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George Peppard is the struggling and "sponsored" young writer who finds himself swept into Holly's dizzying, delightfully unstructured Sztargames as she determinedly scours Manhattan for a suitable millionaire to marry. Schaue jetzt Frühstück bei Tiffany. Anniversary Edition German. Beverly Powers. Dorothy Whitney. Home Filme Frühstück bei Tiffany. Da ich alle Klassiker anschauen möchte, stand auch Frühstück bei Tiffany auf dem Programm. Ist weniger sentimental und romantisch, als Everest Poker Download Beschreibung vermuten lässt; und eigentlich auch keine Komödie. George Peppard.

The man's name was Rutherfurd "Rusty" Trawler. In he'd lost both his parents, his father the victim of an anarchist and his mother of shock, which double misfortune had made Rusty an orphan, a millionaire, and a celebrity, all at the age of five.

He'd been a stand-by of the Sunday supplements ever since, a consequence that had gathered hurricane momentum when, still a schoolboy, he had caused his godfather-custodian to be arrested on charges of sodomy.

After that, marriage and divorce sustained his place in the tabloid-sun. His first wife had taken herself, and her alimony, to a rival of Father Divine's.

The second wife seems unaccounted for, but the third had sued him in New York State with a full satchel of the kind of testimony that entails.

He himself divorced the last Mrs. Trawler, his principal complaint stating that she'd started a mutiny aboard his yacht, said mutiny resulting in his being deposited on the Dry Tortugas.

Though he'd been a bachelor since, apparently before the war he'd proposed to Unity Mitford, at least he was supposed to have sent her a cable offering to marry her if Hitler didn't.

This was said to be the reason Winchell always referred to him as a Nazi; that, and the fact that he attended rallies in Yorkville.

I was not told these things. I read them in The Baseball Guide , another selection off Holly's shelf which she seemed to use for a scrapbook.

Tucked between the pages were Sunday features, together with scissored snippings from gossip columns.

Holly came up from behind, and caught me reading: Miss Holiday Golightly, of the Boston Golightlys, making every day a holiday for the karat Rusty Trawler.

I said, "What was this week's weather report? There're so few things men can talk about. If a man doesn't like baseball, then he must like horses, and if he doesn't like either of them, well, I'm in trouble anyway: he don't like girls.

And how are you making out with O. But what have I to offer that would strike him as an opportunity? He really can help you, Fred.

Not because they would have given me the part or because I would have been good: they wouldn't and I wouldn't. If I do feel guilty, I guess it's because I let him go on dreaming when I wasn't dreaming a bit.

I was just vamping for time to make a few self-improvements: I knew damn well I'd never be a movie star. It's too hard; and if you're intelligent, it's too embarrassing.

My complexes aren't inferior enough: being a movie star and having a big fat ego are supposed to go hand-in-hand; actually, it's essential not to have any ego at all.

I don't mean I'd mind being rich and famous. That's very much on my schedule, and someday I'll try to get around to it; but if it happens, I'd like to have my ego tagging along.

I want to still be me when I wake up one fine morning and have breakfast at Tiffany's. You need a glass," she said, noticing my empty hands.

Will you bring my friend a drink? It's a little inconvenient, his not having a name. But I haven't any right to give him one: he'll have to wait until he belongs to somebody.

We just sort of took up by the river one day, we don't belong to each other: he's an independent, and so am I.

I don't want to own anything until I know I've found the place where me and things belong together. I'm not quite sure where that is just yet.

But I know what it's like. Diamonds, yes. But it's tacky to wear diamonds before you're forty; and even that's risky. They only look right on the really old girls.

Maria Ouspenskaya. Wrinkles and bones, white hair and diamonds: I can't wait. But that's not why I'm mad about Tiffany's. You know those days when you've got the mean reds?

You're sad, that's all. But the mean reds are horrible. You're afraid and you sweat like hell, but you don't know what you're afraid of.

Except something bad is going to happen, only you don't know what it is. You've had that feeling? Some people call it angst. But what do you do about it?

I've tried aspirin, too. Rusty thinks I should smoke marijuana, and I did for a while, but it only makes me giggle. What I've found does the most good is just to get into a taxi and go to Tiffany's.

