Хелен Браун - Bono

“What say we walk the Brooklyn Bridge?” I asked.

“Sounds great,” he said. “There and back should be a good leg stretch.”

“Actually, it’s just over a mile long. And there’ll be all sorts of extra footwork getting on and off the thing,” I said. “How about we do a one-way walk?”

As the cab drove across to the Brooklyn side, I glanced up at the gothic arches raising their great steel ropes. Compared to today’s skyscrapers, the bridge may seem modest. When it was finished in 1883, however, the towers dwarfed every other construction in America, and it was the longest suspension bridge in the world.

The Brooklyn vibe was more intimate and friendly than I’d expected. We strolled through a laid-back neighborhood and stopped for lunch at a hipster café. The whole point of a movement is to offend old people, and in that regard hipster-ism fails. Having grown up in a household that kept chickens (organic because there was no alternative) and where Mum taught us to sew our own clothes, hipster ideals are as familiar as macramé wall hangings.

“Could you imagine living here?” I asked.

“Maybe,” he said after a long pause.

“You could jog across the bridge to work in the mornings. Or maybe catch a ferry.”

I had no idea if there was a ferry, but he’d always loved boats.

“That’s just the point,” he said. “I’d have to find a job here.”

We walked hand in hand along the waterfront as the sun cast shafts of gold on the skyscrapers across the river. I thought of the millions of lives that had poured in and out of those concrete spires. Dreams had been made and shattered there, but the city itself was eternal. It was extraordinary that such an artificial creation could be so beautiful. If human beings can create New York, maybe there’s hope for mankind.

It took a while to find the stairs to the bridge itself. A bridge is a symbolic connection between worlds. I occasionally dream of Sam waving good-bye before he turns away and steps onto a footbridge.

This time, however, crossing the Brooklyn Bridge with Philip felt like the merging of my two existences—with Bono in New York, and with him, Jonah, and our family in Australia.

“Are you serious about living here?” he asked.

“Maybe not forever,” I said, peering up at the towers. “But . . .”

“I know. You’re hooked on Bono. What’s up there?”

“Peregrine falcons,” I said. “I’ve heard they nest on the Brooklyn Bridge.”

A love of birds is something we’ve always shared.

“You’re joking!” he said. “Those things are the fastest animals on earth. They fly at 200 miles per hour. They could live anywhere.”

“I know,” I said. “They have all the freedom in the world, but they choose New York.”

I could identify with those birds soaring across oceans to make their homes here. They nearly died out, but after DDT was banned in the seventies, they returned to the city.

“Falcons roost everywhere in New York—on tall buildings, church spires . . .”

“Have you seen any?” he asked.

“Not yet. I’m still looking.”

“We have them in Melbourne, too, you know,” he said.

“Peregrine falcons, really?”

“They had some roosting on top of Ramon’s office building in the middle of the city,” he said.

The sky turned pink and the wind spiked up as clouds clustered above the Empire State Building. Philip pulled his ski cap over his ears and smiled the way he does when he’s feeling at home out in the elements. Though he’d visited New York a few times, it had always been on business. He’d never had a chance to drink the place in.

“I understand why you love it here,” he said. “And that cat’s pretty special.”

“So, you think you could move here?” I asked.

My husband fell silent. He never says anything without thinking it through.

“We could try and work something out,” he said.

Laughing with relief and love for my husband, I threw myself at him—and knocked him into the path of an approaching jogger.

That night the email came through. Monique wanted to adopt Bono.

Chapter Thirty-five

THE HAPPIEST GOOD-BYE

A cat has no use for tears.

I’m a casual person. It’s not that I don’t appreciate people making an effort. It’s just if something can be done with minimal fuss, I prefer doing it that way. Monique wanted to come to the studio as soon as possible to collect Bono, and I was happy to oblige. But when I phoned Bideawee with the good news, they were adamant we’d have to adhere to the adoption process rules, which turned out to be almost as formal as a marriage.

Bono sensed change in the wind. He lurked in his old hiding place and refused to come out. When Philip slid into the shadows on his stomach, Bono darted out the other side. After a few minutes’ chase, the cat seemed to understand. He stopped running and lay on his side with his paws raised, almost asking me to pick him up.

Much as I’d dreaded the thought of wrangling him back into his carrier, Bono went out of his way to make things easy. He relaxed in my arms and allowed me to slide him in.

“It’s okay,” I said, gulping back tears. “You’re not going back to prison.”

Philip lifted the carrier while I packed Bono’s food and medication into bags. I looped the cocoon bed through my elbow. Bono hadn’t used it since he’d been sleeping on the pillow beside mine.

Blossoms on the trees alongside the East River had deepened to crimson since the first time Lydia and I had walked past the UN Building. The wind hadn’t lost the edge to its tongue so my ski cap still came in handy. It seemed only yesterday we’d carried our precious cargo home from Bideawee. Lydia had wept then because Bono had a sad and limited future. Now a life brimming with love was waiting for him.

“This is an animal shelter?” Philip asked, when we reached the elegant building.

We sat quietly in the foyer while a wild-haired man argued with Jon over a dog he was determined to take home with him.

“I’ve been watching that dog for four hours and I want him now !” the man yelled.

In a calm voice Jon explained to the visitor that his background check didn’t add up, that in fact the last time he’d adopted a dog it had ended up with the man’s mother. On top of that, the man had given a false address.

“What are you saying? It’s not false!” the man yelled.

“We’ve just put a call through to the number you gave and the woman we spoke to says you don’t live there anymore.”

The security guard shifted the weight on his feet as the man launched into another tirade and finally, to everyone’s relief, left the building.

“Sorry about that,” Jon said to us. “People don’t always adopt animals for the right reasons. They want healing without giving back.”

I was surprised how casually Jon acknowledged the healing power of animals. The depth of thought and care he put into his work was beyond anything I’d encountered. Our conversation was interrupted by a call from someone anxious to rehome an incontinent 14-year-old dog. Jon’s patience was limitless, as usual.

From inside his carrier, Bono watched the parade of people, cats, and dogs passing by. I wondered if he recognized the place. If he did, he was giving nothing away.

I gripped the handle and rubbed a tear from my eye. All relationships end with good-bye. This one was happening sooner than my selfish heart would have liked. Bono had transformed New York City into a second home for me.

A flood of what-ifs washed through my mind.

“Let’s go,” I said, taking Philip’s hand.

“What?” He seemed alarmed