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 down and play house with a nice fatherly truck driver. Meantime, I’ve got him
on my hands; which is okay, he’s harmless, he thinks girls are dolls, literally.»
«Thank God.»
«Well, if it were true of most men, I’d hardly be thanking God.»
«I meant thank God you’re not going to marry Mr. Trawler.»
She lifted an eyebrow. «By the way, I’m not pretending I don’t know he’s rich.
Even land in Mexico costs something. Now,» she said, motioning me forward, «let’s
get hold of O.J.»
I held back while my mind worked to win a postponement. Then I remembered:
«Why Traveling?»
«On my card?» she said, disconcerted. «You think it’s funny?»
«Not funny. Just provocative.»
She shrugged. «After all, how do I know where I’ll be living tomorrow? So I told
them to put Traveling. Anyway, it was a waste of money, ordering those cards.
Except I felt I owed it to them to buy some little something. They’re from Tiffany’s.»
She reached for my martini, I hadn’t touched it; she drained it in two swallows, and
took my hand. «Quit stalling. You’re going to make friends with O.J.»
An occurrence at the door intervened. It was a young woman, and she entered
like a wind-rush, a squall of scarves and jangling gold. «H-H-Holly,» she said,
wagging a finger as she advanced, «you miserable h-h-hoarder. Hogging all these
simply r-r-riveting m-m-men!»
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, n-n-nothing, sugar. I’ve been upstairs working with Yunioshi. Christmas
stuff for the Ba-ba-zaar. But you sound vexed, sugar?» She scattered a roundabout
smile. «You b-b-boys not vexed at me for butting in on your p-p-party?»
Rusty Trawler tittered. He squeezed her arm, as though to admire her muscle,
and asked her if she could use a drink.
«I surely could,» she said. «Make mine bourbon.»
Holly told her, «There isn’t any.» Whereupon the Air Force colonel suggested he
run out for a bottle.
«Oh, I declare, don’t let’s have a f-f-fuss. I’m happy with ammonia. Holly, honey,»
she said, slightly shoving her, «don’t you bother about me. I can introduce myself.»
She stooped toward O.J. Berman, who, like many short men in the presence of tall
women, had an aspiring mist in his eye. «I’m Mag W-w-wildwood, from Wild-w-wwood, Arkansas. That’s hill country.»
It seemed a dance, Berman performing some fancy footwork to prevent his rivals
cutting in. He lost her to a quadrille of partners who gobbled up her stammered
jokes like popcorn tossed to pigeons. It was a comprehensible success. She was a
triumph over ugliness, so often more beguiling than real beauty, if only because it
contains paradox. In this case, as opposed to the scrupulous method of plain good
taste and scientific grooming, the trick had been worked by exaggerating defects;
she’d made them ornamental by admitting them boldly. Heels that emphasized her
height, so steep her ankles trembled; a flat tight bodice that indicated she could go
to 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 master
stroke, that stutter; for it contrived
