Chapter Text
1: Thumbnail.
"Come to New York with me, Edge."
(Do it. You know you want to, although you'd say yes to anything I would ask. Why do I even bother anymore? Guess what, Edge--we're going to New York. Look at me, building a perilous house of cards on your kitchen table. Third side, and fourth side, and roof...concentrating. You love it when I concentrate. Not even breathing. Steady, steady hands.)
Stop it. And you're wrong about me always saying yes.
"My presence is somehow required at a gallery opening for Anton? You're his muse, not me."
(Aww Edge--that's true. You know you never tire of looking at his photos of me. Just two nights ago, you were alone in your bed with a certain proof sheet...)
"Please? As a personal favor to me? It could be amusing, and we have only a few weeks left before our lives will be hijacked by the tour. Come on, Edge. I want to take my new persona out for a spin in public. And you could give me an objective opinion, tell me what works."
(Objective? You? That's good. And it will all work. Where was I...yes. Color photographs of me, twenty-four thumbnails on a glossy sheet. He had circled seven. You agreed with the seven, but what about the one of me tearing the orchid apart with my teeth, hair falling into my eyes? Why didn't he choose to print that one? You studied that tiny picture for quite some time. When the telephone rang you gasped, and it took your eyes several seconds to refocus. Later, back in bed, you tried in vain to formulate a plan: how does a man discreetly request an enlargement of a certain erotic photograph of his best friend?)
I'm not listening to you.
"Bono, this is a terrible time to leave, whatever the reason. We need to get organized; we need every last minute. I don't think any of us is truly prepared for how monumentally demanding this tour is going to be."
"All the more reason for us to do this. I want to have some fun with you before school starts again."
(Now what could I possibly mean by that? Why don't you watch me elaborate: a nice long stretch in the chair, neck back, my eyes watching the ten fingers above my head. My right hand touches my left the way it would caress a Brancusi sculpture.)
He did Bird in Space.
(Hey, you remembered--good for you, Edge! Arms slowly descending behind my head, legs extended, and I am a perfect diagonal, a forty-five degree angle, a hypotenuse. I am Brancusi's Bono in Chair. And did you notice? I mentioned a geometrical term just for you. Exhaling...and my house of cards comes tumbling down.)
"Damn, I was almost ready for a second level there."
Anton freely admits it: "He has so many different faces and therefore is my favorite." Who wouldn't want to document that face on any available visual medium? You've been increasingly entranced by mirrors or anything with a lens these days. Who can blame you? You've never looked this...god, this beautiful, and it's a beauty that comes from the joy of creation, the ecstasy of reinvention. As I analyzed that tiny thumbnail, I actually felt jealous of the man behind the camera. Somehow he was able to coax that passion out of your body. Your face right now--
(I am the charming boy about to get his way.)
"How many days are we talking about, Bono?"
(Edge, you are such a pushover. Ahh, this hair. If I had a dollar for every time I've pushed it out of my face, onstage or otherwise, I'd be a wealthier man than I already am. And now it's black. Jet black...)
Stop doing that, B. There will be no more winking tonight, either.
"We would leave tomorrow afternoon, attend the opening that evening, spend the night, and come back the next day. In and out. No big deal, Edge. They won't even miss us. And you can 'get organized' on the plane...make lists, design systems, whatever it is one does to get organized."
(See your sugar bowl? That's right, I'm licking my finger, dipping it into the sugar, and sucking it off. Let's do that one more time.)
"Where are we staying, how are we getting around..."
"That's already been arranged."
You're so nonchalant, so blasé. It's as if asking me was a mere formality. You're violating my sugar bowl in the midst of an avalanche of cards I will undoubtedly have to pick up later. There's that slow grin I've been seeing so much of these days, your current weapon of choice. All those bastard lessons are certainly paying off.
(Oh I'm a bastard, all right. A magnificent bastard.)
"You just assumed I'd agree to do this."
(Yes baby.)
"You always say yes to me, Edge."
2: Systems.
"Oh, you think so?"
"Prove me wrong, Edge. I should probably go home and tell Ali."
"She might enjoy knowing your plans."