It calms me down right away, the quietness and the proud look of it; nothing very bad could happen to you there, not with those kind men in their nice suits, and that lovely smell of silver and alligator wallets.

If I could find a real-life place that made me feel like Tiffany's, then I'd buy some furniture and give the cat a name. I've thought maybe after the war, Fred and I — " She pushed up her dark glasses, and her eyes, the differing colors of them, the grays and wisps of blue and green, had taken on a far-seeing sharpness.

It's wonderful country for raising horses. I saw one place near the sea. Fred's good with horses. You know what the doctor said. I know what the doctor said.

Let's go. Still he continued, as though it were a ritual: "Do you love me? And when I'm ready, we'll go eat wherever you want.

Besides, he had a stinking childhood. Can't you see it's just that Rusty feels safer in diapers than he would in a skirt? Which is really the choice, only he's awfully touchy about it.

He tried to stab me with a butter knife because I told him to grow up and face the issue, settle down and play house with a nice fatherly truck driver.

Meantime, I've got him on my hands; which is okay, he's harmless, he thinks girls are dolls, literally. Even land in Mexico costs something.

Now," she said, motioning me forward, "let's get hold of O. Then I remembered: "Why Traveling? Just provocative. So I told them to put Traveling.

Anyway, it was a waste of money, ordering those cards. Except I felt I owed it to them to buy some little some thing. They're from Tiffany's. You're going to make friends with O.

It was a young woman, and she entered like a wind-rush, a squall of scarves and jangling gold. Hogging all these simply r-r-riveting m-m-men!

They straightened their spines, sucked in their stomachs; there was a general contest to match her swaying height. Holly said, "What are you doing here?

I've been upstairs working with Yunioshi. Christmas stuff for the Ba-ba-zaar. But you sound vexed, sugar? He squeezed her arm, as though to admire her muscle, and asked her if she could use a drink.

I'm happy with ammonia. Holly, honey," she said, slightly shoving her, "don't you bother about me. I can introduce myself. Berman, who, like many short men in the presence of tall women, had an aspiring mist in his eye.

That's hill country. He lost her to a quadrille of partners who gobbled up her stammered jokes like popcorn tossed to pigeons.

It was a comprehensible success. She was a triumph over ugliness, so often more beguiling than real beauty, if only because it contains paradox.

In this case, as opposed to the scrupulous method of plain good taste and scientific grooming, the trick had been worked by exaggerating defects; she'd made them ornamental by admitting them boldly.

Heels that emphasized her height, so steep her ankles trembled; a flat tight bodice that indicated she could go to a beach in bathing trunks; hair that was pulled straight back, accentuating the spareness, the starvation of her fashion-model face.

Even the stutter, certainly genuine but still a bit laid on, had been turned to advantage. It was the master stroke, that stutter; for it contrived to make her banalities sound somehow original, and secondly, despite her tallness, her assurance, it served to inspire in male listeners a protective feeling.

To illustrate: Berman had to be pounded on the back because she said, "Who can tell me w-w-where is the j-j-john? She's been here before.

She knows where it is. You'd think it would show more. But heaven knows, she looks healthy. So, well, clean. That's the extraordinary part.

Wouldn't you," she asked with concern, but of no one in particular, "wouldn't you say she looked clean?

A Naval officer, who had been holding Mag Wildwood's drink, put it down. Mag Wildwood couldn't understand it, the abrupt absence of warmth on her return; the conversations she began behaved like green logs, they fumed but would not fire.

More unforgivably, people were leaving without taking her telephone number. The Air Force colonel decamped while her back was turned, and this was the straw too much: he'd asked her to dinner.

Suddenly she was blind. And since gin to artifice bears the same relation as tears to mascara, her attractions at once dissembled.

She took it out on everyone. She called her hostess a Hollywood degenerate. She invited a man in his fifties to fight.

She told Berman, Hitler was right. She exhilarated Rusty Trawler by stiff-arming him into a comer.

Get up from there," Holly said, stretching on a pair of gloves. The remnants of the party were waiting at the door, and when the bore didn't budge Holly cast me an apologetic glance.

Put her in a taxi. She lives at the Winslow. Live Barbizon. Regent Ask for Mag Wildwood. The prospect of steering an Amazon into a taxi obliterated whatever resentment I felt.

