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 couldnt seem to 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 turnedthe corner and walked along the street where the brownstone stands. 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 block, next 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 afternoon went roller-skating in Central Park. I knowshes still there because I went up the steps and looked at the mailboxes. It was oneof these mailboxes that had first made me aware of Holly Golightly.

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