She patted a yawn. "But its nothing. Just messages I leave with the answeringservice so Mr. OShaughnessy will know for sure that Ive been up there. Sally tellsme what to say, things like, oh, theres a hurricane in Cuba and its snowing inPalermo. Dont worry, darling," she said, moving to the bed, "Ive taken care ofmyself a long time." The morning light seemed refracted through her: as she pulledthe bed covers up to my chin she gleamed like a transparent child; then she laydown beside me. "Do you mind? I only want to rest a moment. So lets dont sayanother word. Go to sleep."
I pretended to, I made my breathing heavy and regular. Bells in the tower of thenext-door church rang the half-hour, the hour. It was six when she put her hand onmy arm, a fragile touch careful not to waken. "Poor Fred," she whispered, and itseemed she was speaking to me, but she was not. "Where are you, Fred? Becauseits cold. Theres snow in the wind." Her cheek came to rest against my shoulder, awarm damp weight.
"Why are you crying?"
She sprang back, sat up. "Oh, for Gods sake," she said, starting for the windowand the fire escape, "I hate snoops."
The next day, Friday, I came home to find outside my door a grand-luxe Charles &Co. basket with her card: Miss Holiday Golightly, Traveling: and scribbled on theback in a freakishly awkward, kindergarten hand: Bless you darling Fred. Pleaseforgive the other night. You were an angel about the whole thing. Mille tendresse --Holly. PS I wont bother you again. I replied, Please do, and left this note at herdoor with what I could afford, a bunch of street-vendor violets. But apparently shedmeant what she said; I neither saw nor heard from her, and I gathered shed goneso far as to obtain a downstairs key. At any rate she no longer rang my bell. Imissed that; and as the days merged I began to feel toward her certain far-fetchedresentments, as if I were being neglected by my closest friend. A disquietingloneliness came into my life, but it induced no hunger for friends of longeracquaintance: they seemed now like a salt-free, sugarless diet. By Wednesdaythoughts of Holly, of Sing Sing and Sally Tomato, of worlds where men forked overfifty dollars for the powder room, were so constant that I couldnt work. That night Ileft a message in her mailbox: Tomorrow is Thursday. The next morning rewardedme with a second note in the play-pen script: Bless you for reminding me. Can youstop for a drink tonight 6-ish?
I waited until ten past six, then made myself delay five minutes more.
A creature answered the door. He smelled of cigars and Knize cologne. His shoessported elevated heels; without these added inches, one might have taken him for aLittle Person. His bald freckled head was dwarf-big: attached to it were a pair ofpointed, truly elfin ears. He had Pekingese eyes, unpitying and slightly bulged. Tuftsof hair sprouted from his ears, from his nose; his jowls were gray with afternoonbeard, and his handshake almost furry.
"Kids in the shower," he said, motioning a cigar toward a sound of water hissingin another room. The room in which we stood (we were standing because there wasnothing to sit on) seemed as though it were being just moved into; you expected tosmell wet paint. Suitcases and unpacked crates were the only furniture. The cratesserved as tables. One supported the mixings of a martini; another a lamp, aLibertyphone, Hollys red cat and a bowl of yellow roses. Bookcases, covering onewall, boasted a half-shelf of literature. I warmed to the room at once, I liked its flyby-night look.
The man cleared his throat. "You expected?"
He found my nod uncertain. His cold eyes operated on me, made neat,exploratory incisions. "A lot of characters come here, theyre not expected. You knowthe kid long?"
"Not very."
"So you dont know the kid long?"
"I live upstairs."
The answer seemed to explain enough to relax him. "You got the same layout?"
"Much smaller."
He tapped ash on the floor. "This is a dump. This is unbelievable. But the kid dontknow how to live even when shes got the dough." His speech had a jerky metallicrhythm, like a teletype. "So," he said, "what do you think: is she or aint she?"
"Aint she what?"
"A phony."
"I wouldnt have thought so."
"Youre wrong. She is a phony. But on the other hand youre right. She isnt aphony because shes a real phony. She believes all this crap she believes. You canttalk her out of it. Ive tried with tears running down my cheeks. Benny Polan,respected everywhere, Benny Polan tried. Benny had it on his mind to marry her,she dont go for it, Benny spent maybe thousands sending her to head-shrinkers.