Chapter 26 Breakfast at Tiffany's-26

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; heard the door lock. The Carey chauffeur was a worldy specimen who accepted our slapdash luggagemost civilly and remained rock-faced when, as the limousine swished uptownthrough a lessening rain, Holly stripped off her clothes, the riding costume shed never had a chance to substitute, and instr black dress. We didnttalk: 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 -- or address , 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 rainhad hushed and there were bursts of blue in the sky. Holly stepped out of the car; she took the cat with her. Cradling him, shescratched 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 togang around with. So scram," she said, dropping him; and when he did not moveaway, 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." Wed traveled a block before she replied. "I told you. We just met by the river one day: thats 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 herface. 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 hed been left. There was no one, nothing on the street except a urinating drunk and two Negro nuns herding a file of sweetsinging children. Other children emerged from doorways and ladies leaned over their window sills to watch as Holly Darted up and down the block, ran back and forthchanting: "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 ("Haifa dollar. Two-bits, maybe? Two-bits, it aint 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 Id come back and find her cat: "Ill take care of him, too. I promise." She smiled: that cheerful new pinch of a smile. "But what about me?" she said, whispered, and shivered again. "Im very scared, Buster. Yes, at last. Because it could go on forever. Not knowing whats yours until you've thrown it away. Themean reds, they're nothing. The fat woman, she nothing. This, though: my mouthsso dry, if my life depended on it I couldn't spit." She stepped in the car, sank in these seats. "Sorry, driver. Lets go."

TOMATOS TOMATO MISSING. And: DRUG-CASE ACTRESS BELIEVED GANGLANDVICTIM. In due time, however, the press reported: FLEEING PLAYGIRL TRACED TORIO. Apparently no attempt was made by American authorities to recover her, and soon the matter diminished to an occasional goss. mention; as a newsstory, 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-satinbed, 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 noisy nature as Holly ever had -- though in this instance Madame Spanella did notobject, indeed she doted on the young man and supplied filet mignon whenever hehad 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 A ires the best. NotTiffanys, 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 writeher: that Id sold two stories, had read where the Trawlers were countersuing fordivorce, was moving out of the brownstone because it was haunted. But mostly, I wanted to tell her about her cat. 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 sunny 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 hed arrived somewhere he belonged. African hut or whatever, I hope Hollyhas, too.