Breakfast at Tiffany's by Truman Capote
“Oh, Mr. Arbuck …”
He turned back, a smile of relief oiling his face: she’d only been teasing.
“The next time a girl wants a little powder-room change,” she called, not teasing at all, “take my advice, darling: don’t give her twenty cents!”
SHE KEPT HER PROMISE TO Mr. Yunioshi; or I assume she did not ring his bell again, for in the next days she started ringing mine, sometimes at two in the morning, three and four: she had no qualms at what hour she got me out of bed to push the buzzer that released the downstairs door. As I had few friends, and none who would come around so late, I always knew that it was her. But on the first occasions of its happening, I went to my door, half-expecting bad news, a telegram; and Miss Golightly would call up: “Sorry, darling—I forgot my key.”
Of course we’d never met. Though actually, on the stairs, in the street, we often came face-to-face; but she seemed not quite to see me. She was never without dark glasses, she was always well groomed, there was a consequential good taste in the plainness of her clothes, the blues and grays and lack of luster that made her, herself, shine so. One might have thought her a photographer’s model, perhaps a young actress, except that it was obvious, judging from her hours, she hadn’t time to be either.
Now and then I ran across her outside our neighborhood. Once a visiting relative took me to “21,” and there, at a superior table, surrounded by four men, none of them Mr. Arbuck, yet all of them interchangeable with him, was Miss Golightly, idly, publicly combing her hair; and her expression, an unrealized yawn, put, by example, a dampener on the excitement I felt over dining at so swanky a place. Another night, deep in the summer, the heat of my room sent me out into the streets. I walked down Third Avenue to Fifty-first Street, where there was an antique store with an object in its window I admired: a palace of a bird cage, a mosque of minarets and bamboo rooms yearning to be filled with talkative parrots. But the price was three hundred and fifty dollars. On the way home I noticed a cab-driver crowd gathered in front of P. J. Clarke’s saloon, apparently attracted there by a happy group of whiskey-eyed Australian army officers baritoning, “Waltzing Matilda.” As they sang they took turns spin-dancing a girl over the cobbles under the El; and the girl, Miss Golightly, to be sure, floated round in their arms light as a scarf.
But if Miss Golightly remained unconscious of my existence, except as a doorbell convenience, I became, through the summer, rather an authority on hers. I discovered, from observing the trash-basket outside her door, that her regular reading consisted of tabloids and travel folders and astrological charts; that she smoked an esoteric cigarette called Picayunes; survived on cottage cheese and melba toast; that her vari-colored hair was somewhat self-induced. The same source made it evident that she received V-letters by the bale. They were always torn into strips like bookmarks. I used occasionally to pluck myself a bookmark in passing. Remember and miss you and rain and please write and damn and goddamn were the words that recurred most often on these slips; those, and lonesome and love.
Also, she had a cat and she played the guitar. On days when the sun was strong, she would wash her hair, and together with the cat, a red tiger-striped tom, sit out on the fire escape thumbing a guitar while her hair dried. Whenever I heard the music, I would go stand quietly by my window. She played very well, and sometimes sang too. Sang in the hoarse, breaking tones of a boy’s adolescent voice. She knew all the show hits, Cole Porter and Kurt Weill; especially she liked the songs from Oklahoma!, which were new that summer and everywhere. But there were moments when she played songs that made you wonder where she learned them, where indeed she came from. Harsh-tender wandering tunes with words that smacked of pineywoods or prairie. One went: Don’t wanna sleep, Don’t wanna die, Just wanna go a-travelin’ through the pastures of the sky; and this one seemed to gratify her the most, for often she continued it long after her hair had dried, after the sun had gone and there were lighted windows in the dusk.
But our acquaintance did not make headway until September, an evening with the first ripple-chills of autumn running through it. I’d been to a movie, come home and gone to bed with a bourbon nightcap and the newest Simenon: so much my idea of comfort that I couldn’t understand a sense of unease that multiplied until I could hear my heart beating. It was a feeling I’d read about, written about, but never before experienced. The feeling of being watched. Of someone in the room. Then: an abrupt rapping at the window, a glimpse of ghostly gray: I spilled the bourbon. It was some little while before I could bring myself to open the window, and ask Miss Golightly what she wanted.
