BlueSilkenSky
Rock n' Roll Doggie VIP PASS
Please relieve me of this chapter. I did a rewrite and still dislike it.
About as true as the location stated in my profile. To both that and the story, I tell the fact of "A girl can dream!"
“Ritz Hotel?”
“Have you heard of it?”
“No. Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why are you calling it?”
“Because they wouldn’t let your favorite rock and roll band stay there… oh, was that surprising?”
“No… no, you… just got me…”
“The accent’s okay, isn’t it?”
“It’s more than okay. Did they truly not let you stay there?”
“Well… it may or may not have happened…”
“What was wrong with it?”
“Apparently you have to have the right clothes to get into the Ritz. Or at least that’s how MacPhisto will explain it. We can’t get in because there’s a problem with the dress code.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“The Spanish audience will understand it, and that’s what’s important. Now, anything you’d like to add?”
“Let me see the writing.”
It’s not bad being holed up in a dressing room behind the stage. I can ignore the fact that’s it’s stifling just to focus on being alone with Bono. The door’s closed, and we have peace together.
“What if you get him?”
“You mean Mr. Olivares?”
“Yes, what if it’s not the machine?”
“What do you think would happen? MacPhisto wants in the hotel. He wouldn’t give up.”
“He might know it’s a joke. You must be… real. True.”
“Do you mean convincing?”
“Yes, that’s it.”
A knock comes at the door. I lean back as Bono goes to answer it.
“Bono? You’re due for another soundcheck soon. How’s the writing going?” It’s Paul, coupled with another man I haven’t seen before now.
“We haven’t rehearsed the call,” Bono tells him. “That’s what you want?”
“Well, actually you haven’t been around to practice the encore at all. I think it’s time for that. The band’s waiting.”
Bono shakes his head. “We have most of tomorrow to practice the encore. Marieke and I have to finish writing.”
“All right.” Paul steps forward. “May we come in?”
“Sure,” Bono offers, moving farther inside to let the two men enter.
The man I don’t know comes to sit by me. “Hello, I don’t think we’ve met yet.”
“Marieke Lang,” I introduce myself. He shakes my hand tightly.
“Bill Flanagan.”
“Okay, are you ready?” Bono asks us, the audience. We nod. He starts reading from the script in MacPhisto’s voice, and I hang on to every word.
“No hablare espagnol,” he begins in a clearly British accent. A knowing smile spreads across my face. “Do you know who I am?”
“Yes,” I mutter, and one corner of his mouth twitches up.
“I know who you are. I know you all even better than you know yourselves. Let me introduce you to my band!” Bono gestures to his left, and reads, “This is The Edge; isn’t he an exciting pop star? And here’s Adam Clayton, he’s the cat that got the cream!” He glances to his right, a half-smile leaning on his face as if he’s forgotten he’s not really onstage.
Now he throws his words behind him, addressing an imaginary drummer- “Larry Mullen Junior, giving Bruce Springsteen a run for his money!” A few laughs come from around me, obviously reveling in a joke I don’t get. Bono gives a laugh too, getting out of character for a moment.
“And now let me tell you a story… about a hotel that wouldn’t let your favorite rock and roll band stay there…” He puts on his pathetic voice.
Paul holds up a hand.
“Yes?” Bono asks in his normal Irish accent.
“What hotel are you talking about? We didn’t have any problems getting in to this one.”
“It’s the Ritz I’m talking about, and it’s not important if it happened or not. Now…” Bono goes back to his MacPhisto voice. “The Ritz Hotel? Have you heard of it? Apparently they don’t like rock bands in The Ritz. They have a problem with the dress code…” He shrugs at us, as if wondering why that could possibly be.
“Now, at this time of the night I usually make a phone call. Sometimes to the President of the United States, but not tonight. Tonight I’m calling that hotel, so you can all give out to them!” He lowers the paper and finishes in his normal voice, “That’s all so far.”
I hold up my hand.
“Marieke?”
“It is good,” I tell him. “I like the call. However, I think you should stop more, so the fans can understand.”
“That’s right,” Bono says. “I’ll make sure to pause more often, don’t worry. Anything else you’d like to add?”
“Yes,” I say. “What if there is a long wait on the telephone? What will you say?”
