Two men came into the bar, and it seemed the moment to leave. Joe Bell followedme to the door. He caught my wrist again. "Do you believe it?"
"That you didnt want to touch her?"
"I mean about Africa."
At that moment I couldo remember the story, only the image of herriding away on a horse. "Anyway, shes gone."
"Yeah," he said, opening the door. "Just gone."
Outside, the rain had stopped, there was only a mist of it in the air, so I turhe er and walked along the street where the brownstoands. It is a streetwith trees that in the summer make cool patterns on the pavement; but now theleaves were yellowed and mostly down, and the rain had made them slippery, theyskidded underfoot. The brownstone is midway in the bloext to a church where ablue tower-clock tolls the hours. It has been sleeked up since my day; a smart blackdoor has replaced the old frosted glass, and gray elegant shutters frame thewindows. No one I remember still lives there except Madame Sapphia Spanella, ahusky coloratura who every afternoo roller-skating iral Park. I knowshes still there because I went up the steps and looked at the mailboxes. It was ohese mailboxes that had first made me aware of Holly Golightly.
Id been living in the house about a week when I noticed that the mailboxbelonging to Apt. 2 had a name-slot fitted with a curious card. Printed, ratherCartier-formal, it read: Miss Holiday Golightly; and, underh, in the er,Traveling. It nagged me like a tune: Miss Holiday Golightly, Traveling.
One night, it was long past twelve, I woke up at the sound of Mr. Yunioshi callingdowairs. Since he lived oop floor, his voice fell through the wholehouse, exasperated and stern. "Miss Golightly! I must protest!"
The voice that came back, welling up from the bottom of the stairs, was sillyyoungand self-amused. "Oh, darling, I am sorry. I lost the goddamn key."
"You ot go ing my bell. You must please, please have yourself a keymade."
"But I lose them all."
"I work, I have to sleep," Mr. Yunioshi shouted. "But always you are ringing mybell…"
"Oh, dont be angry, you dear little man: I wont do it again. And if you promisenot to be angry" -- her voice was ing nearer, she was climbing the stairs -- "Imight let you take those pictures we mentioned."
By now Id left my bed and opehe door an inch. I could hear Mr. Yunioshissilence: hear, because it was apanied by an audible ge of breath.
"When?" he said.
The girl laughed. "Sometime," she answered, slurring the word.