“I’ve got the most terrifying man downstairs,” she said, stepping off the fire escape into the room. “I mean he’s sweet when he isn’t drunk, but let him start lapping up the vino, and oh God quel beast! If there’s one thing I loathe, it’s men who bite.” She loosened a gray flannel robe off her shoulder to show me evidence of what happens if a man bites. The robe was all she was wearing. “I’m sorry if I frightened you. But when the beast got so tiresome I just went out the window. I think he thinks I’m in the bathroom, not that I give a damn what he thinks, the hell with him, he’ll get tired, he’ll go to sleep, my God he should, eight martinis before dinner and enough wine to wash an elephant. Listen, you can throw me out if you want to. I’ve got a gall barging in on you like this. But that fire escape was damned icy. And you looked so cozy. Like my brother Fred. We used to sleep four in a bed, and he was the only one that ever let me hug him on a cold night. By the way, do you mind if I call you Fred?” She’d come completely into the room now, and she paused there, staring at me. I’d never seen her before not wearing dark glasses, and it was obvious now that they were prescription lenses, for without them her eyes had an assessing squint, like a jeweler’s. They were large eyes, a little blue, a little green, dotted with bits of brown: vari-colored, like her hair; and, like her hair, they gave out a lively warm light. “I suppose you think I’m very brazen. Or très fou. Or something.”
“Not at all.”
She seemed disappointed. “Yes, you do. Everybody does. I don’t mind. It’s useful.”
She sat down on one of the rickety red-velvet chairs, curved her legs underneath her, and glanced round the room, her eyes puckering more pronouncedly. “How can you bear it? It’s a chamber of horrors.”
“Oh, you get used to anything,” I said, annoyed with myself, for actually I was proud of the place.
“I don’t. I’ll never get used to anything. Anybody that does, they might as well be dead.” Her dispraising eyes surveyed the room again. “What do you do here all day?”
I motioned toward a table tall with books and paper. “Write things.”
“I thought writers were quite old. Of course Saroyan isn’t old. I met him at a party, and really he isn’t old at all. In fact,” she mused, “if he’d give himself a closer shave … by the way, is Hemingway old?”
“In his forties, I should think.”
“That’s not bad. I can’t get excited by a man until he’s forty-two. I know this idiot girl who keeps telling me I ought to go to a head-shrinker; she says I have a father complex. Which is so much merde. I simply trained myself to like older men, and it was the smartest thing I ever did. How old is W. Somerset Maugham?”
“I’m not sure. Sixty-something.”
“That’s not bad. I’ve never been to bed with a writer. No, wait: do you know Benny Shacklett?” She frowned when I shook my head. “That’s funny. He’s written an awful lot of radio stuff. But quel rat. Tell me, are you a real writer?”
“It depends on what you mean by real.”
“Well, darling, does anyone buy what you write?”
“Not yet.”
“I’m going to help you,” she said. “I can, too. Think of all the people I know who know people. I’m going to help you because you look like my brother Fred. Only smaller. I haven’t seen him since I was fourteen, that’s when I left home, and he was already six-feet-two. My other brothers were more you
I pointed to a bowl of apples, at the same time asked her how and why she’d left home so young. She looked at me blankly, and rubbed her nose, as though it tickled: a gesture, seeing often repeated, I came to recognize as a signal that one was trespassing. Like many people with a bold fondness for volunteering intimate information, anything that suggested a direct question, a pinning-down, put her on guard. She took a bite of apple, and said: “Tell me something you’ve written. The story part.”
“That’s one of the troubles. They’re not the kind of stories you can tell.”
“Too dirty?”
“Maybe I’ll let you read one sometime.”
“Whiskey and apples go together. Fix me a drink, darling. Then you can read me a story yourself.”