“I’ll improvise it. Anything’s gone over well at the last shows.”
“Well…” I think. “Maybe you can sing a song, or talk to the crowd. You can’t forget them, or they’ll be lost! Is there anything happening in Madrid to talk about?”
Bono’s eyes are drilled into me. “In Spain, the elections are coming up…”
“MacPhisto will like that,” I say. “He’s the Devil- he loves dirty politicians!”
This makes Bono laugh, and I feel proud of myself.
Bill holds up a hand.
“Yes?”
“Just wanted to talk with Marieke for a moment…” I look at Bill, surprised at hearing my name called. Although he mispronounced it- jeez, how hard is it to say my name right?
“You’re pretty good at this script-writing,” Bill tells me now. “Where are you from?”
“Holland,” I reply, suddenly self-conscience at my clear accent. “I’m a fan. Where are you from?”
“America,” he says with a grin, and I guess I should have realized it… his accent isn’t all too different from Eric’s.
“What do you do?”
Bill sighs happily. “Me, I’m a music journalist, and I’m going to be writing a book on Zoo TV.”
A book…? I sort through the words in my mind. Now what was book… ah, there we go. Hm. It’s a funny thing to imagine- a book about Zoo TV, like we’re making history and people will want to read about it for years to come.
“Will I be in the book?” I ask, a little mischievously.
“If you want to be!”
And that sounds all right with me.
Paul stands up, and addresses Bono as he bends over and brushes himself off. “I’ll just leave the two of you alone-“
“Three,” Bill corrects.
“… but don’t forget that you have soundcheck in ten minutes.” He goes to the door. “Goodbye, guys.”
“Bye, Paul,” Bono murmurs, and Bill and I add our words of parting.
“Now, Marieke, let’s get this speech finished…”
***
22nd of May. I’m standing backstage with Eric, wearing the clothes of the Zoo TV crew- but fitted to my feminine body. We have both our gazes trained on the stage as Bono jerks, stumbles, turns around, and express himself by kicking. So far he’s really on fire tonight.
Eric and I barely talk this time. I’m starting to suspect he might be a fan just like me. Our reactions to the songs are just the same, and our bodies move in unison with each other as U2 plays. I reflect on how I like Eric better when he’s not talking, and jam out.
This time the quick change is easier for me. When Bono comes and takes his jacket off, I hand him his other one without even looking downward. When he asks for the hat and the belt, I focus on his hands and nowhere else as I give them up.
The next change is more interesting. I try to resist the temptation, but fail when his arm presses against mine for a second- and suddenly I am staring at his sweaty chest, my fingers rigid from trying not to touch. Bono treats me impatiently, like last time, and jerks the new shirt away.
A second later, any bruised feelings are mended when Bono sings, “I want to run!”
Finally the main set has ended, and I take Eric back into the dressing room with me. If I’m going to help Bono with anything in there, I’m going to need a guy to back me up. Bono takes his shirt off first, and it’s not quite as much a distraction… but then when I clutch up the red shirt, the breath just knocks out of me. It comes then- I am helping to dress MacPhisto. Ignoring Eric’s reaching hands, I throw the shirt to Bono and let Eric do the rest.
When I dare to look again, Bono is MacPhisto. He’s applying the makeup with an air that only a cultured British (or maybe Irish) devil can have. I allow myself to gawk for a moment, and then realize that all he needs now is the horns.
Those horns are shoved into my hand- wait… since when was I Bono’s stylist?- and I get to do the honors of crowning MacPhisto. Besides our first dance onstage, this is the closest I’ve been to him. What will he think of me? Will I behave around him?
My hands slip gently, carefully, down the side of MacPhisto’s head, and he gives a little sigh, something that I would have died at the sound at, but I’m too nervous. I muster up the courage to smile at the Devil’s reflection and inquire, in a slightly high pitched voice, “Are you ready, Mr. MacPhisto?”
“Yes, I’m fine,” he tells me in his British accent. “Thank you, love.” Then he gets up and squeezes his feet into the platform boots. He faces me, weaving alone by the mirror, and winks. Now my brain has gone out like a light… but Eric is shaking me, pulling me back towards the stage so we can watch the encores.
