hair that was pulled straight back, accentuating the spareness, the starvation of her fashion-model face.

Even the stutter, certainly genuine but still a bit laid on, had been turned to advantage. It was the master stroke, that stutter; for it contrived to make her banalities sound somehow original, and secondly, despite her tallness, her assurance, it served to inspire in male listeners a protective feeling.

To illustrate: Berman had to be pounded on the back because she said, "Who can tell me w-w-where is the j-j-john? She's been here before. She knows where it is.

You'd think it would show more. But heaven knows, she looks healthy. So, well, clean. That's the extraordinary part. Wouldn't you," she asked with concern, but of no one in particular, "wouldn't you say she looked clean?

A Naval officer, who had been holding Mag Wildwood's drink, put it down. Mag Wildwood couldn't understand it, the abrupt absence of warmth on her return; the conversations she began behaved like green logs, they fumed but would not fire.

More unforgivably, people were leaving without taking her telephone number. The Air Force colonel decamped while her back was turned, and this was the straw too much: he'd asked her to dinner.

Suddenly she was blind. And since gin to artifice bears the same relation as tears to mascara, her attractions at once dissembled.

She took it out on everyone. She called her hostess a Hollywood degenerate. She invited a man in his fifties to fight.

She told Berman, Hitler was right. She exhilarated Rusty Trawler by stiff-arming him into a comer. Get up from there," Holly said, stretching on a pair of gloves.

The remnants of the party were waiting at the door, and when the bore didn't budge Holly cast me an apologetic glance. Put her in a taxi.

She lives at the Winslow. Live Barbizon. Regent Ask for Mag Wildwood. The prospect of steering an Amazon into a taxi obliterated whatever resentment I felt.

But she solved the problem herself. Rising on her own steam, she stared down at me with a lurching loftiness. She said, "Let's go Stork.

Catch lucky balloon," and fell full-length like an axed oak. My first thought was to run for a doctor. But examination proved her pulse fine and her breathing regular.

She was simply asleep. After finding a pillow for her head, I left her to enjoy it. The following afternoon I collided with Holly on the stairs.

A hang-over out to here. And the mean reds on top of it. Over the weekend, mystery deepened. First, there was the Latin who came to my door: mistakenly, for he was inquiring after Miss Wildwood.

It took a while to correct his error, our accents seemed mutually incoherent, but by the time we had I was charmed.

He'd been put together with care, his brown head and bullfighter's figure had an exactness, a perfection, like an apple, an orange, something nature has made just right.

Added to this, as decoration, were an English suit and a brisk cologne and, what is still more unlatin, a bashful manner.

The second event of the day involved him again. It was toward evening, and I saw him on my way out to dinner. He was arriving in a taxi; the driver helped him totter into the house with a load of suitcases.

That gave me something to chew on: by Sunday my jaws were quite tired. Then the picture became both darker and clearer.

Sunday was an Indian summer day, the sun was strong, my window was open, and I heard voices on the fire escape. Holly and Mag were sprawled there on a blanket, the cat between them.

Their hair, newly washed, hung lankly. They were busy. Holly varnishing her toenails, Mag knitting on a sweater.

Mag was speaking. At least there's one thing you can say for Rusty. He's an American. There's a war on. I'm p-p-proud of my country.

The men in my family were great soldiers. There's a statue of Papadaddy Wildwood smack in the center of Wildwood. Could be. They say the more stupid you are the braver.

He's pretty stupid. I didn't realize he was a soldier. But he does look stupid. Not stupid. He wants awfully to be on the inside staring out: anybody with their nose pressed against a glass is liable to look stupid.

Anyhow, he's a different Fred. Fred's my brother. A boy that's fighting for you and me and all of us. I appreciate a joke, but underneath I'm a s-s-serious person.

Proud to be an American. And being a B-b-brazilian myself. It's such a canyon to cross. Six thousand miles, and not knowing the language — " "Go to Berlitz.

It isn't as though anyone spoke it. It's such a useless thing for a man to want to be: the p-p-president of Brazil. You saw us together. Do you think I'm madly in love?

Does he bite? In bed. Should he? That's the right spirit. I like a man who sees the humor; most of them, they're all pant and puff. I suppose. He doesn't bite.

He laughs. What else? And it isn't that I don't want to tell you. But it's so difficult to remember.

I don't d-d-dwell on these things. The way you seem to. They go out of my head like a dream. I'm sure that's the n-n-normal attitude.

If you can't remember, try leaving the lights on. I'm a very- very-very conventional person. What's wrong with a decent look at a guy you like?

Does that answer your question? Because I'm not a cold plate of m-m-macaroni. I'm a warm-hearted person.

It's the basis of my character. You've got a warm heart. But if I were a man on my way to bed. I'd rather take along a hot-water bottle.

It's more tangible. Do you realize I've knitted ten pairs of Argyles in less than three months? And this is the second sweater. Sweaters in Brazil.

I ought to be making s-s-sun helmets. Actually, I'd like that. This might have held my interest longer except for a letter in my own mailbox.

It was from a small university review to whom I'd sent a story. They liked it; and, though I must understand they could not afford to pay, they intended to publish.

