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 ablanket, the cat between them. Their hair, newly washed, hung lankly. They werebusy, Holly varnishing her toenails, Mag knitting on a sweater. Mag was speaking.
"If you ask me, I think youre ll-lucky. At least theres one thing you can say forRusty. Hes an American."
"Bully for him."
"Sugar. Theres a war on."
"And when its over, youve seen the last of me, boy."
"I dont feel that way. Im pp-proud of my country. The men in my family weregreat soldiers. Theres a statue of Papadaddy Wildwood smack in the center ofWildwood."
"Freds a soldier," said Holly. "But I doubt if hell ever be a statue. Could be. Theysay the more stupid you are the braver. Hes pretty stupid."
"Freds that boy upstairs? I didnt realize he was a soldier. But he does lookstupid."
"Yearning. Not stupid. He wants awfully to be on the inside staring out: anybodywith their nose pressed against a glass is liable to look stupid. Anyhow, hes adifferent Fred. Freds my brother."
"You call your own ff-flesh and bb-blood stupid?"
"If he is he is."
"Well, its poor taste to say so. A boy thats 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 Im as-s-serious person. Proud to be an American. Thats why Im sorry about Jose." Sheput down her knitting needles. "You do think hes terribly good-looking, dont you?"
Holly said Hmn, and swiped the cats whiskers with her lacquer brush. "If only I couldget used to the idea of mm-marrying a Brazilian. And being a Bb-brazilian myself.
Its such a canyon to cross. Six thousand miles, and not knowing the language -- "
"Go to Berlitz."
"Why on earth would they be teaching Pp-portu-guese? It isnt as though anyonespoke it. No, my only chance is to try and make Jose forget politics and become anAmerican. Its such a useless thing for a man to want to be: the pp-president ofBrazil." She sighed and picked up her knitting. "I must be madly in love. You saw ustogether. Do you think Im 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. Thats the right spirit. I like a man who sees the humor; most of them,theyre all pant and puff."
Mag withdrew her complaint; she accepted the comment as flattery reflecting onherself. "Yes. I suppose."
"Okay. He doesnt bite. He laughs. What else?"
Mag counted up her dropped stitch and began again, knit, purl, purl.
"I said -- "
"I heard you. And it isnt that I dont want to tell you. But its so difficult toremember. I dont dd-dwell on these things. The way you seem to. They go out ofmy head like a dream. Im sure thats the nn-normal attitude."
"It may be normal, darling; but Id rather be natural." Holly paused in the processof reddening the rest of the cats whiskers. "Listen. If you cant remember, tryleaving the lights on."
"Please understand me, Holly. Im a very-very-very conventional person."
"Oh, balls. Whats wrong with a decent look at a guy you like? Men are beautiful,a lot of them are, Jose is, and if you dont even want to look at him, well, Id say hesgetting a pretty cold plate of macaroni."
"Ll-lower your voice."
"You cant possibly be in love with him. Now. Does that answer your question?"
"No. Because Im not a cold plate of mm-macaroni. Im a warm-hearted person.
Its the basis of my character."
"Okay. Youve got a warm heart. But if I were a man on my way to bed, Id rathertake along a hot-water bottle. Its more tangible."
"You wont hear any squawks out of Jose," she said complacently, her needlesflashing in the sunlight. "Whats more, I am in love with him. Do you realize Iveknitted ten pairs of Argyles in less than three months? And this is the secondsweater." She stretched the sweater and tossed it aside. "Whats the point, though?
Sweaters in Brazil. I ought to be making ss-sun helmets."
Holly lay back and yawned. "It must be winter sometime."
"It rains, that I know. Heat. Rain. Jj-jungles."
"Heat. Jungles. Actually, Id 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 Hollys box hadbeen altered, a name added: Miss Golightly and Miss Wildwood were now travelingtogether. This might have held my interest longer except for a letter in my ownmailbox. It was from a small university review to whom Id sent a story. They likedit; and, though I must understand they could not afford to pay, they intended topublish. Publish: that meant print. Dizzy with excitement is no mere phrase. I had totell someone: and, taking the stairs two at a time, I pounded on Hollys door.
I didnt trust my voice to tell the news; as soon as she came to the door, her eyessquinty with sleep, I thrust the letter at her. It seemed as though shed had time toread sixty pages before she handed it back. "I wouldnt let them do it, not if theydont pay you," she said, yawning. Perhaps my face explained shed misconstrued,that Id not wanted advice but congratulations: her mouth shifted from a yawn into asmile. "Oh, I see. Its wonderful. Well, come in," she said. "Well make a pot of coffeeand celebrate. No. Ill get dressed and take you to lunch."
Her bedroom was consistent with her parlor: it perpetuated the same camping-outatmosphere; crates and suitcases, everything packed and ready to go, like thebelongings of a criminal who feels the law not far behind. In the parlor there was noconventional furniture, but the bedroom had the bed itself, a double one at that, andquite flashy: blond wood, tufted satin.
She left the door of the bathroom open, and conversed from there; between theflushing and the brushing, most of what she said was unintelligible, but the gist of itwas: she supposed I knew Mag Wildwood had moved in and wasnt that convenient?