MacPhisto is singing gleefully- “DESIIIIIIIIIIRE!!” He dances around the stage, clearly enjoying all the love that the fans are pouring out to him. Suddenly he slows, strolling about with wide eyes as the rest of the band vamps for a bit.
“Dollars…” he sings. “She’s my protection. Yeah, she’s the promise… in the year of election…”
He stares into the audience and seemingly directs his next words to one woman. “Oh sister, I can’t let you go… I’m like a preacher stealing hearts at a traveling show.” He speaks the lines instead of singing, and I can hear his dear British accent come out on that. Girls in the audience scream.
“For love or money!” He reaches inside his jacket and begins tossing dollar bills around the stage, into the audience- “For love or money! More money! Money…”
“And the fever, getting higher,” I whisper.
The audience sings. “DESIIIIIIIIIRE!”
“Desire!” MacPhisto flings himself about onstage. “Desire!”
“Desiiiiiiiire,” Edge sings calmly.
Okay, that’s enough, I think. I’m eager to see how our creation, the speech and phone call I wrote with Bono, will work out for MacPhisto. Will he do justice to our words?
But the song ends with MacPhisto still singing.
“Moon River, wider than a mile! I’m crossing you in style, someday! Oh, you dream maker! You heart breaker! Wherever you’re going, I’m going your way!”
I smile and giggle, recognizing the song as one he had sung at the Lisbon show, and he asks the crowd, “That’s lovely, isn’t it?”
The audience erupts with their approval. When they’re done MacPhisto warns them- “No hablare espagnol. Do you know who I am?”
“WHOOOOOOOOOOO!” is the response, along with a few shouts of “Bono!” I guess they still haven’t caught on to the new persona thing.
“Because I know you probably even better than you know yourself,” the swanky devil continues. “Let me introduce you to my band. Where is Edge- there he is. Don’t you think he’s an exciting pop star?” The crowd politely cheers in assent. Edge looks pleased.
“Larry Mullen Jr., giving Bruce Springsteen a run for his money I’d say!” Apparently the Spanish don’t get the joke any more than I do. “Adam Clayton, there’s the cat that got the cream!”
And now he cries in a rougher voice- “Look what you’ve done to me!” Amusingly enough, I can now hear a few members of the audience taking up a chant- “Bo-no! Bo-no! Bo-no!” They sing it over MacPhisto’s next, harsh sounding words- “You’ve made me very famous- and I thank you!”
Finally the fans stop their chant as MacPhisto pulls out another catchphrase- “I know you like your pop stars to be exciting, so I bought these!” I fidget a bit, impatient. He’s just building up to the real speech. I want to see how well Bono’s and my words fare for this man.
It comes soon enough. “Shall I tell you a story? About a hotel in this very city… who wouldn’t let your favorite rock and roll band stay there.” I detect a note of sadness in his last words.
“Well… they don’t like rock and rolls bands in The Ritz, apparently,” he sighs, and gazes despondently out into the audience. A few people shout “No!” Bono was right- the story is going over well.
MacPhisto picks it up- “They have a problem with the dress code. Now round about this time I often make a phone call from the stage. Sometimes to the President of the United States. But not tonight; I’m going to call that hotel… so you can all give out to them!” A tentative smile creeps to his face as he moves backstage to the phone, telling the audience offhandedly, “I’m very tired, just hold on two seconds.”
MacPhisto dials, leaning against the phone’s stand. “I must say, you speak English awfully well,” he compliments them. “I’m Irish myself of course.” There he goes again with the Irish thing. Is Bono forgetting that he’s in character? The other end of the phone rings.
“Ta da ta da…” MacPhisto sings.
Ring.
“Ta daaa, ta da…”
Ring.
“La da da, da daaa…”
A voice on the other ends picks up and starts speaking Spanish. It’s going too fast for me to understand.
“Hello, is that the Ritz Hotel, Madrid?” MacPhisto inquires, his face concentrated.
The unknown speaker replies with what must be a “Yes.”
“I- I’d like to speak to Mr. Olivares, please,” MacPhisto tells him. The voice sounds a tad bit confused- “Mr. Olivares?”
MacPhisto tries touching his good side- “Thank you very much.” The voice, however, still isn’t sure- “Mr. Olivares?”
