Хелен Браун - Bono

Chapter Forty-one

LIVING LIKE A CAT

Things Bono taught me.

Hope of seeing Bono again was fading. I decided it was probably a good thing. He had a new life now and certainly wouldn’t remember me. Besides, I had no right to barge into Monique’s world and claim any part of him.

Michaela had told me not to miss the cat exhibition at the Japan Society of New York on 333 East 47th Street. The Japanese have long loved cats, and some of the woodblocks were centuries old. Intimate domestic scenes depicted felines in every mood—from fierce hunter to furry plaything. I was drawn to the philosopher cat sitting on a window ledge gazing at Mount Fuji. Cats accompany people through every phase of their lives.

On a recent visit to Japan, nothing could have prepared me for the devastation near Sendai where the tsunami had risen up and swallowed the countryside in 2011. Years after the event, I was awestruck by the vast tracts of coastal land that were still uninhabitable. Thousands of people remained homeless and grieving for lost ones. Though the scale of loss was greater than anything I’d experienced, I found many people wanted nothing more than to share their stories. It’s such a basic need, I wondered if arranging tragic events into a logical shape is a way of helping the brain adjust to trauma. At a human level, I felt honored every time a stranger from this cultivated and restrained society wanted to share their pain. Often, all people need is for someone to listen deeply with compassion.

One of the unspoken horrors of the tsunami was the loss of so many animals. Perhaps there had been one or two miracles like Bono’s, but in most cases there was no time, no hope to rescue them. My hosts showed me more graves than I’d seen in a lifetime. Incense hovered over rows of gleaming black headstones. An old man bent to place yellow chrysanthemums on a grave. A small family group gathered in silent tears around another.

Many people who have survived ill health and tragedy remind me of cats. Like Bono in his cage at Bideawee, they accept they may have to spend a long time imprisoned in grief. That doesn’t stop them bouncing out to chase a sock occasionally. It’s almost as if the harrowing experiences they’ve been through have equipped them to savor the delight of being alive,

Though Bono’s future was limited, he wasn’t wired to worry, or to fret over how things might have worked out differently if he hadn’t lost his home in Hurricane Sandy.

The lion cat greeted the morning sun with curiosity each day. Every moment was brimming with adventure for him. Whether it was a cockroach or a fluffy toy cat, he was not disappointed.

To Bono every day was a good one, simply because he was in it. He could be mesmerized by a reflection of light on the wall, and spend hours chasing a scrunched up ball of paper.

Bono knew how to look after himself. He spent hours grooming and rearranging his lionish haircut, followed by an afternoon’s sun baking on his favourite white cushion with the black polka dots.

Yet Bono stayed connected to his wild side. He was resilient and could outsprint me whenever he felt like it.

He was slow to make assumptions about people and, if necessary, fast to disappear.

Though it took me a while to discover this, Bono knew how to love. He was brave, too. No matter what cruelty he had suffered in the past, he still had enough residual trust to embrace Lydia, and later me, with great affection.

He was a good listener.

Bono was willing to forgive and move on. He understood life is always changing and ultimately you have to flow with it.

He knew life is precious because we are all fragile, and our presence on Earth fleeting. He was too engaged with living to worry about dying.

Through the anxious days after the Boston bombings, Bono knew I needed comforting. I didn’t have to ask for his warmth and companionship. He made sure I never felt alone. He was never “too busy” to help a friend.

Bono approached each moment from a place of gratitude, which gave him strength and natural grace. Because of that, people warmed to him. Then the people who liked Bono started warming to each other.

At night, he sat on the window ledge and gazed up at the moon and wondered at the miracle of being alive.

Like all felines, Bono had great style. Whatever happens, I aim to spend the rest of my life living like a cat.

Chapter Forty-two

I REMEMBER YOU WELL

Rescue cat becomes rock star.

Just when I’d accepted Bono and I weren’t meant to see each other again, Michaela called with a breath-stopping invitation.

She said Bono would be delighted to host drinks at Monique and Berry’s apartment, followed by dinner for us all at hers. Not since my audience with the Dalai Lama had I felt so happy and nervous at the same time.

There’s so much to love about the Chelsea district where Michaela and Monique live. A happy soup of immigrants, gays, and creative types give the place a tolerant bohemianism. Like every corner of New York, the neighborhood has more than its share of fame. Look no farther than the redbricked Chelsea Hotel on 222 West 23rd. Dylan Thomas was staying there when he suffered a terminal case of pneumonia in 1953. Years later, the body of Sid Vicious’s girlfriend, Nancy Spun-gen, was found in a room. Mark Twain, Tennessee Williams, and Charles Bukowski all sweated ink inside its walls.

The doorman inside Michaela’s building greeted me with a smile.

“We’ve been expecting you,” he said, pointing me at a comfortable chair in the lobby while he called her up to announce my arrival. This building was worlds away from the scruffy studio Bono and I had hung out in. No wonder Michaela had seemed a bit shocked when she visited us. When she appeared and escorted me to the elevator, I was almost overwhelmed with nervousness.

“Is he still scared of strangers?” I asked as the elevator sighed shut.

There’s only so much a person can ask of a cat. I was well aware the whole human-cat relationship is based on whether or not a cat is inclined to engage with you. Not the other way around.

For me, Bono had transformed New York into a home with a heart on the door. If there’s such a thing as “meant to be together,” we’d been it for that magical month. I loved him as much as I did back then, but no way could I hope for any form of acknowledgment now. As a form of protection, I repeated the mantra “he’s not going to recognize you” over and over inside my head.

“He usually greets me at the front door,” Michaela said.

That didn’t sound like the same animal who used to scurry under a bed at the rattle of a door handle. I held my breath as we stepped out of the elevator. Across the corridor, a door creaked open a crack. I waited for Monique to appear. Instead, down at ground level, the head of a noble black feline emerged. With the confidence of a lord, he pushed the door open. Tail aloft in greeting, he padded toward us.

“This can’t be Bono!” I whispered, crouching on the floor and offering my hand.

To my delight, he stepped forward and honoured me with a gracious nudge. If indeed it was Bono, he no longer sported a lion haircut. His coat was a gleaming curtain. Exquisitely groomed and glowing with health, this animal was worthy of a blue ribbon in anyone’s pet show.

I hesitated. This had to be some kind of joke the two women had cooked up. Most likely Monique kept more than one cat, and the real Bono was cowering in a corner somewhere inside the apartment.

Just when I was about to call Michaela’s bluff, the cat raised his head and fixed me with a pair of amber traffic-light eyes. They were bright and clear. The unhealthy-looking oily film I used to worry about had disappeared. The magnificent creature emitted a musical mew. He then turned and stretched his back leg in an unmistakable arabesque.