"Yes, yes. I'll see you in the morning."
"Good night, B."
(Have a seat, Edge.)
Your chair is still warm. I'd imagine it would stay that way for hours. You move through life like a cat, marking furniture, random objects, the natural world, and people with your presence, leaving behind vestigial evidence, accumulating human hearts and other entities, all of them happy to burn in the name of Bono.
(Pick a card, any card.)
All right, then. Ace of hearts.
(I certainly am. And go ahead; it's your sugar bowl.)
Eating sugar right out of the bowl with your bare hands--what kind of person does that?
(People who believe receiving pleasure is a top priority do that...and it tastes better this way, doesn't it? The sweetness of the sugar mingles with the slightly salty taste of the finger in a way only a true sensualist could appreciate. Incidentally, did you notice the shirt I was wearing tonight, Edge?)
Sky blue. I suppose that was a subliminal technique of yours designed to convince me to go. January in Ireland is so rainy, so windy, so green, and so dark, with barely seven hours of daylight. New York will be an icy, glittering diamond in comparison. And even though I was just there, you know I love to see the sky above the clouds. By the way, your color choices are becoming awfully predictable. You wear green when we're in the desert, and you wear red when it's cold outside.
(I never noticed. That's pretty shifty of me, tempting you with colors.)
You pull off a lot of covert operations without realizing what you're doing, B. I should turn off the television.
(That's been on all day, you know.)
I suppose it's a sure sign of loneliness. I keep it on to have other human beings in the house, to provide a low-level din to counteract the silence of this place. Zippers--the sound of travel--if I pack now that will be one less thing to contemplate...
(That means more quality time for the two of us tonight, right? More quality time with the proof sheet as well. You can't wait to have me all to yourself tomorrow, can you?)
Let's not read too much into tomorrow's excursion. Larry, Adam, and I have been rehearsing together for days, creating a musical runway for you to swagger down. Your presence has not been necessary, and you're feeling left out lately. You hate it when it's three versus one, so this side trip is simply your way of reclaiming me and making things even again.
(Yeah, sure. That too. I wonder what photos Anton will show of me...of us, I mean?)
He'll probably show the Joshua Tree photographs since they sort of put him on the map, although we look like a collective of serial killers. Perhaps we'll see some of those newer, color-saturated pictures of you. I sincerely hope not to see myself in those bedazzled pants.
(You really are the last word in packing excellence. Everything in its proper place.)
If you can develop a packing routine, you don't have to think about it too much.
(Do you think about me too much, Edge?)
I think about other things.
(Do they become little voices as well?)
I think about other things. This morning I was reminded of a teacher I had when I was nine years old.
(Was she beautiful?)
No. But I've always felt bad about not knowing where she is now. She encouraged me to look behind the curtain. One day she taught us about what lies beneath the earth's surface, and I remember drawing triangular wedges with labels: crust, mantle, core. Learning this was such a revelation to me. I was fascinated by the earth's core, part liquid, part solid metal. How did scientists know what was in there? How did they know that the liquid part affected the earth's magnetic field? And how did that work?
(Does this story become interesting at any point?)
Not to you, because it is not about you, and that is my argument. I'm not always thinking about you. I was thinking about this teacher who gave me a set of the school's outdated encyclopedias. I told her I wanted to be a doctor when I grew up. My favorite volume had a series of color transparencies of the human body, showing the circulatory system, the digestive system, the respiratory system, and so on. Once layered, they showed a whole human being with all of these different colored organs. Another transparency showed an upside-down baby inside its mother. I marveled that all of these systems operated in total darkness.
Today I was wondering how the new songs would sound, or rather, feel in concert. At a loud volume certain sounds will seem to penetrate the body, and you can sense a vibration inside...that's what made me recall my teacher and the encyclopedia with the transparencies. How will my systems react, how will your voice feel inside of me when you sing, "love, love, love," or "take me higher"?
(It will pierce your poor heart. And see? Your thoughts always come back to me, Edge. Our little secret. Now get some rest; you have a big day ahead of you tomorrow...again with the proof sheet?)
There are two sparkles in your left eye.