Very few authors, especially the unpublished, can resist an invitation to read aloud. I made us both a drink and, settling in a chair opposite, began to read to her, my voice a little shaky with a combination of stage fright and enthusiasm: it was a new story, I’d finished it the day before, and that inevitable sense of shortcoming had not had time to develop. It was about two women who share a house, schoolteachers, one of whom, when the other becomes engaged, spreads with anonymous notes a scandal that prevents the marriage. As I read, each glimpse I stole of Holly made my heart contract. She fidgeted. She picked apart the butts in an ashtray, she mooned over her fingernails, as though longing for a file; worse, when I did seem to have her interest, there was actually a telltale frost over her eyes, as if she were wondering whether to buy a pair of shoes she’d seen in some window.
“Is that the end?” she asked, waking up. She floundered for something more to say. “Of course I like dykes themselves. They don’t scare me a bit. But stories about dykes bore the bejesus out of me. I just can’t put myself in their shoes. Well really, darling,” she said, because I was clearly puzzled, “if it’s not about a couple of old bull-dykes, what the hell is it about?”
But I was in no mood to compound the mistake of having read the story with the further embarrassment of explaining it. The same vanity that had led to such exposure, now forced me to mark her down as an insensitive, mindless show-off.
“Incidentally,” she said, “do you happen to know any nice lesbians? I’m looking for a roommate. Well, don’t laugh. I’m so disorganized, I simply can’t afford a maid; and really, dykes are wonderful homemakers, they love to do all the work, you never have to bother about brooms and defrosting and sending out the laundry. I had a roommate in Hollywood, she played in Westerns, they called her the Lone Ranger; but I’ll say this for her, she was better than a man around the house. Of course people couldn’t help but think I must be a bit of a dyke myself. And of course I am. Everyone is: a bit. So what? That never discouraged a man yet, in fact it seems to goad them on. Look at the Lone Ranger, married twice. Usually dykes only get married once, just for the name. It seems to carry such cachet later on to be called Mrs. Something Another. That’s not true!” She was staring at an alarm clock on the table. “It can’t be four-thirty!”
The window was turning blue. A sunrise breeze bandied the curtains.
“What is today?”
“Thursday.”
“Thursday.” She stood up. “My God,” she said, and sat down again with a moan. “It’s too gruesome.”
I was tired enough not to be curious. I lay down on the bed and closed my eyes. Still it was irresistible: “What’s gruesome about Thursday?”
“Nothing. Except that I can never remember when it’s coming. You see, on Thursdays I have to catch the eight forty-five. They’re so particular about visiting hours, so if you’re there by ten that gives you an hour before the poor men eat lunch. Think of it, lunch at eleven. You can go at two, and I’d so much rather, but he likes me to come in the morning, he says it sets him up for the rest of the day. I’ve got to stay awake,” she said, pinching her cheeks until the roses came, “there isn’t time to sleep, I’d look consumptive, I’d sag like a tenement, and that wouldn’t be fair: a girl can’t go to Sing Sing with a green face.”
“I suppose not.” The anger I felt at her over my story was ebbing; she absorbed me again.
“All the visitors do make an effort to look their best, and it’s very tender, it’s sweet as hell, the way the women wear their prettiest everything, I mean the old ones and the really poor ones too, they make the dearest effort to look nice and smell nice too, and I love them for it. I love the kids too, especially the colored ones. I mean the kids the wives bring. It should be sad, seeing the kids there, but it isn’t, they have ribbons in their hair and lots of shine on their shoes, you’d think there was going to be ice cream; and sometimes that’s what it’s like in the visitors’ room, a party. Anyway it’s not like the movies: you know, grim whisperings through a grille. There isn’t any grille, just a counter between you and them, and the kids can stand on it to be hugged; all you have to do to kiss somebody is lean across. What I like most, they’re so happy to see each other, they’ve saved up so much to talk about, it isn’t possible to be dull, they keep laughing and holding hands. It’s different afterwards,” she said. “I see them on the train. They sit so quiet watching the river go by.” She stretched a strand of hair to the corner of her mouth and nibbled it thoughtfully. “I’m keeping you awake. Go to sleep.”
