Bono

Chapter Thirty-nine

WAITING FOR BONO

A cat cannot cross the same street twice.

Michaela kept her promise and fed me regular updates of Bono’s new life. No longer a shelter cat, he was living like a sultan with countless toys and a seven-tier scratching post. Under Monique’s doting care, the only water he drank was purified. Black cats are notoriously difficult to photograph, but Michaela assured me he’d put on weight and his fur was glossy. I was delighted to hear that when people visited, Bono was quite the host these days. He’d also expanded his role to become a therapy animal, regularly staying with Monique’s elderly parents, who adored him. Bono’s new vet insisted he was closer to 8 than 5 years old. Most important, his health was excellent. Meanwhile, back at home, the fur on Jonah’s leg had grown back.

I wasn’t the only one hanging out for Michaela’s reports. Since our time together in New York, Lydia and I were much closer. She’d moved into a townhouse with Ramon and they seemed very happy. Ramon tended a forest of pot plants, the closest they were allowed to a cat due to their landlord’s animal ban. Whenever Lydia and I met, she’d be toting her jungle print handbag. I took it as secret code between us that whatever else happened, we’d always have Bono and New York.

Though Bono didn’t need me anymore, I ached to see him again. Two years after our farewell, I found an excuse to return to New York in May 2015. I tried to book the old studio, but it wasn’t available anymore. After several wild goose chases, I settled for a place on the Upper East Side. It belonged to Dan, who was keen on water sports, which could mean anything these days.

Even though it was late at night, the cab driver seemed to know exactly where to take me this time. He glided to a halt outside an old terraced building in what seemed a civilized neighborhood. I clattered my bag up a few steps to enter my base for the following week. Decorated in shades of brown, it was an exact replica of the photos I’d seen on the website. There was the luxury of a separate living room, and the bedroom opened onto a small, paved courtyard. A row of cushions sat on the bed under a huge photograph of a wave that threatened to unfurl any moment and swamp the room. I put it down to Dan’s surfing interests. A hint of shampoo hovered in the air. I almost missed the raffish smell of the old place.

After I’d changed and slid between the sheets, a man’s voice started up on the other side of the wall. He was on the phone sharing details of his workday with someone called Darling. It seemed his office was overflowing with demons and narcissists. Corporate politics is the same the world over. After what seemed hours, he told Darling how much he loved and missed her, and we were all able to get some sleep.

* * *

I woke the next morning to hear my neighbor talking to Darling again. He’d slept well, thank you, and hoped she had too. He told her to have a wonderful day, that he’d be thinking of her every minute of it, and he loved her so much. Mwah, mwah.

Making comparisons between your own relationship and other people’s is pointless. Other couples may seem devoted to each other, but it’s easy to put on a show in public. Then again, unless they had a weird kink about people listening in on their phone calls, what I was hearing was just between the two of them. I smiled at the thought of them being in the throes of a new love. Diamond rings and wedding cakes . . . nothing could be more romantic.

After my neighbor had left for work, I unlatched the French doors. It wasn’t the grandest courtyard, but on a mild spring morning I wasn’t about to waste it. I negotiated tubs of withered plants and stood on tiptoe to inspect next door, but the fence was like the Great Wall of China. There weren’t any cracks to peer through. I shifted a rickety seat into a shaft of sunlight. A bird warbled a tentative melody from a nearby tree. With a cup of coffee and the New York Times, I was practically in paradise.

To fill in the hours before I could see Bono and Michaela, I wandered tree-lined streets. The Upper East Side is a world away from Midtown. Nannies of various ethnicities shouted into their phones while they pushed oversized strollers containing kids easily old enough to get around on their own two feet. A diminutive doorman escorted a teenager twice his size onto the sidewalk and helped the hulk adjust his backpack.

I was taken back when a limo glided past with a pale-faced boy in the back. With his school uniform and neatly parted hair, he was a clone of Richie Rich. It hadn’t occurred to me the comic-book character I’d grown up with could have been based on a real boy.

Two limos later, I realized the Upper East Side is populated by hundreds of Richie Riches. Yet in all this opulence, it seemed a type of apartheid was going on. I had the impression those who served were not only taken for granted but invisible to their employers. Around a corner, a group of African American kids gathered around a portable soup kitchen.

With there being so many different ways to live in New York, I was grateful for the weeks I’d had with Bono in a scruffy studio near Grand Central. That little lion cat had opened the door to the city’s soul for me. Though I knew New York could be a tough place to live in, I’d always think of it as a warm and generous place because of him.

Much as I loved the city, it was right for me to live with Philip, our family, and crazy Jonah. The world’s a small place these days, anyway. I consoled myself with the thought that New York and Melbourne are never more than a day apart.

Wandering past smart restaurants and nail salons, I pretended to enjoy myself. But I couldn’t wait to see Bono.