Publish: that meant print. Dizzy with excitement is no mere phrase. I had to tell someone: and, taking the stairs two at a time, I pounded on Holly's door.

I didn't trust my voice to tell the news; as soon as she came to the door, her eyes squinty with sleep, I thrust the letter at her.

It seemed as though she'd had time to read sixty pages before she handed it back. Perhaps my face explained she'd misconstrued, that I'd not wanted advice but congratulations: her mouth shifted from a yawn into a smile.

It's wonderful. Well, come in," she said. I'll get dressed and take you to lunch. In the parlor there was no conventional furniture, but the bedroom had the bed itself, a double one at that, and quite flashy: blond wood, tufted satin.

She left the door of the bathroom open, and conversed from there; between the flushing and the brushing, most of what she said was unintelligible, but the gist of it was: she supposed I knew Mag Wildwood had moved in and wasn't that convenient?

One could see that Holly had a laundry problem; the room was strewn, like a girl's gymnasium. But a good thing," she said, hobbling out of the bathroom as she adjusted a garter.

And there shouldn't be too much trouble on the man front. She's engaged. Nice guy, too. Though there's a tiny difference in height: I'd say a foot, her favor.

Where the hell — " She was on her knees poking under the bed. After she'd found what she was looking for, a pair of lizard shoes, she had to search for a blouse, a belt, and it was a subject to ponder, how, from such wreckage, she evolved the eventual effect: pampered, calmly immaculate, as though she'd been attended by Cleopatra's maids.

She said, "Listen," and cupped her hand under my chin, "I'm glad about the story. Really I am.

A beautiful day with the buoyancy of a bird. To start, we had Manhattans at Joe Bell's; and, when he heard of my good luck, champagne cocktails on the house.

Later, we wandered toward Fifth Avenue, where there was a parade. The flags in the wind, the thump of military bands and military feet, seemed to have nothing to do with war, but to be, rather, a fanfare arranged in my personal honor.

We ate lunch at the cafeteria in the park. Afterwards, avoiding the zoo Holly said she couldn't bear to see anything in a cage , we giggled, ran, sang along the paths toward the old wooden boathouse, now gone.

Leaves floated on the lake; on the shore, a park-man was fanning a bonfire of them, and the smoke, rising like Indian signals, was the only smudge on the quivering air.

Aprils have never meant much to me, autumns seem that season of beginning, spring; which is how I felt sitting with Holly on the railings of the boathouse porch.

I thought of the future, and spoke of the past. Because Holly wanted to know about my childhood. She talked of her own, too; but it was elusive, nameless, placeless, an impressionistic recital, though the impression received was contrary to what one expected, for she gave an almost voluptuous account of swimming and summer, Christmas trees, pretty cousins and parties: in short, happy in a way that she was not, and never, certainly, the background of a child who had run away.

Or, I asked, wasn't it true that she'd been out on her own since she was fourteen? She rubbed her nose. The other isn't. But really, darling, you made such a tragedy out of your childhood I didn't feel I should compete.

It was near the antique shop with the palace of a bird cage in its window, so I took her there to see it, and she enjoyed the point, its fantasy: "But still, it's a cage.

Don't be chicken. The saleslady was occupied with a group of nuns who were trying on masks. Holly picked up a mask and slipped it over her face; she chose another and put it on mine; then she took my hand and we walked away.

It was as simple as that. Outside, we ran a few blocks, I think to make it more dramatic; but also because, as I'd discovered, successful theft exhilarates.

I wondered if she'd often stolen. If I wanted anything. But I still do it every now and then, sort of to keep my hand in. I have a memory of spending many hither and yonning days with Holly; and it's true, we did at odd moments see a great deal of each other; but on the whole, the memory is false.

Because toward the end of the month I found a job: what is there to add? The less the better, except to say it was necessary and lasted from nine to five.

Which made our hours, Holly's and mine, extremely different. Unless it was Thursday, her Sing Sing day, or unless she'd gone horseback riding in the park, as she did occasionally, Holly was hardly up when I came home.

Sometimes, stopping there, I shared her wake-up coffee while she dressed for the evening. As a quartet, they struck an unmusical note, primarily the fault of Ybarra-Jaegar, who seemed as out of place in their company as a violin in a jazz band.

He was intelligent, he was presentable, he appeared to have a serious link with his work, which was obscurely governmental, 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 Wildwood ch-ch-chatter and staring into Rusty's raw baby-buttocks face?

Perhaps, like most of us in a foreign country, he was incapable of placing people, selecting a frame for their picture, as he would at home; therefore all Americans had to be judged in a pretty equal light, and on this basis his companions appeared to be tolerable examples of local color and national character.

That would explain much; Holly's determination explains the rest. Late one afternoon, while waiting for a Fifth Avenue bus, I noticed a taxi stop across the street to let out a girl who ran up the steps of the Forty-second Street public library.

She was through the doors before I recognized her, which was pardonable, for Holly and libraries were not an easy association to make.

I let curiosity guide me between the lions, debating on the way whether I should admit following her or pretend coincidence.