But she solved the problem herself. Rising on her own steam, she stared down at me with a lurching loftiness.

She said, "Let's go Stork. Catch lucky balloon," and fell full-length like an axed oak. My first thought was to run for a doctor.

But examination proved her pulse fine and her breathing regular. She was simply asleep. After finding a pillow for her head, I left her to enjoy it.

The following afternoon I collided with Holly on the stairs. A hang-over out to here. And the mean reds on top of it. Over the weekend, mystery deepened.

First, there was the Latin who came to my door: mistakenly, for he was inquiring after Miss Wildwood. It took a while to correct his error, our accents seemed mutually incoherent, but by the time we had I was charmed.

He'd been put together with care, his brown head and bullfighter's figure had an exactness, a perfection, like an apple, an orange, something nature has made just right.

Added to this, as decoration, were an English suit and a brisk cologne and, what is still more unlatin, a bashful manner.

The second event of the day involved him again. It was toward evening, and I saw him on my way out to dinner. He was arriving in a taxi; the driver helped him totter into the house with a load of suitcases.

That gave me something to chew on: by Sunday my jaws were quite tired. Then the picture became both darker and clearer.

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 a blanket, the cat between them.

Their hair, newly washed, hung lankly. They were busy. Holly varnishing her toenails, Mag knitting on a sweater.

Mag was speaking. At least there's one thing you can say for Rusty. He's an American. There's a war on. I'm p-p-proud of my country.

The men in my family were great soldiers. There's a statue of Papadaddy Wildwood smack in the center of Wildwood.

Could be. They say the more stupid you are the braver. He's pretty stupid. I didn't realize he was a soldier. But he does look stupid.

Not stupid. He wants awfully to be on the inside staring out: anybody with their nose pressed against a glass is liable to look stupid.

Anyhow, he's a different Fred. Fred's my brother. A boy that's fighting for you and me and all of us. I appreciate a joke, but underneath I'm a s-s-serious person.

Proud to be an American. And being a B-b-brazilian myself. It's such a canyon to cross. Six thousand miles, and not knowing the language — " "Go to Berlitz.

It isn't as though anyone spoke it. It's such a useless thing for a man to want to be: the p-p-president of Brazil. You saw us together. Do you think I'm madly in love?

Does he bite? In bed. Should he? That's the right spirit. I like a man who sees the humor; most of them, they're all pant and puff. I suppose.

He doesn't bite. He laughs. What else? And it isn't that I don't want to tell you. But it's so difficult to remember.

I don't d-d-dwell on these things. The way you seem to. They go out of my head like a dream. I'm sure that's the n-n-normal attitude.

If you can't remember, try leaving the lights on. I'm a very- very-very conventional person. What's wrong with a decent look at a guy you like? Does that answer your question?

Because I'm not a cold plate of m-m-macaroni. I'm a warm-hearted person. It's the basis of my character. 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. Do you realize I've knitted ten pairs of Argyles in less than three months?

And this is the second sweater. Sweaters in Brazil. I ought to be making s-s-sun helmets. Actually, I'd like that. 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.

Perhaps my face explained she'd misconstrued, that I'd not wanted advice but congratulations: her mouth shifted from a yawn into a smile.

It's wonderful. Well, come in," she said. I'll get dressed and take you to lunch. 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?

One could see that Holly had a laundry problem; the room was strewn, like a girl's gymnasium. But a good thing," she said, hobbling out of the bathroom as she adjusted a garter.

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 to ponder, how, from such wreckage, she evolved the eventual effect: pampered, calmly immaculate, as though she'd been attended by Cleopatra's maids.

She said, "Listen," and cupped her hand under my chin, "I'm glad about the story. Really I am. A beautiful day with the buoyancy of a bird.

To start, we had Manhattans at Joe Bell's; and, when he heard of my good luck, champagne cocktails on the house. Later, we wandered toward Fifth Avenue, where there was a parade.

The flags in the wind, the thump of military bands and military feet, seemed to have nothing to do with war, but to be, rather, a fanfare arranged in my personal honor.

