Breakfast at Tiffany's Read online

  “I am the cousin,” he said with a wary grin and just-penetrable accent.

  “Where is José?”

  He repeated the question, as though translating it into another language. “Ah, where she is! She is waiting,” he said and, seeming to dismiss me, resumed his valet activities.

  So: the diplomat was planning a powder. Well, I wasn’t amazed; or in the slightest sorry. Still, what a heartbreaking stunt: “He ought to be horsewhipped.”

  The cousin giggled, I’m sure he understood me. He shut the suitcase and produced 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 Holly’s bed, and hugged Holly’s cat to me, and felt as badly for Holly, every iota, as she could feel for herself.

  “Yes, I will oblige.”

  AND I DID: WITHOUT THE least wanting to. But I hadn’t the courage to destroy the letter; or the will power to keep it in my pocket when Holly very tentatively inquired if, if by any chance, I’d had news of José. It was two mornings later; I was sitting by her bedside in a room that reeked of iodine and bedpans, a hospital room. She had been there since the night of her arrest. “Well, darling,” she’d greeted me, as I tiptoed toward her carrying a carton of Picayune cigarettes and a wheel of new-autumn violets, “I lost the heir.” She looked not quite twelve years: her pale vanilla hair brushed back, her eyes, for once minus their dark glasses, clear as rain water—one couldn’t believe how ill she’d 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 couldn’t have told you about the fat woman. Since I didn’t know about her myself until my brother died. Right away I was wondering where he’d gone, what it meant, Fred’s dying; and then I saw her, she was there in the room with me, and she had Fred cradled in her arms, a fat mean red bitch rocking in a rocking chair with Fred on her lap and laughing like a brass band. The mockery of it! But it’s all that’s ahead for us, my friend: this comedienne waiting to give you the old razz. Now do you see why I went crazy and broke everything?”

  Except for the lawyer O.J. Berman had hired, I was the only visitor she had been allowed. Her room was shared by other patients, a trio of triplet-like ladies who, examining me with an interest not unkind but total, speculated in whispered Italian. Holly explained that: “They think you’re my downfall, darling. The fellow what done me wrong”; and, to a suggestion that she set them straight, replied: “I can’t. They don’t speak English. Anyway, I wouldn’t dream of spoiling their fun.” It was then that she asked about José.

  The instant she saw the letter she squinted her eyes and bent her lips in a tough tiny smile that advanced her age immeasurably. “Darling,” she instructed me, “would you reach in the drawer there and give me my purse. A girl doesn’t read this sort of thing without her lipstick.”

  Guided by a compact mirror, she powdered, painted every vestige of twelve-year-old out of her face. She shaped her lips with one tube, colored her cheeks from another. She penciled the rims of her eyes, blued the lids, sprinkled her neck with 4711; attached pearls to her ears and donned her dark glasses; thus armored, and after a displeased appraisal of her manicure’s shabby condition, she ripped open the letter and let her eyes race through it while her stony small smile grew smaller and harder. Eventually she asked for a Picayune. Took a puff: “Tastes bum. But divine,” she said and, tossing me the letter: “Maybe this will come in handy—if you ever write a rat-romance. Don’t be hoggy: read it aloud. I’d like to hear it myself.”

  It began: “My dearest little girl—”

  Holly at once interrupted. She wanted to know what I thought of the handwriting. I thought nothing: a tight, highly legible, uneccentric script. “It’s him to a T. Buttoned up and constipated,” she declared. “Go on.”

  “My dearest little girl, I have loved you knowing you were not as others. But conceive of my despair upon discovering in such a brutal and public style how very different you are from the manner of woman a man of my faith and career could hope to make his wife. Verily I grief for the disgrace of your present circumstance, and do not find it in my heart to add my condemn to the condemn that surrounds you. So I hope you will find it in your heart not to condemn me. I have my family to protect, and my name, and I am a coward where those institutions enter. Forget me, beautiful child. I am no longer here. I am gone home. But may God always be with you and your child. May God be not the same as—José.”

  “Well?”

  “In a way it seems quite honest. And even touching.”

  “Touching? That square-ball jazz!”

  “But after all, he says he’s 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 its cosmetic disguise, confessed it. “All right, he’s not a rat without reason. A super-sized, 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. The rat.”