(Indeed. You've been sleeping on your stomach lately--don't think I haven't noticed. Does it help to simulate the presence of another body in your bed, lying beneath you? The way you embrace that pillow--is that somebody's chest?)
You have a wife...
(I don't have a husband...)
I shouldn't be entertaining these thoughts in the first place.
(Ahh, go to sleep Edge, my partner, my muse. We transcend conventional morality. The heart wants what the heart wants. Let it be...let it be my pale skin, blue eyes with two sparkles, the one hundred twenty degree angle of my jaw...the hothouse flower that was nursed for months by a conscientious botanist who loved it like a child...)
3: Peacock.
There is a special kind of light that can only be seen during the half hour before sunrise. No colors exist in this bedroom now, not yet. I am lying in bed, living in the set of a black and white movie. My arm is gray, this quilt is gray, each shape in that painting is gray, and every spine of every book is gray. Gradually, as the sun approaches the horizon, the colors make themselves known. The reds and oranges emerge first, followed by yellow and blue. Every single day, a person has the chance to become Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz and to watch the sepia world convert to Technicolor in the space of thirty minutes. But hardly anyone has that kind of patience.
(Are you referring to me? Would you like to watch my eyes change from gray to blue some morning?)
Even if such a scenario were remotely possible, there is no way your eyes would open before dawn.
(Unless you kept them awake all night.)
Must you begin so early, B? All I want to do is watch my colors materialize and take a shower. Perhaps you could hit your snooze button and give me a bit of peace?
(If you insist, you grouch. It is my sincere wish that you thoroughly savor your shower experience, and if you discover you miss me, promise me you won't look any further than your own right hand, darling. Otherwise, wake me once you've had your coffee.)
............................................................................................................
(Watch more TV, clean Edge, wearing black. What's on? I just had the most wonderful dream about that little smile that was on your lips before you opened your eyes this morning. That's right; I saw it.)
We're watching a series on peafowl.
(Peafowl? You mean peacocks?)
Also peahens. And...peachicks. Collectively they are known as peafowl.
(I may perish from the cuteness of it all.)
If you would watch this you'd realize you have much in common with these birds. They even have black masks over their eyes, quite like your new sunglasses.
(That gentleman--gentlecock?--is quite ostentatious and flashy. I'll take that as the compliment it unquestionably is, but really, who watches educational documentaries this early in the day?)
Excuse me for not providing you with more glamorous programming, B.
(Make some coffee for us now.)
A good idea.
(Ahh, there's that drawing young Hollie made with me last weekend. You hung it on the refrigerator, I see. Truly, this is the definitive illustration of Daddy and Bono sharing a microphone.)
You showed my daughter how to draw a guitar.
(All you have to do is make two circles, one large and one small, connect them with curves, and add a neck. She's such a bright girl...your children love you so, Edge. I can't imagine what it's like to...)
I know.
(I'm sorry...)
I know. She couldn't stop staring at you. Children intuitively recognize things that are exceptional and they pay attention. You are a marvelous teacher, one who possesses a sense of play, a sense of wonder. You refuse to talk down to children, and they are happy to rise to the occasion of being treated as the equals of a creature as splendid as you. It was a pleasure to watch the two of you giggling and chattering away, trading crayons.
(She made my head a bit too large for my body.)
It looks just about right to me.
(Adorable girl. And isn't it amusing how she filled the background with television screens that say "Daddy" and "Bono"? She considered making your face gaze out at the audience, but I told her we sound better and more like a team when we look at each other as we sing. I wish our eyes would meet more often when we sing together...why don't they?)
You know why.
(I want you to tell me again.)
B, some of us have to concentrate and actually play an instrument during the entire performance. And your presence is far too intense for mere mortals such as myself.
(So droll.)
The scent I would recognize anywhere reaches me. Our mouths are always a bit too close, and I can feel your breath on my face, your eyes a Pandora's box. Your free hand touches my shoulder, the back of my neck, and the next time this happens you'll be wearing leather...jet black leather.
(Go on.)