We ate lunch at the cafeteria in the park. Afterwards, avoiding the zoo Holly said she couldn't bear to see anything in a cage , we giggled, ran, sang along the paths toward the old wooden boathouse, now gone.

Leaves floated on the lake; on the shore, a park-man was fanning a bonfire of them, and the smoke, rising like Indian signals, was the only smudge on the quivering air.

Aprils have never meant much to me, autumns seem that season of beginning, spring; which is how I felt sitting with Holly on the railings of the boathouse porch.

I thought of the future, and spoke of the past. Because Holly wanted to know about my childhood. She talked of her own, too; but it was elusive, nameless, placeless, an impressionistic recital, though the impression received was contrary to what one expected, for she gave an almost voluptuous account of swimming and summer, Christmas trees, pretty cousins and parties: in short, happy in a way that she was not, and never, certainly, the background of a child who had run away.

Or, I asked, wasn't it true that she'd been out on her own since she was fourteen? She rubbed her nose. The other isn't.

But really, darling, you made such a tragedy out of your childhood I didn't feel I should compete. It was near the antique shop with the palace of a bird cage in its window, so I took her there to see it, and she enjoyed the point, its fantasy: "But still, it's a cage.

Don't be chicken. The saleslady was occupied with a group of nuns who were trying on masks. Holly picked up a mask and slipped it over her face; she chose another and put it on mine; then she took my hand and we walked away.

It was as simple as that. Outside, we ran a few blocks, I think to make it more dramatic; but also because, as I'd discovered, successful theft exhilarates.

I wondered if she'd often stolen. If I wanted anything. But I still do it every now and then, sort of to keep my hand in.

I have a memory of spending many hither and yonning days with Holly; and it's true, we did at odd moments see a great deal of each other; but on the whole, the memory is false.

Because toward the end of the month I found a job: what is there to add? The less the better, except to say it was necessary and lasted from nine to five.

Which made our hours, Holly's and mine, extremely different. Unless it was Thursday, her Sing Sing day, or unless she'd gone horseback riding in the park, as she did occasionally, Holly was hardly up when I came home.

Sometimes, stopping there, I shared her wake-up coffee while she dressed for the evening. As a quartet, they struck an unmusical note, primarily the fault of Ybarra-Jaegar, who seemed as out of place in their company as a violin in a jazz band.

He was intelligent, he was presentable, he appeared to have a serious link with his work, which was obscurely governmental, vaguely important, and took him to Washington several days a week.

How, then, could he survive night after night in La Rue, El Morocco, listening to the Wildwood ch-ch-chatter and staring into Rusty's raw baby-buttocks face?

Perhaps, like most of us in a foreign country, he was incapable of placing people, selecting a frame for their picture, as he would at home; therefore all Americans had to be judged in a pretty equal light, and on this basis his companions appeared to be tolerable examples of local color and national character.

That would explain much; Holly's determination explains the rest. Late one afternoon, while waiting for a Fifth Avenue bus, I noticed a taxi stop across the street to let out a girl who ran up the steps of the Forty-second Street public library.

She was through the doors before I recognized her, which was pardonable, for Holly and libraries were not an easy association to make.

I let curiosity guide me between the lions, debating on the way whether I should admit following her or pretend coincidence.

In the end I did neither, but concealed myself some tables away from her in the general reading room, where she sat behind her dark glasses and a fortress of literature she'd gathered at the desk.

She sped from one book to the next, intermittently lingering on a page, always with a frown, as if it were printed upside down.

She had a pencil poised above paper — nothing seemed to catch her fancy, still now and then, as though for the hell of it, she made laborious scribblings.

Watching her, I remembered a girl I'd known in school, a grind, Mildred Grossman. Mildred: with her moist hair and greasy spectacles, her stained fingers that dissected frogs and carried coffee to picket lines, her flat eyes that only turned toward the stars to estimate their chemical tonnage.

Earth and air could not be more opposite 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 average personality reshapes frequently, every few years even our bodies undergo a complete overhaul — desirable or not, it is a natural thing that we should change.

All right, here were two people who never would. That is what Mildred Grossman had in common with Holly Golightly.

They would never change because they'd been given their character too soon; which, like sudden riches, leads to a lack of proportion: the one had splurged herself into a top-heavy realist, the other a lopsided romantic.