  The Italian trio imagined a lover’s crise and, placing the blame for Holly’s groanings where they felt it belonged, tut-tutted their tongues at me. I was flattered: proud that anyone should think Holly cared for me. She quieted when I offered her another cigarette. She swallowed and said: “Bless you, Buster. And bless you for being such a bad jockey. If I hadn’t had to play Calamity Jane I’d still be looking forward to the grub in an unwed mama’s home. Strenuous exercise, that’s what did the trick. But I’ve scared la merde out of the whole badge-department by saying it was because Miss Dykeroo slapped me. Yessir, I can sue them on several counts, including false arrest.”

  Until then, we’d skirted mention of her more sinister tribulations, and this jesting reference to them seemed appalling, pathetic, so definitely did it reveal how incapable she was of recognizing the bleak realities before her. “Now, Holly,” I said, thinking: be strong, mature, an uncle. “Now, Holly. We can’t treat it as a joke. We have to make plans.”

  “You’re too young to be stuffy. Too small. By the way, what business is it of yours?”

  “None. Except you’re my friend, and I’m worried. I mean to know what you intend doing.”

  She rubbed her nose, and concentrated on the ceiling. “Today’s Wednesday, isn’t it? So I suppose I’ll sleep until Saturday, really get a good schluffen. Saturday morning I’ll skip out to the bank. Then I’ll stop by the apartment and pick up a nightgown or two and my Mainbocher. Following which, I’ll report to Idlewild. Where, as you damn well know, I have a perfectly fine reservation on a perfectly fine plane. And since you’re such a friend I’ll let you wave me off. Please stop shaking your head.”

  “Holly. Holly. You can’t do that.”

  “Et pourquoi pas? I’m not hot-footing after José, if that’s what you suppose. According to my census, he’s strictly a citizen of Limboville. It’s only: why should I waste a perfectly fine ticket? Already paid for? Besides, I’ve never been to Brazil.”

  “Just what kind of pills have they been feeding you here? Can’t you realize, you’re under a criminal indictment. If they catch you jumping bail, they’ll throw away the key. Even if you get away with it, you’ll never be able to come home.”

  “Well, so, tough titty. Anyway, home is where you feel at home. I’m still looking.”

  “No, Holly, it’s stupid. You’re innocent. You’ve got to stick it out.”

  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, steel corridors of gradually closing doors. “Oh, screw it,” she said, and stabbed out her cigarette. “I have a fair chance they won’t catch me. Provided you keep your bouche fermez. Look. Don’t despise me, darling.” She put her hand over mine and pressed it with sudden immense sincerity. “I haven’t much choice. I talked it over with the lawyer: oh, I didn’t
tell him anything re Rio—he’d tip the badgers himself, rather than lose his fee, to say nothing of the nickels O.J. put up for bail. Bless O.J.’s heart; but once on the coast I helped him win more than ten thou in a single poker hand: we’re square. No, here’s the real shake: all the badgers want from me is a couple of free grabs and my services as a state’s witness against Sally—nobody has any intention of prosecuting me, they haven’t a ghost of a case. Well, I may be rotten to the core, Maude, but: testify against a friend I will not. Not if they can prove he doped Sister Kenny. My yardstick is how somebody treats me, and old Sally, all right he wasn’t absolutely white with me, say he took a slight advantage, just the same Sally’s an okay shooter, and I’d let the fat woman snatch me sooner than help the law-boys pin him down.” Tilting her compact mirror above her face, smoothing her lipstick with a crooked pinkie, she said: “And to be honest, that isn’t all. Certain shades of limelight wreck a girl’s complexion. Even if a jury gave me the Purple Heart, this neighborhood holds no future: they’d still have up every rope from LaRue to Perona’s Bar and Grill—take my word, I’d be about as welcome as Mr. Frank E. Campbell. And if you lived off my particular talents, Cookie, you’d understand the kind of bankruptcy I’m describing. Uh, uh, I don’t just fancy a fade-out that finds me belly-bumping around Roseland with a pack of West Side hillbillies. While the excellent Madame Trawler sashays her twat in and out of Tiffany’s. I couldn’t take it. Give me the fat woman any day.”

  A nurse, soft-shoeing into the room, advised that visiting hours were over. Holly started to complain, and was curtailed by having a thermometer popped in her mouth. But as I took leave, she unstoppered herself to say: “Do me a favor, darling. Call up the Times, or whatever you call, and get a list of the fifty richest men in Brazil. I’m 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. I’ll need it for the trip.”

