Chapter 14 Breakfast at Tiffany's-14

She was well over six feet, taller than most men there. 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?" and her lips were taut as drawn string. "Why, nn-nothing, sugar. Ive been upstairs working with Yunioshi. Christmasstuff for the Ba-ba-zaar. But you sound vexed, sugar?" She scattered a roundabout smile. "You bb-boys not vexed at me for butting in on your pp-party?" Rusty Trawler tittered. He squeezed her arm, as though to admire her muscle, and asked her if she could use a drink.

"I sure could," she said. "Make mine bourbon." Holly told her, "There isn't any." Whereupon the Air Force colonel suggested herun out for a bottle. "Oh, I declare, dont let have a ff-fuss. Im happy with ammonia. Holly, honey," she said, slightly shoving her, "dont you bother about me. I can introduce myself." She stooped toward OJ Berman, who, like many short men in the presence of tallwomen, had an aspiring mist in his eye. "Im Mag Ww-wildwood, from Wild-w-wwood, Arkansas. Thats hill country." It seemed a dance, Berman performing some fancy footwork to prevent his rivalscutting in. He lost her to a quadrille of partners who gobbled up her stammeredjokes like popcorn tossed to pigeons. It was a comprehensive success. She was atriumph over ugliness, so more beguiling than real beauty, if only because it contains paradox. In this case, as opposed to the scrupulous method of plain goodtaste and scientific grooming, the trick had been worked by exaggerating defects; shed made them ornamental by admitting them boldly. , so steep her ankles trembled; a flat tight bodice that indicated she could goto 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 masterstroke, that stutter; for it contrived to make her banalities sound somehow original, and secondly, despite her tal lness, her assurance, it served to inspire in malelisteners a protective feeling. To illustrate: Berman had to be pounded on the backbecause she said, "Who can tell me ww-where is the jj-john?"; then, completing the cycle, He offered an arm to guide her himself.

"That," said Holly, "wont be necessary. Shes been here before. She knows where it is." She was emptying ashtrays, and after Mag Wildwood had left the room, sheemptied another, then said, sighed rather: "Its really very sad." She paused longenough to calculate the number of inquiring expressions; it was sufficient. "And somysterious. Youd think it would show more. But heaven knows, she looks healthy. So, well, clean. Thats the extraordinary part. Wouldn't you," she asked with concern, but of no one in particular, "wouldn't you say she looked clean?"

Someone coughed, several swallowed. A Naval officer, who had been holding MagWildwoods drink, put it down. "But then," said Holly, "I hear so many of these Southern girls have the same trouble." She shuddered delicately, and went to the kitchen for more ice. 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 wouldn't fire. More unfortunately, people were leaving without taking her telephone number. , and this wasthe straw too much: hed asked her to dinner. Suddenly she was blind. And since ginto artifice bears the same relation as tears to mascara, her attractions at once dissembled. 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 corner. "You know whats going to happen to you?" she said, with no hint of a stutter  … "I'm going tomarch you over to the zoo and feed you to the yak." He looked altogether willing, but she disappointed him by sliding to the floor, where she sat humming.

"Youre a bore. Get up from there," Holly said, stretching on a pair of gloves. Theremnants of the party were waiting at the door, and when the bore didnt budgetHolly cast me an apologetic glance. , Fred? Put her in a taxi. She lives at the Winslow." "Dont. Live Barbizon. Regent 4-5700. Ask for Mag Wildwood." "You are an angel, Fred." They were gone. The prospect of steering an Amazon into a taxi obliterated whatever resentment I felt. But she solved the problem herself. Rising on her ownsteam, she stared down at me with a lurching loftiness. She said, "Lets 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. "You" she said, hurrying past with a package from the druggist. "There she is, on the verge of pneumonia. Ahang-over out to here. And the mean reds on top of it." I gathered from this that Mag Wildwood was still in the apartment, but she gave me no chance to explore her surprising sympathy. Over the weekend, mystery deepened. First, there was the Latin who came to my door: mistakenly, for he was inquiring after Miss Wildwood. Ittook a while to correct his error, our accents seemed mutually incoherent, but by the time we had I was charming. Hed been put together with care, his brown head and bullfighters figure had an exactness, a perfection, like an apple, an orange, something nature has made just right. Added to this, as decoration, were an Englishsuit and a brisk cologne and, what is still more unlatin, a bashful manner. The second event of the day involved him again. and I saw himon my way out to dinner. He w as 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 Sundaymy jaws were quite tired.

Then the picture became both darker and clearer.