Chapter 12 Breakfast at Tiffany's-12

A multitude did. 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 Forcecolonel; 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 probly various bars; . After the initialfrowns, however, they mixed without grumbling, especially OJ 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 aboutses, the rest baseball. Pretending an interest in Horseflesh and How to Tell It gave me sufficiently private opportunity for sizing Hollys 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 incamouflaging his plump and spankable bottom. There wasn't a suspicion of bone inhis body; in with pretty miniature features, had an unused, avirginal quality: it was as if hed 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. it was not appearance that singled him out; preserved infants arent all that rare. It was, rather, his conduct; for he was having 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 incheck. A jealous man might have lost control, w atching 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 apolish.

The mans name was Rutherfurd ("Rusty") Trawler. In 1908 hed 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 offive. Hed 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. in the tabloid-sun. His first wife had taken herself, and her alimony, to a rival of Father Divines. The second wife seemed unaccounted 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 principal complaint stating that shed started a mutiny aboard his yacht, said mutiny resulting in his being deposited on the Dry Tortugas. Though hed been a bachelor since, apparently before the war hed prop. osed to Unity Mitford, at least he was supposed to have sent her a cable offering to marry her if Hitler didnt. This was said to be thereon 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 Hollys shelf which she seemed to use for a scrapbook. Tucked between the pageswere Sunday features, together with scissored snippings from gossip columns. RustyTrawler and Holly-only Golightly two -the-aisle at "One Touch of Venus" preem. Hollycame up from behind, and caught me reading: Miss Holiday Golightly, of the Boston Golightlys, 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 winked at me, but it was humorless: 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 to forget 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 can talk about. If a man doesnt 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 OJ?" "We've separated by mutual agreement"

"He's an opportunity, believe me." "I do believe you. But what have I to offer that would strike him as an opportunity?" She persisted. "Go over there and make him think he isn't funny-looking. Hereally can help you, Fred." "I understand 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 affectionate look at Berman. "But hes got a point, I should feel guilty. 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 its 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: Iknew damn well I never be a movie star. Its too hard; and if you are intelligent, itstoo embarrassing. My complexes arent inferior enough: being a movie star and having a big fat ego are supposed to go hand-in-hand; actually, its essential not to have any ego at all. rich and famous. Thats very much on my 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 upon one fine morning and have breakfast at Tiffanys. a glass," she said, noticing my empty hands. "Rusty! Will you bring my friend a drink?"