I imagined them in a restaurant of the future, Mildred still studying the menu for its nutritional values, Holly still gluttonous for everything on it.

It would never be different. They would walk through life and out of it with the same determined step that took small notice of those cliffs at the left.

Such profound observations made me forget where I was; I came to, startled to find myself in the gloom of the library, and surprised all over again to see Holly there.

It was after seven, she was freshening her lipstick and perking up her appearance from what she deemed correct for a library to what, by adding a bit of scarf, some earrings, she considered suitable for the Colony.

When she'd left, I wandered over to the table where her books remained; they were what I had wanted to see. South by Thunderbird.

And so forth. On Christmas Eve she and Mag gave a party. Holly asked me to come early and help trim the tree.

I'm still not sure how they maneuvered that tree into the apartment. The top branches were crushed against the ceiling, the lower ones spread wall-to-wall; altogether it was not unlike the yuletide giant we see in Rockefeller Plaza.

Moreover, it would have taken a Rockefeller to decorate it, for it soaked up baubles and tinsel like melting snow.

Holly suggested she run out to Woolworth's and steal some balloons; she did: and they turned the tree into a fairly good show.

We made a toast to our work, and Holly said: "Look in the bedroom. There's a present for you. It's dreadful! Three hundred and fifty dollars!

Promise me, though. Promise you'll never put a living thing in it. Christopher's medal. But at least it came from Tiffany's. Holly was not a girl who could keep anything, and surely by now she has lost that medal, left it in a suitcase or some hotel drawer.

But the bird cage is still mine. 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 the objects rotating in the eye of our hurricane were the bird cage and O.

Berman and my story, a copy of which I'd given Holly when it appeared in the university review. Our altercation happened soon after she returned.

She was brown as iodine, her hair was sun-bleached to a ghost-color, she'd had a wonderful time: "Well, first of all we were in Key West, and Rusty got mad at some sailors, or vice versa, anyway he'll have to wear a spine brace the rest of his life.

Dearest Mag ended up in the hospital, too. First-degree sunburn. Disgusting: all blisters and citronella. We couldn't stand the smell of her. He says wait till I see Rio; but as far as I'm concerned Havana can take my money right now.

We had an irresistible guide, most of him Negro and the rest of him Chinese, and while I don't go much for one or the other, the combination was fairly riveting: so I let him play kneesie under the table, because frankly I didn't 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. So was Rusty: but he doesn't care about that, he simply wants to hear the details. Actually, things were pretty tense until I had a heart-to-heart with Mag.

A recognizable piece of furniture had been added to the room: an army cot; and Holly, trying to preserve her tropic look, was sprawled on it under a sun lamp.

God, yes. I simply told — but you know: made it sound like an ag onized confession — simply told her I was a dyke.

Why do you think she went out and bought this army cot? Feave it to me: I'm always top banana in the shock department. Be a darling, darling, rub some oil on my back.

Berman's in town, and listen, I gave him your story in the magazine. He was quite impressed. He thinks maybe you're worth helping.

But he says you're on the wrong track. Negroes and children: who cares? Berman, I gather. I read that story twice. Brats and niggers.

Trembling leaves. It doesn't mean anything. In your opinion. The urge in my hand was growing beyond control.

You're talking about a work of genius. My wild sweet Cathy. God, I cried buckets. I saw it ten times. Or, Berman. Therefore I can't feel superior.

We want different things. As though you'd written them without knowing the end. Well, I'll tell you: I you'd better make money.

You have an expensive imagination. Not many people are going to buy you bird cages. You wanted to a minute ago: I could feel it in your hand; and you want to now.

I'm only sorry you wasted your money on me: Rusty Trawler is too hard a way of earning it. I'll give you two.

That settled that. Or so I imagined until the next morning when, as I was leaving for work, I saw the cage perched on a sidewalk ash-can waiting for the garbage collector.

Rather sheepishly, I rescued it and carried it back to my room, a capitulation that did not lessen my resolve to put Holly Golightly absolutely out of my life.

She was, I decided, "a crude exhibitionist," "a time waster," "an utter fake": someone never to be spoken to again.