“Please. I’m interested.”
“I know you are. That’s why I want you to go to sleep. Because if I keep on, I’ll tell you about Sally. I’m not sure that would be quite cricket.” She chewed her hair silently. “They never told me not to tell anyone. In so many words. And it is funny. Maybe you could put it in a story with different names and whatnot. Listen, Fred,” she said, reaching for another apple, “you’ve got to cross your heart and kiss your elbow—”
Perhaps contortionists can kiss their elbow; she had to accept an approximation.
“Well,” she said, with a mouthful of apple, “you may have read about him in the papers. His name is Sally Tomato, and I speak Yiddish better than he speaks English; but he’s a darling old man, terribly pious. He’d look like a monk if it weren’t for the gold teeth; he says he prays for me every night. Of course he was never my lover; as far as that goes, I never knew him until he was already in jail. But I adore him now, after all I’ve been going to see him every Thursday for seven months, and I think I’d go even if he didn’t pay me. This one’s mushy,” she said, and aimed the rest of the apple out the window. “By the way, I did know Sally by sight. He used to come to Joe Bell’s bar, the one around the corner: never talked to anybody, just stand there, like the kind of man who lives in hotel rooms. But it’s funny to remember back and realize how closely he must have been watching me, because right after they sent him up (Joe Bell showed me his picture in the paper. Blackhand. Mafia. All that mumbo jumbo: but they gave him five years) along came this telegram from a lawyer. It said to contact him immediately for information to my advantage.”
“You thought somebody had left you a million?”
“Not at all. I figured Bergdorf was trying to collect. But I took the gamble and went to see this lawyer (if he is a lawyer, which I doubt, since he doesn’t seem to have an office, just an answering service, and he always wants to meet you in Hamburg Heaven: that’s because he’s fat, he can eat ten hamburgers and two bowls of relish and a whole lemon meringue pie). He asked me how I’d like to cheer up a lonely old man, at the same time pick up a hundred a week. I told him look, darling, you’ve got the wrong Miss Golightly, I’m not a nurse that does tricks on the side. I wasn’t impressed by the honorarium either; you can do as well as that on tr
“I don’t know. It doesn’t sound right.”
She smiled. “You think I’m lying?”
“For one thing, they can’t simply let anyone visit a prisoner.”
“Oh, they don’t. In fact they make quite a boring fuss. I’m supposed to be his niece.”
“And it’s as simple as that? For an hour’s conversation he gives you a hundred dollars?”
“He doesn’t, the lawyer does. Mr. O’Shaughnessy mails it to me in cash as soon as I leave the weather report.”
“I think you could get into a lot of trouble,” I said, and switched off a lamp; there was no need of it now, morning was in the room and pigeons were gargling on the fire escape.
“How?” she said seriously.
“There must be something in the law books about false identity. After all, you’re not his niece. And what about this weather report?”
She patted a yawn. “But it’s nothing. Just messages I leave with the answering service so Mr. O’Shaughnessy will know for sure that I’ve been up there. Sally tells me what to say, things like, oh, ‘there’s a hurricane in Cuba’ and ‘it’s snowing in Palermo.’ Don’t worry, darling,” she said, moving to the bed, “I’ve taken care of myself a long time.” The morning light seemed refracted through her: as she pulled the bed covers up to my chin she gleamed like a transparent child; then she lay down beside me. “Do you mind? I only want to rest a moment. So let’s don’t say another word. Go to sleep.”
I pretended to, I made my breathing heavy and regular. Bells in the tower of the next-door church rang the half-hour, the hour. It was six when she put her hand on my arm, a fragile touch careful not to waken. “Poor Fred,” she whispered, and it seemed she was speaking to me, but she was not. “Where are you, Fred? Because it’s cold. There’s snow in the wind.” Her cheek came to rest against my shoulder, a warm damp weight.