Breakfast at Tiffany's-1

I am always drawn back to places where I have lived, the houses and theirneighborhoods. For instance, there is a brownstone in the East Seventies where,during the early years of the war, I had my first New York apartment. It was oneroom crowded with attic furniture, a sofa and fat chairs upholstered in that itchy,particular red velvet that one associates with hot days on a tram. The walls werestucco, and a color rather like tobacco-spit. Everywhere, in the bathroom too, therewere prints of Roman ruins freckled brown with age. The single window looked outon a fire escape. Even so, my spirits heightened whenever I felt in my pocket thekey to this apartment; with all its gloom, it still was a place of my own, the first, andmy books were there, and jars of pencils to sharpen, everything I needed, so I felt,to become the writer I wanted to be.

It never occurred to me in those days to write about Holly Golightly, and probablyit would not now except for a conversation I had with Joe Bell that set the wholememory of her in motion again.

Holly Golightly had been a tenant in the old brownstone; shed occupied theapartment below mine. As for Joe Bell, he ran a bar around the corner on LexingtonAvenue; he still does. Both Holly and I used to go there six, seven times a day, notfor a drink, not always, but to make telephone calls: during the war a privatetelephone was hard to come by. Moreover, Joe Bell was good about takingmessages, which in Hollys case was no small favor, for she had a tremendous many.

Of course this was a long time ago, and until last week I hadnt seen Joe Bell inseveral years. Off and on wed kept in touch, and occasionally Id stopped by his barwhen passing through the neighborhood; but actually wed never been strong friendsexcept in as much as we were both friends of Holly Golightly. Joe Bell hasnt an easynature, he admits it himself, he says its because hes a bachelor and has a sourstomach. Anyone who knows him will tell you hes a hard man to talk to. Impossibleif you dont share his fixations, of which Holly is one. Some others are: ice hockey,Weimaraner dogs, Our Gal Sunday (a soap serial he has listened to for fifteen years),and Gilbert and Sullivan -- he claims to be related to one or the other, I cantremember which.

And so when, late last Tuesday afternoon, the telephone rang and I heard "JoeBell here," I knew it must be about Holly. He didnt say so, just: "Can you rattle rightover here? Its important," and there was a croak of excitement in his froggy voice.

I took a taxi in a downpour of October rain, and on my way I even thought shemight be there, that I would see Holly again.

But there was no one on the premises except the proprietor. Joe Bells is a quietplace compared to most Lexington Avenue bars. It boasts neither neon nortelevision. Two old mirrors reflect the weather from the streets; and behind the bar,in a niche surrounded by photographs of ice-hockey stars, there is always a largebowl of fresh flowers that Joe Bell himself arranges with matronly care. That is whathe was doing when I came in.

"Naturally," he said, rooting a gladiola deep into the bowl, "naturally I wouldnthave got you over here if it wasnt I wanted your opinion. Its peculiar. A verypeculiar thing has happened."

"You heard from Holly?"

He fingered a leaf, as though uncertain of how to answer. A small man with a finehead of coarse white hair, he has a bony, sloping face better suited to someone fartaller; his complexion seems permanently sunburned: now it grew even redder. "Icant say exactly heard from her. I mean, I dont know. Thats why I want youropinion. Let me build you a drink. Something new. They call it a White Angel," hesaid, mixing one-half vodka, one-half gin, no vermouth. While I drank the result, JoeBell stood sucking on a Tums and turning over in his mind what he had to tell me.