"Dont you want to make money?"

Late one afternoon, while waiting for a Fifth Avenue bus, I noticed a taxi stopacross the street to let out a girl who ran up the steps of the Forty-second Streetpublic library. She was through the doors before I recognized her, which waspardonable, for Holly and libraries were not an easy association to make. I letcuriosity guide me between the lions, debating on the way whether I should admitfollowing her or pretend coincidence. In the end I did neither, but concealed myselfsome tables away from her in the general reading room, where she sat behind herdark glasses and a fortress of literature shed gathered at the desk. She sped fromone book to the next, intermittently lingering on a page, always with a frown, as if itwere printed upside down. She had a pencil poised above paper -- nothing seemedto catch her fancy, still now and then, as though for the hell of it, she made laboriousscribblings. Watching her, I remembered a girl Id known in school, a grind, MildredGrossman. Mildred: with her moist hair and greasy spectacles, her stained fingersthat dissected frogs and carried coffee to picket lines, her flat eyes that only turnedtoward the stars to estimate their chemical tonnage. Earth and air could not be moreopposite than Mildred and Holly, yet in my head they acquired a Siamese twinship,and the thread of thought that had sewn them together ran like this: the averagepersonality reshapes frequently, every few years even our bodies 99ｌｉb•nｅｔundergo acomplete overhaul -- desirable or not, it is a natural thing that we should change. Allright, here were two people who never would. That is what Mildred Grossman had incommon with Holly Golightly. They would never change because theyd been giventheir character too soon; which, like sudden riches, leads to a lack of proportion: theone had splurged herself into a top-heavy realist, the other a lopsided romantic. Iimagined them in a restaurant of the future, Mildred still studying the menu for itsnutritional values, Holly still gluttonous for everything on it. It would never bedifferent. They would walk through life and out of it with the same determined stepthat took small notice of those cliffs at the left. Such profound observations made meforget where I was; I came to, startled to find myself in the gloom of the library, andsurprised all over again to see Holly there. It was after seven, she was fresheningher lipstick and perking up her appearance from what she deemed correct for alibrary to what, by adding a bit of scarf, some earrings, she considered suitable forthe Colony. When shed left, I wandered over to the table where her booksremained; they were what I had wanted to see. South by Thunderbird. Byways ofBrazil. The Political Mind of Latin America. And so forth.

"The hell she didnt. Why do you think she went out and bought this army cot?

Sometime in February, Holly had gone on a winter trip with Rusty, Mag and JoséYbarra-Jaegar. Ou99lib.netr altercation happened soon after she returned. She was brown asiodine, her hair was sun-bleached to a ghost-color, shed had a wonderful time:"Well, first of all we were in Key West, and Rusty got mad at some sailors, or viceversa, anyway hell have to wear a spine brace the rest of his life. Dearest Magended up in the hospital, too. First-degree sunburn. Disgusting: all blisters andcitronella. We couldnt stand the smell of her. So José and I left them in the hospitaland went to Havana. He says wait till I see Rio; but as far as Im concerned Havanacan take my money right now. We had an irresistible guide, most of him Negro andthe rest of him Chinese, and while I dont go much for one or the other, thecombination was fairly riveting: so I let him play kneesie under the table, becausefrankly I didnt find him at all banal; but then one night he took us to a blue movie,and what do you suppose? There he was on the screen. Of course when we got backto Key West, Mag was positive Id spent the whole time sleeping with José. So wasRusty: but he doesnt care about that, he simply wants to hear the details. Actually,things were pretty tense until I had a heart-to-heart with Mag."

"Everybody has to feel superior to somebody," she said. "But its customary topresent a little proof before you take the privilege."

"Thats how your stories sound. As though youd written them without knowingthe end. Well, Ill tell you: I youd better make monehttp://www.99lib.nety. You have an expensiveimagination. Not many people are going to buy you bird cages."

"Sorry."