When the music overtakes you, your face changes. Sometimes I hardly recognize you as thousands of eyes focus on you and hold you, each eye generating a ray of energy aimed at your heart. You feed off this intensity and return it to them over and over, until this exchange becomes a geometric progression, all this love multiplied and volleyed back and forth. And that's when you decide to walk over to me, an electromagnetic field surrounding your body. I know that if I so much as look at you I will be swept into that vortex and swallowed whole. I know why they scream, B.
(I love that story. They scream for you as well, you know. And would it really be so bad if I swallowed you whole?)
I'm not going to dignify that with a response.
(There's that little smile again.)
4: Mona Lisa.
(I'm at your door, Edge, and wearing purple, I see. How romantic of me!)
"Hi Bono."
"All set to go? I'll take your luggage."
"Thanks for being on time."
"Am I? Imagine that. Thank you for saying yes to me, and I'm sorry for springing this on you at the last minute. Was I acting unbearable yesterday?"
"Ever so slightly."
"You are a saint; do you know that? I was fully prepared to go to New York by myself, but yesterday I realized how much I've missed you. Oh; take us to the airport, please."
"You've missed me? We've been in each other's way on an almost daily basis."
"Yes, of course, but you have been so preoccupied with rehearsal."
"You're right about that."
"This will be a beneficial holiday for both of us."
"You don't need to convince me again. I've been looking forward to it, as much as a person can, given eight hours' notice."
"This kind of behavior will never happen again. I promise."
(Heavens, I'm lovable when I'm sheepish.)
"Off topic, Bono: what do you know about the Mona Lisa?"
(What the hell?)
You keep mentioning little smiles.
"The Mona Lisa? Don't get me started. A wealthy patron commissioned Leonardo da Vinci to paint a portrait of his mistress. The painting took years to complete and the benefactor most likely never received it.
(Oh how I do go on. Did you enjoy that hand gesture, the way I outlined my cheekbone with my index finger?)
"...overzealous cleanings have stripped the painting of most of its warm layers, so now she has an almost seasick skin tone..."
(Do you envy the chain I'm wearing? Wouldn't it be wonderful to drape yourself around my neck and stay there all day, monitoring my pulse, your metallic body warming to match the exact temperature of the man who wears you?)
"...an uneven horizon line in the background creates the illusion of movement in her lips. Why do you ask, Edge?"
"You have a new way of smiling these days, Bono. You remind me of the Mona Lisa."
"Excellent. I love it, Edge. Ali says I look like a garden-variety sex offender. Either way, everybody wins; that's what I say. She and Jordan and Eve are indeed looking forward to the coming hours of peace my absence will afford them. Poor darlings. 'She packed my bags last night, pre-flight / zero hour nine a.m. / and I'm gonna be hi-ii-igh as a kite by then...'''
(I'm singing old Elton John, and you know what that means.)
No. What does it mean?
(Alright. Probably nothing. But it's not a bad sign.)
" 'And I think it's gonna be a long, long time / till touchdown brings me 'round again to find / I'm not the man they think I am at home, oh no no no / I'm a rocket maaannn.'"
(Not a bad sign.)
Yet another misty, damp day. Even the clouds look green, reflecting the landscape. It will be refreshing to go somewhere with clear skies and unlimited visibility. Here the mist gathers in small beads on the car windows, and as we move through traffic, the droplets accumulate and begin to wiggle and slide toward the back seat, dragging comet-like tails...
(Sperm is what they look like.)
Yes. Sperm. You freak.
(All of them are headed in the direction of my face, which is watching that truck passing us.)
I like the simmering, tea-kettle sound it makes...
(My breath is clouding the window, depositing discarded carbon dioxide I don't want anymore.)
"You know what, Edge? As a shape, the capital letter R has it all."
"Excuse me?"
"The letter R, on that truck? Look.”
(I'm drawing an R on the foggy glass with my finger; how sweet.)
"It's got a straight line, a curve, and a diagonal. No other letter can claim that. Not E, as you can see, and not G. R is the best letter in the alphabet, Reg. Ahh, now there's the smile I've been wanting to see."
"The way your mind works is God's private mystery, Bono."
"Thank you. I know."
(Irish skin.)
