Breakfast at Tiffany's by Truman Capote Read Free Book Online

the rest of the cat's whiskers. "Listen. If you can't remember, try leaving the lights on."
    "Please understand me, Holly. I'm a very-very-very conventional person."
    "Oh, balls. What's wrong with a decent look at a guy you like? Men are beautiful, a lot of them are, José is, and if you don't even want to look at him, well, I'd say he's getting a pretty cold plate of macaroni."
    "L-l-lower your voice."
    "You can't possibly be in love with him. Now. Does that answer your question?"
    "No. Because I'm not a cold plate of m-m-macaroni. I'm a warm-hearted person. It's the basis of my character."
    "Okay. You've got a warm heart. But if I were a man on my way to bed, I'd rather take along a hot-water bottle. It's more tangible."
    "You won't hear any squawks out of José," she said complacently, her needles flashing in the sunlight. "What's more, I am in love with him. Do you realize I've knitted ten pairs of Argyles in less than three months? And this is the second sweater." She stretched the sweater and tossed it aside. "What's the point, though? Sweaters in Brazil. I ought to be making s-s-sun helmets."
    Holly lay back and yawned. "It must be winter sometime."
    "It rains , that I know. Heat. Rain. J-j-jungles."
    "Heat. Jungles. Actually, I'd 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 Holly's box had been altered, a name added: Miss Golightly and Miss Wildwood were now traveling together. This might have held my interest longer except for a letter in my own mailbox. It was from a small university review to whom I'd sent a story. They liked it; and, though I must understand they could not afford to pay, they intended to publish. Publish: that meant print . Dizzy with excitement is no mere phrase. I had to tell someone: and, taking the stairs two at a time, I pounded on Holly's door.
    I didn't trust my voice to tell the news; as soon as she came to the door, her eyes squinty with sleep, I thrust the letter at her. It seemed as though she'd had time to read sixty pages before she handed it back. "I wouldn't let them do it, not if they don't pay you," she said, yawning. Perhaps my face explained she'd misconstrued, that I'd not wanted advice but congratulations: her mouth shifted from a yawn into a smile. "Oh, I see. It's wonderful. Well, come in," she said. "Well make a pot of coffee and celebrate. No. I'll get dressed and take you to lunch."
    Her bedroom was consistent with her parlor: it perpetuated the same camping-out atmosphere; crates and suitcases, everything packed and ready to go, like the belongings of a criminal who feels the law not far behind. In the parlor there was no conventional furniture, but the bedroom had the bed itself, a double one at that, and quite flashy: blond wood, tufted satin.
    She left the door of the bathroom open, and conversed from there; between the flushing and the brushing, most of what she said was unintelligible, but the gist of it was: she supposed I knew Mag Wildwood had moved in and wasn't that convenient ? because if you're going to have a roommate, and she isn't a dyke, then the next best thing is a perfect fool, which Mag was , because then you can dump the lease on them and send them out for the laundry.
    One could see that Holly had a laundry problem; the room was strewn, like a girl's gymnasium.
    " -- and you know, she's quite a successful model: isn't that fantastic ! But a good thing," she said, hobbling out of the bathroom as she adjusted a garter. "It ought to keep her out of my hair most of the day. And there shouldn't be too much trouble on the man front. She's engaged. Nice guy, too. Though there's a tiny difference in height: I'd say a foot, her favor. Where the hell -- " She was on her knees poking under the bed. After she'd found what she was looking for, a pair of lizard shoes, she had to search for a blouse, a belt, and it was a subject