and secondly, despite her tallness, her assurance, it served to inspire in male
listeners a protective feeling. To illustrate: Berman had to be pounded on the back
because she said, «Who can tell me w-w-where is the j-j-john?»; then, completing
the cycle, he offered an arm to guide her himself.
«That,» said Holly, «won’t be necessary. She’s been here before. She knows where
it is.» She was emptying ashtrays, and after Mag Wildwood had left the room, she
emptied another, then said, sighed rather: «It’s really very sad.» She paused long
enough to calculate the number of inquiring expressions; it was sufficient. «And so
mysterious. You’d think it would show more. But heaven knows, she looks healthy.
So, well, clean. That’s 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 Mag
Wildwood’s 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 would
not fire. More unforgivably, people were leaving without taking her telephone
number. The Air Force colonel decamped while her back was turned, and this was
the straw too much: he’d asked her to dinner. Suddenly she was blind. And since gin
to artifice bears the same relation as tears to mascara, her attractions at once
dissembled. She took it out on everyone. She called her hostess a Hollywood
degenerate. 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
what’s going to happen to you?» she said, with no hint of a stutter. «I’m going to
march 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.
«You’re a bore. Get up from there,» Holly said, stretching on a pair of gloves. The
remnants of the party were waiting at the door, and when the bore didn’t budge
Holly cast me an apologetic glance. «Be an angel, would you, Fred? Put her in a taxi.
She lives at the Winslow.»
«Don’t. 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 own
steam, she stared down at me with a lurching loftiness. She said, «Let’s 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. A
hang-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. It
took a while to correct his error, our accents seemed mutually incoherent, but by the
time we had I was charmed. He’d been put together with care, his brown head and
bullfighter’s figure had an exactness, a perfection, like an apple, an orange,
something nature has made just right. Added to this, as decoration, were an English
suit and a brisk cologne and, what is still more unlatin, a bashful manner. The
second event of the day involved him again. It was toward evening, and I saw him
on my way out to dinner. He was 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 Sunday
my jaws were quite tired.
Then the picture became both darker and clearer.
Sunday was an Indian summer day, the sun was strong, my window was open,
and I heard voices on the fire escape. Holly and Mag were sprawled there on a
blanket, the cat between them. Their hair, newly washed, hung lankly. They were
busy, Holly varnishing her toenails, Mag knitting on a sweater. Mag was speaking.
«If you ask me, I think you’re l-l-lucky. At least there’s one thing you can say for
Rusty. He’s an American.»
«Bully for him.»
«Sugar. There’s a war on.»
«And when it’s over, you’ve seen the last of me, boy.»
«I don’t feel that way. I’m p-p-proud of my country. The men in my family were
great soldiers. There’s a statue of Papadaddy Wildwood smack in the center of
Wildwood.»
«Fred’s a soldier,» said Holly. «But I doubt if he’ll ever be a statue. Could be. They
say the more stupid you are the braver. He’s pretty stupid.»
«Fred’s that boy upstairs? I didn’t realize he was a soldier. But he does look
stupid.»
«Yearning. Not stupid. He wants awfully to be on the inside staring out: anybody
with their nose pressed against a glass is liable to look stupid. Anyhow, he’s a
different Fred. Fred’s my brother.»
«You call your own f-f-flesh and b-b-blood stupid?»
«If he is he is.»
«Well, it’s poor taste to say so. A boy that’s fighting for you and me and all of us.»
«What is this: a bond rally?»
«I just want you to know where I stand. I appreciate a joke, but underneath I’m a
s-s-serious person. Proud to be an American. That’s why I’m sorry about José.» She
put down her knitting needles. «You do think he’s terribly good-looking, don’t you?»
Holly said Hmn, and swiped the cat’s whiskers with her lacquer brush. «If only I could
get used to the idea of m-m-marrying a Brazilian. And being a B-b-brazilian myself.
It’s such a canyon to cross. Six thousand miles, and not knowing the language — «
«Go to Berlitz.»
«Why on earth would they be teaching P-p-portu-guese? It isn’t as though anyone
spoke it. No, my only chance is to try and make José forget politics and become an
American. It’s such a useless thing for a man to want to be: the p-p-president of
Brazil.» She sighed and picked up her knitting. «I must be madly in love. You saw us
together. Do you think I’m madly in love?»
«Well. Does he bite?»
Mag dropped a stitch. «Bite?»
«You. In bed.»
«Why, no. Should he?» Then she added, censoriously: «But he does laugh.»
«Good. That’s the right spirit. I like a man who sees the humor; most of them,
they’re all pant and puff.»
Mag withdrew her complaint; she accepted the comment as flattery reflecting on
herself. «Yes. I suppose.»
«Okay. He doesn’t bite. He laughs. What else?»
Mag counted up her dropped stitch and began again, knit, purl, purl.
«I said — «
«I heard you. And it isn’t that I don’t want to tell you. But it’s so difficult to
remember. I don’t d-d-dwell on these things. The way you seem to. They go out of
my head like a dream. I’m sure that’s the n-n-normal attitude.»
«It may be normal, darling; but I’d rather be natural.» Holly paused in the process
of reddening the rest of the cat’s whiskers. «Listen. If you can’t remember, try
leaving the lights on.»
«Please understand me, Holly. I’m a very-very-very conventional person.»
«Oh, balls. What’s wrong with a decent look at a guy you like? Men are beautiful,
a lot of them are, José is, and if you don’t even want to look at him, well, I’d say he’s
getting a pretty cold plate of macaroni.»
«L-l-lower your voice.»
«You can’t possibly be in love with him. Now. Does that answer your question?»
«No. Because I’m not a cold plate of m-m-macaroni. I’m a warm-hearted person.
It’s the basis of my character.»
«Okay. You’ve got a warm heart. But if I were a man on my way to bed, I’d rather
take along a hot-water bottle. It’s more tangible.»
«You won’t hear any squawks out of José,» she said complacently, her needles
flashing in the sunlight. «What’s more, I am in love with him. Do you realize I’ve
knitted ten pairs of Argyles in less than three months? And this is the second
sweater.» She stretched the sweater and tossed it aside. «What’s the point, though?
Sweaters in Brazil. I ought to be making s-s-sun helmets.»
Holly lay back and yawned. «It must be winter sometime.»
«It rains, that I know. Heat. Rain. J-j-jungles.»
»Heat. Jungles. Actually, I’d like that.»
«Better you than me.»
«Yes,» said Holly, with a sleepiness that was not sleepy. «Better me than you.»
On Monday, when I went down for the morning mail, the card on Holly’s box had
been altered, a name added: Miss Golightly and Miss Wildwood were now traveling
together. This might have held my interest longer except for a letter in my own
mailbox. It was from a small university review to whom I’d sent a story. They liked
it; and, though I must understand they could not afford to pay, they intended to
publish. Publish: that meant print. Dizzy with excitement is no mere phrase. I had to
tell someone: and, taking the stairs two at a time, I pounded on Holly’s door.
I didn’t trust my voice to tell the news; as soon as she came to the door, her eyes
squinty with sleep, I thrust the letter at her. It seemed as though she’d had time to
read sixty pages before she handed it back. «I wouldn’t let them do it, not if they
don’t pay you,» she said, yawning. Perhaps my face explained she’d misconstrued,
that I’d not wanted advice but congratulations: her mouth shifted from a yawn into a
smile. «Oh, I see. It’s wonderful. Well, come in,» she said. «Well make a pot of coffee
and celebrate. No. I’ll get dressed