In the end I did neither, but concealed myself some tables away from her in the general reading room, where she sat behind her dark glasses and a fortress of literature she'd gathered at the desk.

She sped from one book to the next, intermittently lingering on a page, always with a frown, as if it were printed upside down.

She had a pencil poised above paper — nothing seemed to catch her fancy, still now and then, as though for the hell of it, she made laborious scribblings.

Watching her, I remembered a girl I'd known in school, a grind, Mildred Grossman. Mildred: with her moist hair and greasy spectacles, her stained fingers that dissected frogs and carried coffee to picket lines, her flat eyes that only turned toward the stars to estimate their chemical tonnage.

Earth and air could not be more opposite than Mildred and Holly, yet in my head they acquired a Siamese twinship, and the thread of thought that had sewn them together ran like this: the average personality reshapes frequently, every few years even our bodies undergo a complete overhaul — desirable or not, it is a natural thing that we should change.

All right, here were two people who never would. That is what Mildred Grossman had in common with Holly Golightly. They would never change because they'd been given their character too soon; which, like sudden riches, leads to a lack of proportion: the one had splurged herself into a top-heavy realist, the other a lopsided romantic.

I imagined them in a restaurant of the future, Mildred still studying the menu for its nutritional values, Holly still gluttonous for everything on it.

It would never be different. They would walk through life and out of it with the same determined step that took small notice of those cliffs at the left.

Such profound observations made me forget where I was; I came to, startled to find myself in the gloom of the library, and surprised all over again to see Holly there.

It was after seven, she was freshening her lipstick and perking up her appearance from what she deemed correct for a library to what, by adding a bit of scarf, some earrings, she considered suitable for the Colony.

When she'd left, I wandered over to the table where her books remained; they were what I had wanted to see. South by Thunderbird. And so forth.

On Christmas Eve she and Mag gave a party. Holly asked me to come early and help trim the tree. I'm still not sure how they maneuvered that tree into the apartment.

The top branches were crushed against the ceiling, the lower ones spread wall-to-wall; altogether it was not unlike the yuletide giant we see in Rockefeller Plaza.

Moreover, it would have taken a Rockefeller to decorate it, for it soaked up baubles and tinsel like melting snow.

Holly suggested she run out to Woolworth's and steal some balloons; she did: and they turned the tree into a fairly good show. We made a toast to our work, and Holly said: "Look in the bedroom.

There's a present for you. It's dreadful! Three hundred and fifty dollars! Promise me, though. Promise you'll never put a living thing in it.

Christopher's medal. But at least it came from Tiffany's. Holly was not a girl who could keep anything, and surely by now she has lost that medal, left it in a suitcase or some hotel drawer.

But the bird cage is still mine. Yet I seldom remember that it was Holly who gave it to me, because at one point I chose to forget: we had a big falling-out, and among the objects rotating in the eye of our hurricane were the bird cage and O.

Berman and my story, a copy of which I'd given Holly when it appeared in the university review. Our altercation happened soon after she returned.

She was brown as iodine, her hair was sun-bleached to a ghost-color, she'd had a wonderful time: "Well, first of all we were in Key West, and Rusty got mad at some sailors, or vice versa, anyway he'll have to wear a spine brace the rest of his life.

Dearest Mag ended up in the hospital, too. First-degree sunburn. Disgusting: all blisters and citronella. We couldn't stand the smell of her.

He says wait till I see Rio; but as far as I'm concerned Havana can take my money right now. We had an irresistible guide, most of him Negro and the rest of him Chinese, and while I don't go much for one or the other, the combination was fairly riveting: so I let him play kneesie under the table, because frankly I didn't 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 screen. So was Rusty: but he doesn't care about that, he simply wants to hear the details.

Actually, things were pretty tense until I had a heart-to-heart with Mag. A recognizable piece of furniture had been added to the room: an army cot; and Holly, trying to preserve her tropic look, was sprawled on it under a sun lamp.

God, yes. I simply told — but you know: made it sound like an ag onized confession — simply told her I was a dyke.

Why do you think she went out and bought this army cot? Feave it to me: I'm always top banana in the shock department.

Be a darling, darling, rub some oil on my back. Berman's in town, and listen, I gave him your story in the magazine. Fortune hunter Holly Golightly finds herself captivated by aspiring writer Paul Varjak, who's moved into her building on a wealthy woman's dime.

As romance blooms between Paul and Holly, Doc Golightly shows up on the scene, revealing Holly's past. Yet to fulfill their rock and roll destiny, the now middle-aged best friends Bill Phineas and Ferb travel across the galaxy to rescue their older sister Candace, who An anarchic, hip-hop inspired comedy that follows four city boys on a wilderness An ex-soldier, a teen and a cop collide in New Orleans as they hunt for the source Seeking fulfillment, a young drifter forgoes isolation to embark on a year-long murder Breakfast at Tiffany's TMDb Score.

Blake Edwards. Audrey Hepburn as Holly Golightly. George Peppard as Paul Varjak. Patricia Neal as 2E Failenson. George Peppard.

Patricia Neal. Buddy Ebsen.