I had one for her, too: a small package in my pocket that felt even smaller when Isaw, square on the bed and wrapped with a red ribbon, the beautiful bird cage. "But,Holly! Its dreadful!"

"And you convinced her?"

"The money! Three hundred and fifty dollars!"

We were in the front room, where, though it was now nearly March, the enormousChristmas tree, turned brown and scentless, its balloons shriveled as an old cowsdugs, still occupied most of the space. A recognizable piece of furniture had beenadded to the room: an army cot; and Holly, trying to preserve her tropic look, wassprawled on it under a sun lamp.

Youre talking about a work of genius."

"She couldnt have believed that."

I said, "Oh" with recognizable relief, "oh" with a shameful, rising inflection, "themovie."

Leave it to me: Im always top banana in the shock department. Be a darling,darling, rub some oil on my back." While I was performing this service, she said:"O.J. Bermans in town, and listen, I gave him your story in the magazine. He wasquite impressed. He thinks maybe youre worth helping. But he says youre on thewrong track. Negroes and children: who cares?"

On Christmas Eve she and Mag gave a party. Holly asked me to come early andhelp trim the tree. Im still not sure how they maneuvered that tree into theap九九藏书网artment. The top branches were crushed against the ceiling, the lower ones spreadwall-to-wall; altogether it was not unlike the yuletide giant we see in RockefellerPlaza. Moreover, it would have taken a Rockefeller to decorate it, for it soaked upbaubles and tinsel like melting snow. Holly suggested she run out to Woolworths andsteal some balloons; she did: and they turned the tree into a fairly good show. Wemade a toast to our work, and Holly said: "Look in the bedroom. Theres a presentfor you."

I did, terribly; my hand, my heart was shaking as I recapped the bottle of oil. "Ohno, I wouldnt regret that. Im only sorry you wasted your money on me: RustyTrawler is too hard a way of earning it."

"I dont compare myself to you. Or, Berman. Therefore I cant feel superior. Wewant different things."

"It was, wasnt it? My wild sweet Cathy. God, I cried buckets. I saw it ten times."

"Not Mr. Berman, I gather."

"I couldnt agree more; but I thought you wanted it."

"You will be if you hit me. You wanted to a minute ago: I could feel it in yourhand; and you want to now."

Promise youll never put a living thing in it."

She sat up on the army cot, her face, her naked breasts coldly blue in the sunlamplight. "It should take you about four seconds to walk from here to the door. Illgive you two."

"I havent planned that far."

The urge in my hand was growing beyond control. "But thats unreasonable.

She shrwｗｗ•９9ｌib•nｅtugged. "A few extra trips to the powder room. Promise me, though.

"Im afraid it isnt much," and it wasnt: a St. Christophers medal. But at least itcame from Tiffanys. Holly was not a girl who could keep anything, and surely bynow she has lost that medal, left it in a suitcase or some hotel drawer. But the birdcage is still mine. Ive lugged it to New Orleans, Nantucket, all over Europe, Morocco,the West Indies. Yet I seldom remember that it was Holly who gave it to me,because at one point I chose to forget: we had a big falling-out, and among theobjects rotating in the eye of our hurricane were the bird cage and O.J. Berman andmy story, a copy of which Id given Holly when it appeared in the university review.

Her muscles hardened, the touch of her was like stone warmed by the sun.

"That I hadnt slept with José? God, yes. I simply told -- but you know: made itsound like an agonized confession -- simply told her I was a dyke."

"Wuthering Heights," she said, without hesitation.

I started to kiss her, but she held out her hand "Gimme," she said, tapping thebulge in my pocket.

My hand, smoothing oil on her skin, seemed to have a temper of its own: ityearned to raise itself and come down on her buttocks. "Give me an example," I saidquietly. "Of something that means something. In your opinion."

"Well, I agree with him. I read that story twice. Brats and niggers. Tremblingleaves. Description. It doesnt mean anything."