  THE SKY WAS RED FRIDAY night, it thundered, and Saturday, departing day, the city swayed in a squall-like downpour. Sharks might have swum through the air, though it seemed improbable a plane could penetrate it.

  But Holly, ignoring my cheerful conviction that her flight would not go, continued her preparations—placing, I must say, the chief burden of them on me. For she had decided it would be unwise of her to come near the brownstone. Quite rightly, too: it was under surveillance, whether by police or reporters or other interested parties one couldn’t tell—simply a man, sometimes men, who hung around the stoop. So she’d gone from the hospital to a bank and straight then to Joe Bell’s bar. “She don’t figure she was followed,” Joe Bell told me when he came with a message that Holly wanted 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-old brandy: she says you’ll find it hid down in the bottom of the dirty-clothes basket. Yeah, oh, and the cat. She wants the cat. But hell,” he said, “I don’t know we should help her at all. She ought to be protected against herself. Me, I feel like telling the cops. Maybe if I go back and build her some drinks, maybe I can get her drunk enough to call it off.”

  Stumbling, skidding up and down the fire escape between Holly’s apartment and mine, wind-blown and winded and wet to the bone (clawed to the bone as well, for the cat had not looked favorably upon evacuation, especially in such inclement weather) I managed a fast, first-rate job of assembling her going-away belongings. I even found the St. Christopher’s medal. Everything was piled on the floor of my room, a poignant pyramid of brassières and dancing slippers and pretty things I packed in Holly’s only suitcase. There was a mass left over that I had to put in paper grocery bags. I couldn’t think how to carry the cat; until I thought of stuffing him in a pillowcase.

  Never mind why, but once I walked from New Orleans to Nancy’s Landing, Mississippi, just under five hundred miles. It was a light-hearted lark compared to the journey to Joe Bell’s bar. The guitar filled with rain, rain softened the paper sacks, the sacks split and perfume spilled on the pavement, pearls rolled in the gutter: while the wind pushed and the cat scratched, the cat screamed—but worse, I was frightened, a coward to equal José: those storming streets seemed aswarm with unseen presences waiting to trap, imprison me for aiding an outlaw.

  The outlaw said: “You’re late, Buster. Did you bring the brandy?”

  And the cat, released, leaped and perched on her shoulder: his tail swung like a baton conducting rhapsodic music. Holly, too, seemed inhabited by melody, some bouncy bon voyage oompahpah. Uncorking the brandy, she said: “This was meant to be part of my hope chest. The idea was, every anniversary we’d have a swig. Thank Jesus I never bought the chest. Mr. Bell, sir, three glasses.”

  “You’ll only need two,” he told her. “I won’t drink to your foolishness.”

  The more she cajoled him (“Ah, Mr. Bell. The lady doesn’t vanish every day. Won’t you toast her?”), the gruffer he was: “I’ll have no part of it. If you’re going to hell, you’ll go on your own. With no further help from me.” An inaccurate statement: because seconds after he’d made it a chauffeured limousine drew up outside the bar, and Holly, the first to notice it, put down her brandy, arched her eyebrows, as though she expected to see the District Attorney himself alight. So did I. And when I saw Joe Bell blush, I had to think: by God, he did call the police. But then, with burning ears, he announced: “It’s nothing. One of them Carey Cadillacs. I hired it. To take you to the airport.”

  He turned his back on us to fiddle with one of his flower arrangements. Holly said: “Kind, dear Mr. Bell. Look at me, sir.”

  He wouldn’t. He wrenched the flowers from the vase and thrust them at her; they missed their mark, scattered on the floor. “Good-bye,” he said; and, as though he were going to vomit, scurried to the men’s room. We heard the door lock.

  The Carey chauffeur was a worldly specimen who accepted our slapdash luggage most civilly and remained rock-faced when, as the limousine swished uptown through a lessening rain, Holly stripped off her clothes, the riding costume she’d never had a chance to substitute, and struggled into a slim black dress. We didn’t talk: talk could have only led to argument; and also, Holly seemed too preoccupied for conversation. She hummed to herself, swigged brandy, she leaned constantly forward to peer out the windows, as if she were hunting an address—or, I decided, taking a last impression of a scene she wanted to remember. It was neither of these. But this: “Stop here,” she ordered the driver, and we pulled to the curb of a street in Spanish Harlem. A savage, a garish, a moody neighborhood garlanded with poster-portraits of movie stars and Madonnas. Sidewalk litterings of fruit-rind and rotted newspaper were hurled about by the wind, for the wind still boomed, though the rain had hushed and there were bursts of blue in the sky.