I've read that it is among the best skin in the world in terms of general health and beauty, due to this region's humidity and lack of sunlight.
(It makes you want to touch that cheek, that temple, that vein.)
So fragile, so easily burnt.
(Thirty-one years old.)
You've changed a great deal in four years. Your body was once composed of nothing but curved lines and soft contours, almost womanly, but now your bone structure and musculature are much more evident.
(I really am a man now, at the height of my erotic power, I might add. I know how to be sexual, how to play with it, how to use it for good or evil, don't I?)
It's going to be interesting to see what happens to your face as you age.
(Aging? Perish the thought.)
I'll always think you're beautiful, B. There you are, tranquilly watching the world go by. I've often thought that when two people can be quiet and neither one feels the need to fill that gap with words, they have found true friendship. We have that. Look at those cars. I see a businessman wearing a vacant expression, a young woman applying lipstick, and another rummaging in her purse, each one headed for work. Meanwhile, you and I are embarking upon a whimsical trip to New York to view photographs of ourselves. What unimaginable lives we lead.
"Look at those cars, Edge, all containing people with jobs."
"I was thinking the same thing."
(Watch out: my head is tipping back, my back is arching, my fingers are tracing patterns on the ceiling...my my, what a glorious yawn. And now there's no use fighting it. You must yawn as well. It's only a matter of time.)
You're right, you bastard.
"Ha--I knew I could make you do it! The other day I was driving, sitting at a light, and yawning. Across the intersection, I could see that a woman in her car was watching me, and after a few moments she yawned. I considered it a personal victory and a testament to my authority and influence."
"Please accept my heartfelt praise."
"Thank y--oh no, look, an accident up ahead..."
(I'm grabbing your hand.)
"...that must be why we're moving so slowly. How terrible, she's bleeding."
(Tightly.)
"One false move, Edge. If I had arrived five minutes earlier at your place, it could have been us."
"That kind of thinking will drive you crazy, you know."
"I'm only saying that you, that we, should always be very careful. Please be careful, Edge, I mean it."
"Of course."
(Should my thumb be traveling over your knuckles like that, pausing briefly over each one? It's just a question.)
How can you not know what you are doing to me?
"If something happened to you..."
"I'll be careful, Bono. I'll be careful for you."
I'll do anything for you. Anything at all.
(I'm sorry, Edge, hand holding time is over. But that was an unmistakable pass, you know.)
Hardly. It was completely innocent. If that was a pass we will be kissing by the time we're eighty.
(It's been said you possess the patience of Job, my dear.)
You flirt with anything that walks. Nothing will transpire between us.
(You think so? Maybe your beloved singer hears a little voice of his own, one of my colleagues, whispering sweet nothings into his ear. Who's to say he doesn't?)
Settle down, you. The clouds are beginning to dissipate. In the distance, shafts of sunlight pour down through the spaces between them. This sight has been used as a visual cliché employed by any Biblical movie ever made. Still, there's something appealing about being inside one of those rays, selected as one of the chosen few. As you are now; your body is bathed in a golden radiance, your hair glistens like wet black silk.
"Snap out of it, Edge."
"Sorry?"
"You're obsessing about the tour again. Come on, it's going to be fantastic. Stop worrying, okay? And if you catch me in a pensive mood, I want you to tell me to snap out of it too. Deal?"
"Sure, Bono."
"And one more thing about the Mona Lisa. She doesn't have any eyebrows. They were stripped during one of those cleaning sessions. Can you imagine how terrible that person must have felt, watching her eyebrows disappear?"
"Inconceivable."
(You're doing it again.)
Doing what?
(That tongue-folding thing. You know, where your mouth is closed, but the tip of your tongue points back toward your throat and slides over the rest of its surface, simulating the way it feels to be kissed, the way it feels to have another tongue exploring your own. Mimicking the way my tongue would feel, gliding over yours, probing every inch of your mouth, slowly, slowly.)
"We're on the cusp of what could be three solid years of touring."
"I'm having trouble grasping that one as well. Christ, have you ever noticed those satellite dishes? There must be a dozen of them pointed out into space."
"Satellites. We can go anywhere..."