And I didn't. Not for a long while. We passed each other on the stairs with lowered eyes. If she walked into Joe Bell's, I walked out.

At one point, Madame Sapphia Spanella, the coloratura and roller-skating enthusiast who lived on the first floor, circulated a petition among the brownstone's other tenants asking them to join her in having Miss Golightly evicted: she was, said Madame Spanella, "morally objectionable" and the "perpetrator of all-night gatherings that endangered the safety and sanity of her neighbors.

But her petition failed, and as April approached May, the open-windowed, warm spring nights were lurid with the party sounds, the loud-playing phonograph and martini laughter that emanated from Apt.

It was no novelty to encounter suspicious specimens among Holly's callers, quite the contrary; but one day late that spring, while passing through the brownstone's vestibule, I noticed a very provocative man examining her mailbox.

A person in his early fifties with a hard, weathered face, gray forlorn eyes. He wore an old sweat-stained gray hat, and his cheap summer suit, a pale blue, hung too loosely on his lanky frame; his shoes were brown and brandnew.

He seemed to have no intention of ringing Holly's bell. Slowly, as though he were reading Braille, he kept rubbing a finger across the embossed lettering of her name.

That evening, on my way to supper, I saw the man again. He was standing across the street, leaning against a tree and staring up at Holly's windows.

Sinister speculations rushed through my head. Was he a detective? Or some underworld agent connected with her Sing Sing friend, Sally Tomato?

The situation revived my tenderer feelings for Holly; it was only fair to interrupt our feud long enough to warn her that she was being watched.

As I walked to the corner, heading east toward the Hamburg Heaven at Seventy-ninth and Madison, I could feel the man's attention focused on me.

Presently, without turning my head, I knew that he was following me. Because I could hear him whistling. Not any ordinary tune, but the plaintive, prairie melody Holly sometimes played on her guitar: Don't wanna sleep, don't wanna die, just wanna go a-travelin' through the pastures of the sky.

The whistling continued across Park Avenue and up Madison. Once, while waiting for a traffic light to change, I watched him out of the corner of my eye as he stooped to pet a sleazy Pomeranian.

Hamburg Heaven was empty. Nevertheless, he took a seat right beside me at the long counter. He smelled of tobacco and sweat.

He ordered a cup of coffee, but when it came he didn't touch it. Instead, he chewed on a toothpick and studied me in the wall mirror facing us.

It was as worn as his leathery hands, almost falling to pieces; and so was the brittle, cracked, blurred snapshot he handed me.

There were seven people in the picture, all grouped together on the sagging porch of a stark wooden house, and all children, except for the man himself, who had his arm around the waist of a plump blond little girl with a hand shading her eyes against the sun.

At the same moment, I realized who the man must be. She was a Lulamae Barnes. Was," he said, shifting the toothpick in his mouth, "till she married me.

I'm her husband. Doc Golightly. I'm a horse doctor, animal man. Do some farming, too. Near Tulip, Texas. Son, why are you laughin'? I took a swallow of water and choked; he pounded me on the back.

I'm a tired man. I've been five years lookin' for my woman. Soon as I got that letter from Fred, saying where she was, I bought myself a ticket on the Greyhound.

Fulamae belongs home with her husband and her churren. He meant the four other young faces in the picture, two bare-footed girls and a pair of overalled boys.

Well, of course: the man was deranged. They're older than she is. Their own precious mother, precious woman, Jesus rest her soul, she passed away July 4th, Independence Day, The year of the drought.

When I married Fulamae, that was in December, , she was going on fourteen. Maybe an ordinary person, being only fourteen, wouldn't know their right mind.

But you take Fulamae, she was an exceptional woman. She knew good-and-well what she was doing when she promised to be my wife and the mother of my churren.

She plain broke our hearts when she ran off like she done. Do you believe what I'm saying is so? It was too implausible not to be fact; moreover, it dovetailed with O.

Berman's description of the Holly he'd first encountered in California: "You don't know whether she's a hillbilly or an Okie or what.

All the housework was done by her daughters. Fulamae could just take it easy: fuss in front of mirrors and wash her hair.

Our own cows, our own garden, chickens, pigs: son, that woman got positively fat. While her brother growed into a giant. Which is a sight different from how they come to us.