  Holly stepped out of the car; she took the cat with her. Cradling him, she scratched his head and asked. “What do you think? This ought to be the right kind of place for a tough guy like you. Garbage cans. Rats galore. Plenty of cat-bums to gang around with. So scram,” she said, dropping him; and when he did not move away, instead raised his thug-face and 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 back in the car, slammed the door, and: “Go,” she told the driver. “Go. Go.”

  I was stunned. “Well, you are. You are a bitch.”

  We’d traveled a block before she replied. “I told you. We just met by the river one day: that’s all. Independents, both of us. We never made each other any promises. We never—” she said, and her voice collapsed, a tic, an invalid whiteness seized her face. The car had paused for a traffic light. Then she had the door open, she was running down the street; and I ran after her.

  But the cat was not at the corner where he’d been left. There was no one, nothing on the street except a urinating drunk and two Negro nuns herding a file of sweet-singing children. Other c
hildren emerged from doorways and ladies leaned over their window sills to watch as Holly darted up and down the block, ran back and forth chanting: “You. Cat. Where are you? Here, cat.” She kept it up until a bumpy-skinned boy came forward dangling an old tom by the scruff of its neck: “You wants a nice kitty, 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 offering his cat (“Halfa dollar. Two-bits, maybe? Two-bits, it ain’t much”), and she shuddered, she had to grip my arm to stand up: “Oh, Jesus God. We did belong to each other. He was mine.”

  Then I made her a promise, I said I’d come back and find her cat: “I’ll take care of him, too. I promise.”

  She smiled: that cheerless new pinch of a smile. “But what about me?” she said, whispered, and shivered again. “I’m very scared, Buster. Yes, at last. Because it could go on forever. Not knowing what’s yours until you’ve thrown it away. The mean reds, they’re nothing. The fat woman, she nothing. This, though: my mouth’s so dry, if my life depended on it I couldn’t spit.” She stepped in the car, sank in the seat. “Sorry, driver. Let’s go.”

  TOMATO’S TOMATO MISSING. And: DRUG-CASE ACTRESS BELIEVED GANGLAND VICTIM. In due time, however, the press reported: FLEEING PLAYGIRL TRACED TO RIO. Apparently no attempt was made by American authorities to recover her, and soon the matter diminished to an occasional gossip-column mention; as a news story, it was revived only once: on Christmas Day, when Sally Tomato died of a heart attack at Sing Sing. Months went by, a winter of them, and not a word from Holly. The owner of the brownstone sold her abandoned possessions, the white-satin bed, the tapestry, her precious Gothic chair; a new tenant acquired the apartment, his name was Quaintance Smith, and he entertained as many gentlemen callers of a noisy nature as Holly ever had—though in this instance Madame Spanella did not object, indeed she doted on the young man and supplied filet mignon whenever he had a black eye. But in the spring a postcard came: it was scribbled in pencil, and signed with a lipstick kiss: Brazil was beastly but Buenos Aires the best. Not Tiffany’s, but almost. Am joined at the hip with duhvine $enor. Love? Think so. Anyhoo am looking for somewhere to live ($enor has wife, 7 brats) and will let you know address when I know it myself. Mille tendresse. But the address, if it ever existed, never was sent, which made me sad, there was so much I wanted to write her: that I’d sold two stories, had read where the Trawlers were countersuing for divorce, was moving out of the brownstone because it was haunted. But mostly, I wanted to tell about her cat. I had kept my promise; I had found him. It took weeks of after-work roaming through those Spanish Harlem streets, and there were many false alarms—flashes of tiger-striped fur that, upon inspection, were not him. But one day, one cold sunshiny Sunday winter afternoon, it was. Flanked by potted plants and framed by clean lace curtains, he was seated in the window of a warm-looking room: I wondered what his name was, for I was certain he had one now, certain he’d arrived somewhere he belonged. African hut or whatever, I hope Holly has, too.