Chapter 17 Breakfast at Tiffany's-17

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 waspardonable, for Holly and libraries were not an easy association to make. I letcuriosity 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 myselfsome tables away from her in the general reading room, where she sat behind herdark glasses and a fortress of literature shed 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 Id known in school, a grind, Mildred Grossman. Mildred: wi th 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, head in my 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. Allright, here were two people who never would. That is what Mildred Grossman had incommon 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 splashed 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 glu ttonous 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; find myself in the gloom of the library, and surprised all over again to see Holly there. It was after seven, she was fresheningher lipstick and perking up her appearance from what she deemed correct for library to what, by adding a bit of scarf, some earrings, she considered suitable for the Colony. When shed left, I wandered over to the table where her books remained; they were what I had wanted to see. South by Thunderbird. Byways of Brazil. The Political Mind of Latin America.

On Christmas Eve she and Mag gave a party. Holly asked me to come early and help trim the tree. Im still not sure how they maneuvered that tree into the apartment. The top branches were crushed against the ceiling, the lower ones spreadwall-to-wall ;altogether it was not unlike the yuletide giant we see in RockefellerPlaza. Moreover, it would have taken a Rockefeller to decorate it, for it soaked upbaubles and tinsel like melting snow. Holly suggested she run out to Woolworths and steal some he balloons: and they turned the tree into a fairly good show. We made a toast to our work, and Holly said: "Look in the bedroom. Theres a present for you."

I had one for her, too: a small package in my pocket that felt even smaller when Isaw, square on the bed and wrapped with a red ribbon, the beautiful bird cage. "But, Holly! Its dreadful!" "I couldn't agree more; but I thought you wanted it." "The money! Three hundred and fifty dollars!" She shrugged. "A few extra trips to the powder room. Promise me, though. Promise you'll never put a living thing in it." I started to kiss her, but she held out her hand "Gimme," she said, tapping the bulge in my pocket. "I'm afraid it isn't much," and it wasn't: a St. Christophers medal. But at least it came from Tiffanys. 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 birdcage is still mine. Ive lugged it to New Orleans, Nantucket, all over Europe, Morocco, the West Indies. 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 OJ Berman and my story, a copy of which Id given Holly when it appeared in the university review.

Sometime in February, Holly had gone on a winter trip with Rusty, Mag and JoseYbarra-Jaegar. Our alteration happened soon after she returned. She was brown asiodine, her hair was sun-bleached to a ghost-color, shed had a wonderful time :"Well, first of all we were in Key West, and Rusty got mad at some sailors, or viceversa, anyway hell have to wear a spine brace the rest of his life. Dearest Magended up in the hospital, too. First-degree sunburn. Disgusting: all blisters and citronella. We couldn't stand the smell of her. So Jose and I left them in the hospital and went to Havana. He says wait till I see Rio; We had an irresistible guide, most of him Negro and the rest of him Chinese, and while I dont go much for one or the other, the combination was fairly riveting: so I let him play kneesie under the table, because frankly I didnt find him at all banal; but then one night he took us to a blue movie, and what do you suppose? Ther e he was on the screen. Of course when we got back to Key West, Mag was positive Id spent the whole time sleeping with Jose. So was Rusty: but he doesn't care about that, he simply wants to hear the details. pretty tense until I had a heart-to-heart with Mag."

We were in the front room, where, though it was now nearly March, the enormousChristmas tree, turned brown and scentless, its balloons shriveled as an old cowsdugs, still occupied most of the space. A recognizable piece of furniture had been added to the room : an army cot; and Holly, trying to preserve her tropic look, wassprawled on it under a sun lamp. "And you convinced her?" "That I hadnt slept with Jose? God, yes. I simply told -- but you know: made its sound like an agonized confession -- simply told her I was a dyke." "She couldn't have believed that."

"The hell she didnt. Why do you think she went out and bought this army cot? Leave it to me: Im always top banana in the shock department. Be a darling, darling, rub some oil on my back." While I was performing this service, she said: "OJ Bermans in town, and listen, I gave him your story in the magazine. He wasquite impressed. He thinks maybe you are worth helping. But he says youre on the wrong track. Negroes and children: who cares?" "Not Mr. Berman, I gather." "Well, I agree with him. I read that story twice. Brats and niggers. Tremblingleaves. Description. It doesn't mean anything."

My hand, smoothing oil on her skin, seemed to have a temperature of its own: itearned to raise itself and come down on her buttocks. "Give me an example," I said quietly. "Of something that means something. In your opinion. " "Wuthering Heights," she said, without hesitation. The urge in my hand was growing beyond control. "But thats unreasonable. You're talking about a work of genius." "It was, wasn't it? My wild sweet Cathy. God, I cried buckets. I saw it ten times." I said, "Oh" with recognizable relief, "oh" with a shameful, rising inflection, "the movie."

Her muscles hardened, the touch of her was like stone warmed by the sun. "Everybody has to feel superior to somebody," she said. "But its customary to present a little proof before you take the privilege." "I dont compare myself to you. Or, Berman. Therefore I cant feel superior. Wewant different things." "Don't you want to make money?" "I havent planned that far." "Thats how your stories sound. As though youd written them without knowing the end. Well, Ill tell you: I youd better make money. You have an expensive imagination. Not many people are going to buy you bird cages."

"Sorry." "You will be if you hit me. You wanted to a minute ago: I could feel it in your hand; and you want to now." I did, terribly; my hand, my heart was shaking as I recapped the bottle of oil. "Ohno, I wouldn't regret that. Im only sorry you wasted your money on me: RustyTrawler is too hard a way of earning it." She sat up on the army cot, her face, her naked breasts coldly blue in the sunlamplight. "It should take you about four seconds to walk from here to the door. Ill give you two."