She come to me one morning, and said: 'Papa, I got two wild yunguns locked in the kitchen. I caught 'em outside stealing milk and turkey eggs.

Well, you never saw a more pitiful something. Ribs sticking out everywhere, legs so puny they can't hardly stand, teeth wobbling so bad they can't chew mush.

Story was: their mother died of the TB, and their papa done the same — and all the churren, a whole raft of 'em, they been sent off to live with different mean people.

Now Lulamae and her brother, them two been living with some mean, no-count people a hundred miles east of Tulip. She had good cause to run off from that house.

She didn't have none to leave mine. Twas her home. Lively, too. Talky as a jaybird. With something smart to say on every subject: better than the radio.

First thing you know, I'm out picking flowers. I tamed her a crow and taught it to say her name. I showed her how to play the guitar.

Just to look at her made the tears spring to my eyes. The night I proposed, I cried like a baby. She said: 'What you want to cry for, Doc?

I've never been married before. She didn't have to lift a finger, 'cept to eat a piece of pie. We must've had a hunnerd dollars' worth of magazines come into that house.

Ask me, that's what done it. Looking at show-off pictures. Reading dreams. That's what started her walking down the road. Every day she'd walk a little further: a mile, and come home.

Two miles, and come home. One day she just kept on. All summer you could hear him. In the yard. In the garden.

In the woods. All summer that damned bird was calling: Lulamae, Lulamae. I carried our checks to the cashier. While I was paying, he joined me. We left together and walked over to Park Avenue.

It was a cool, blowy evening; swanky awnings flapped in the breeze. The quietness between us continued until I said: "But what about her brother?

He didn't leave? A fine boy. Fine with horses. He didn't know what got into Fulamae, how come she left her brother and husband and churren. After he was in the Army, though, Fred started hearing from her.

The other day he wrote me her address. So I come to get her. I know he's sorry for what she done. I know she wants to go home.

I told him that I thought he'd find Holly, or Fulamae, somewhat changed. Because I don't want to surprise her.

Scare her none. That's why I've held off. Be my friend: let her know I'm here. But Doc Golightly's proud earnest eyes and sweat-stained hat made me ashamed of such anticipations.

He followed me into the house and prepared to wait at the bottom of the stairs. Holly was alone. She answered the door at once; in fact, she was on her way out — white satin dancing pumps and quantities of perfume announced gala intentions.

We'll smoke the pipe tomorrow, okay? If you're still around tomorrow. It was as though her eyes were shattered prisms, the dots of blue and gray and green like broken bits of sparkle.

Where is he? Where are you, darling? His head appeared above the banisters, and Holly backed away from him, not as though she were frightened, but as though she were retreating into a shell of disappointment.

Then he was standing in front of her, hangdog and shy. You're so skinny. Like when I first saw you. All wild around the eye. Whoops of relieved laughter shook him.

Kingdom come. Nor did they seem aware of Madame Sapphia Spanella, who opened her door and yelled: "Shut up! It's a disgrace. Do your whoring elsewhere.

Of course I never divorced him. I was only fourteen, for God's sake. It couldn't have been legal.

It was not yet noon, according to the black mahogany clock behind the bar, and he'd already served us three rounds. Clocks are slow on Sundays.

Besides, I haven't been to bed yet," she told him, and confided to me: "Not to sleep. For the first time since I'd known her, she seemed to feel a need to justify herself: "Well, I had to.

Doc really loves me, you know. And I love him. He may have looked old and tacky to you. But you don't know the sweetness of him, the confidence he can give to birds and brats and fragile things like that.

Anyone who ever gave you confidence, you owe them a lot. I've always remembered Doc in my prayers. Please stop smirking!

I'm smiling. Please fill your email to form below. Home Movies Breakfast at Tiffany's. Breakfast at Tiffany's Trailer. Fortune hunter Holly Golightly finds herself captivated by aspiring writer Paul Varjak, who's moved into her building on a wealthy woman's dime.

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Fortune hunter Holly Golightly finds herself captivated by aspiring writer Paul Varjak, who's moved into her building on a wealthy woman's dime. As romance blooms between Paul and Holly, Doc Golightly shows up on the scene, revealing Holly's past.

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