I am always drawn back to places where I have lived, the houses and their neighborhoods. For instance, there 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, in the bathroom too, there were 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 key to this apartment; with all its gloom, it still was a place of my own, the first, and my books were there, and jars of pencils to sharpen, everything I needed, so I felt, to become the writer I wanted to be.

It never occurred to me in those days to write about Holly Golightly, and probably it would not now except for a conversation I had with Joe Bell that set the whole memory of her in motion again. Holly Golightly had been a tenant in the old brownstone; shed occupied the apartment below mine. As for Joe Bell, he ran a bar around the corner on Lexington Avenue; , not for a drink, not always, but to make telephone calls: during the war a privatetelephone was hard to come by. Moreover, Joe Bell was good about taking messages, which in 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 barwhen passing through the neighborhood; 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. dont share his fixations, of which Holly is one. Some others are: ice hockey, Weimaraner dogs, Our Gal Sunday (a soap serial he has listened to for fifteen years), and Gilbert and Sullivan -- he claims to be related to one or the other, I cantremember which.

And so when, late last Tuesday afternoon, the telephone rang and I heard "JoeBell here," I knew it must be about Holly. He didnt say so, just: "Can 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 quietplace compared to most Lexington Avenue bars. It boasts neither neon nortelevision. Two old mirrors reflect the weather from the streets; photographs of ice-hockey stars, there is always a largebowl of fresh flowers that Joe Bell himself arranges with matronly care. That is what was doing when I came in.

"Naturally," he said, rooting a gladiola deep into the bowl, "naturally I wouldn't have got you over here if it wasn't I wanted your opinion. Its peculiar. A very peculiar thing has happened." "You heard from Holly?" He fingered a leaf, as though uncertain 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 complexion seems permanently sunburned: now it grew even redder." Icant say exactly heard from her. I mean, I dont know. Thats why I want youropinion. Let me build you a drink. Something new. They call it a White Angel," he said, mixing one-half vodka, one-half gin , no vermouth. While I drank the result, JoeBell stood sucking on a Tums and turning over in his mind what he had to tell me.