I had one of those Proustian sense/memory moments at the gym this morning. As I rounded the 27-minute mark on the treadmill my iPod started playing the swing waltz version of Henry Mancini’s “Moon River,” in which Sarah Vaughan stretches out “moon” over 12—count ‘em—12 syllables. As the music played I experienced a cinematic dissolve back to June of 1994, shortly after Henry Mancini had died. I was an ardent fan and had been saddened to learn of his death. As a tribute my husband Bruce and I decided to throw a Henry Mancini Memorial Cocktail Party. The party was called for 6-9 PM on a Wednesday evening and we asked that our guests come dressed as characters from Breakfast at Tiffany’s, the original source of “Moon River”, one of my favorite songs.

I made a 90-minute Mancini compilation tape that would play over and over on the auto-reverse deck in our living room. Bruce and I felt very sophisticated as we went to the restaurant supply store in the neighborhood to stock up on cheap stemware for the event; Mancini’s music was the essence of “cool” and we intended to have our soirée live up to his swinging tunes by offering nothing but martinis.

Bruce wore his all-purpose red satin tux jacket for the party while I, sporting an orange flattop at the time, made a stunning Rusty Trawler in my white dinner jacket and black sunglasses with the lenses popped out. When our guests started to arrive we were pleased to find that everyone had gotten into the spirit of things and dressed for the occasion. A beret here, a taffeta party dress there, and much chunky costume jewelry on both sexes. We had dueling Holly Golightlys at one point but fortunately no blood was spilled. Jeffrey and Tim showed up in vintage suits and were chastised for their usual lateness by Kyle who brandished a martini in one of her gloved hands and a long cigarette holder in the other. Ann Magnuson was out of town and sent her brother, Bobby, as proxy. Even Steve Brown, the cynic’s cynic, only mentioned once or twice how ridiculous we all were. Bruce trolled the room with a pitcher of vodka while I followed behind armed with an eyedropper of vermouth. Between us our guests never wanted for their extra-dry martinis.

The Stolichnaya flowed freely, the conversation increased steadily in both volume and hilarity and above it all Henry Mancini looked down approvingly from the framed studio publicity shot I had found in a junk store on 2nd Avenue. I cupped my hand to Bruce’s ear so he could hear me over the “Peter Gunn Theme” that blared from the speakers. “We did it, honey; this is the party from Breakfast at Tiffany’s.” Bruce had to agree as he looked around the room at our wonderful friends drinking and laughing and Twisting to the music.

At almost 9 o’clock on the dot in a moment of serendipity the tape reversed itself in the cassette deck and began to play the introduction to “Moon River.” As the plaintive harmonica started on the opening notes of the melody everyone in the room spontaneously chose partners and began to slow dance. With Bobby Magnuson in my arms I floated past our living room window and looked out to see the towers of the World Trade Center silhouetted against the pink-and-orange sunset. What a perfect world, I thought to myself.

But that evening in June, 1994 was only a brief respite from a world that was far from perfect. The AIDS crisis was in full swing and many of our friends—including several at our party—were beginning to show symptoms of the disease. The more effective drug cocktails were still more than a year away and the sense of fear was almost inescapable. But we managed to escape it that night as, dressed in our silly party clothes, we said goodbye and farewell to Henry Mancini.

As I rode the treadmill this morning I thought back to that summer evening with a warm nostalgia that only the passage of a dozen years has made possible. Almost half the guests at our party had died by the end of the decade and the memory of them waltzing to “Moon River” makes me smile. But as I watch Tim and Jeffrey arguing over which of them will lead I see them start to disappear even as they waltz, leaving too soon just as they arrived late. Steve Brown sitting in the big chair, obstinately refusing to dance, dematerializes as he rolls his eyes in my direction. Suddenly I find myself dancing alone as Bobby Magnuson evaporates from my arms. And when I look across the room at Bruce, laughing as he steps on Kyle’s toes yet again, he simply fades away along with the final bars of the song.

Twenty-five years after AIDS was first indentified there are so many friends gone. But with Henry Mancini’s help they occasionally do unexpectedly reappear. Why, there they are now, just waitin’ ‘round the bend for Moon River and me.