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 in camouflaging his plump and spankable bottom. There wasn’t a suspicion of bone in his body; his face, a zero filled in with pretty miniature features, had an unused, a virginal quality: it was as if he’d 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. But it was not appearance that singled him out; preserved infants aren’t all that rare. It was, rather, his conduct; for he was behaving 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 in check. A jealous man might have lost control, watching 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 a polish.
The man’s name was Rutherfurd (“Rusty”) Trawler. In 1908 he’d 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 of five. He’d 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. After that, marriage and divorce sustained his place in the tabloid-sun. His first wife had taken herself, and her alimony, to a rival of Father Divine’s. The second wife seems unaccounted for, but the third had sued him in New York State with a full satchel of the kind of testimony that entails. He himself divorced the last Mrs. Trawler, his principal complaint stating that she’d started a mutiny aboard his yacht, said mutiny resulting in his being deposited on the Dry Tortugas. Though he’d been a bachelor since, apparently before the war he’d proposed to Unity Mitford, at least he was supposed to have sent her a cable offering to marry her if Hitler didn’t. This was said to be the reason 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 Holly’s shelf which she seemed to use for a scrapbook. Tucked between the pages were Sunday features, together with scissored snippings from gossip columns. Rusty Trawler and Holly Golightly two-on-the-aisle at “One Touch of Venus” preem. Holly came 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 her dark glasses as she glanced over my shoulder.
I said, “What was this week’s weather report?”
She winked at me, but it was humorless: a wink of warning, “I’m all for horses, but I loathe baseball,” she said, and the sub-message in her voice was saying she wished me to forget she’d ever mentioned Sally Tomato. “I hate the sound of it on a radio, but I have to listen, it’s part of my research. There’re so few things men can talk about. If a man doesn’t like baseball, then he must like horses, and if he doesn’t like either of them, well, I’m in trouble anyway: he don’t like girls. And how are you making out with O.J.?”
“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. He really can help you, Fred.”
“I understand you weren’t too appreciative.” She seemed puzzled until I said: “The Story of Doctor Wassell.”
“He’s still harping?” she said, and cast across the room an affectionate look at Berman. “But he’s 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 it’s 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: I knew damn well I’d never be a movie star. It’s too hard; and if you’re intelligent, it’s too embarrassing. My complexes aren’t inferior enough: being a movie star and having a big fat ego are supposed to go hand-in-hand; actually, it’s essential not to have any ego at all. I don’t mean I’d mind being rich and famous. That’s very much on my schedule, and someday I’ll try to get around to it; but if it happens, I’d like to have my ego tagging along. I want to still be me when I wake up one fine morning and have breakfast at Tiffany’s. You need a glass,” she said, noticing my empty hands. “Rusty! Will you bring my friend a drink?”
She was still hugging the cat. “Poor slob,” she said, tickling his head, “poor slob without a name. It’s a little inconvenient, his not having a name. But I haven’t any right to give him one: he’ll have to wait until he belongs to somebody. We just sort of took up by the river one day, we don’t belong to each other: he’s an independent, and so am I. I don’t want to own anything until I know I’ve found the place where me and things belong together. I’m not quite sure where that is just yet. But I know what it’s like.” She smiled, and let the cat drop to the floor. “It’s like Tiffany’s,” she said. “Not that I give a hoot about jewelry. Diamonds, yes. But it’s tacky to wear diamonds before you’re forty; and even that’s risky. They only look right on the really old girls. Maria Ouspenskaya. Wrinkles and bones, white hair and diamonds: I can’t wait. But that’s not why I’m mad about Tiffany’s. Listen. You know those days when you’ve got the mean reds?”
“Same as the blues?”
“No,” she said slowly. “No, the blues are because you’re getting fat or maybe it’s been raining too long. You’re sad, that’s all. But the mean reds are horrible. You’re afraid and you sweat like hell, but you don’t know what you’re afraid of. Except something bad is going to happen, only you don’t know what it is. You’ve had that feeling?”
“Quite often. Some people call it angst.”
“All right. Angst. But what do you do about it?”
“Well, a drink helps.”
“I’ve tried that. I’ve tried aspirin, too. Rusty thinks I should smoke marijuana, and I did for a while, but it only makes me giggle. What I’ve found does the most good is just to get into a taxi and go to Tiffany’s. It calms me down right away, the quietness and the proud look of it; nothing very bad could happen to you there, not with those kind men in their nice suits, and that lovely smell of silver and alligator wallets. If I could find a real-life place that made me feel like Tiffany’s, then I’d buy some furniture and give the cat a name. I’ve thought maybe after the war, Fred and I—” She pushed up her dark glasses, and her eyes, the differing colors of them, the grays and wisps of blue and green, had taken on a far-seeing sharpness. “I went to Mexico once. It’s wonderful country for raising horses. I saw one place near the sea. Fred’s good with horses.”
Rusty Trawler came carrying a martini; he handed it over without looking at me. “I’m hungry,” he announced, and his voice, retarded as the rest of him, produced an unnerving brat-whine that seemed to blame Holly. “It’s seven-thirty, and I’m hungry. You know what the doctor said.”
“Yes, Rusty. I know what the doctor said.”
“Well, then break it up. Let’s go.”
“I want you to behave, Rusty.” She spoke softly, but there was a governess threat of punishment in her tone that caused an odd flush of pleasure, of gratitude, to pink his face.
“You don’t love me,” he complained, as though they were alone.
“Nobody loves naughtiness.”
Obviously she’d said what he wanted to hear; it appeared to both excite and relax him. Still he continued, as though it were a ritual: “Do you love me?”
She patted him. “Tend to your chores, Rusty. And when I’m ready, we’ll go eat wherever you want.”
“Chinatown?”
“But that doesn’t mean sweet and sour spareribs. You know what the doctor said.”
As he returned to his duties with a satisfied waddle, I couldn’t resist reminding her that she hadn’t answered his question. “Do you love him?”
“I told you: you can make yourself love anybody. Besides, he had a stinking childhood.”
“If it was so stinking, why does he cling to it?”
“Use your head. Can’t you see it’s just that Rusty feels safer in diapers than he would in a skirt? Which is really the choice, only he’s awfully touchy about it. He tried to stab me with a butter knife because I told him to grow up and face the issue, settle