“Yes…”
“You will have to hold the line,” he says in English, and MacPhisto calls, “Thank you very much,” once more as waiting music fills the stadium.
“They’re playing my tune!” MacPhisto cries, pure joy written across his face. A lady’s voice speaks in Spanish, obviously a recorded message. MacPhisto sings along- “Ta da daaaaaaaa! Ta da da, da da da daaaaaaaa… Love that one!” The recorded message speaks again, only in English, just like the KLM messages.
“Please hold. Your call will be dealt with in a few moments.” This greatly amuses MacPhisto. “It’s no problem at all, we’ve got all night, haven’t we?” The crowd cheers in delight as the music continues.
“Off with the horns, on with the show, eh?” MacPhisto asks, and giggles as he tosses them backstage. I’m too focused on the stage to pick them up this time.
“La da da daaaa…” The music plays.
“La de da, da de da da…” Music.
“Spanish eyes are waiting for me…” he throws in. I can see Edge and Adam smirk at each other onstage.
”Could you please hold; your call will be dealt with in a few moments. Thank you…”
“Oh, I don’t mind waiting at all!” MacPhisto cries, reassuring the disembodied voice on the other end. The music continues…
“La da daaaa!”
Music.
“La da, da daaa…”
Music.
“Da… da… da…da… da… da da daaaaa!” All through this, the waiting music continues. This is going on for far too long- good thing Bono and I have discussed what to do if this happens.
The woman’s voice speaks the same message in Spanish, and MacPhisto calls out, “How’s the elections going then?” He gives the audience a big smile. A few more cheerful notes of the waiting music punctuate his speech as he calls, “Vota MacPhisto, I’d say!”
“Would you please hold; your call will be dealt with in a few minutes.”
“La da daaaa…” he sings in response to that. “Poor old Franko, you’ll miss him though won’t you?”
The music swells.
“All that pulling out of toenails, it’s just not the same without him,” he concludes, and a man’s voice picks up. “Hello?”
“Hello, Mr. Olivares?”
“Yes,” the other man answers.
“I just- I have to- I have a question to ask about- I’d like to stay in your hotel…” MacPhisto’s obviously been caught off-guard.
“Yes?”
“…but I believe there’s a problem with the dress code,” he finishes. “I’d just like to say I’ve got the right suit now.”
“Yes…”
“And if I’m wearing the right suit, would you let me stay in your hotel?” MacPhisto’s beautiful blue eyes are intent, his voice curious.
“But- you will need tie and jacket!” Mr. Olivares exclaims.
“I beg your pardon?” MacPhisto says, unfazed.
“You will need- ie and- et-“ The line is breaking up.
MacPhisto takes a moment to decipher that. “Ah, I will need a tie and a jacket? But I have on a very special jacket, and I have some horns. Would that be a problem?”
“Oh, not a problem at all,” Mr. Olivares explains.
“So, no problem for Mr. MacPhisto?” he adds, and I suppress my squeals of delight. I know what’s coming next, and no one else does.
“Of course not, no problem,” he repeats.
The Devil’s eyes are calculating. “Well thank you very much, you’ll have MacPhisto but you won’t have the group of U2. That’s fine, thank you!” And as the crowd cheers, the band begins Ultraviolet.
I laugh.
***
It takes a few songs, but by now the entire band is backstage and changing back into their normal clothes- well, if normal is the word for it. Edge’s pants sparkle with rhinestones- I should click a picture for Lina, I think absently- and Larry’s got on a tank top. Eric is electric and won’t stop talking, which causes a few smiles from the band. I guess I can say I’m no better- I’m hopping around anxiously, alternating between congratulating every band member in sight and asking when the one out of sight will return. Edge is the only one who cares to be patient with me, and says, “He’ll be out when he’s ready.” I can only stand around and wonder who tricked me into leaving Bono’s dressing room.
Finally the door bursts open, and Bono flings himself into the room. “Hey!” he shouts, looking absolutely pleased with himself. “Who’s up for some celebration? Marieke… you’re a genius. That script was great!” He beams.
“Thanks,” I tell him, and he crosses the room to give me a hug. I gasp, feeling the sweat through the thin cloth of his sleeveless shirt.
Bono moves away from me and starts talking at an extremely fast pace, so fast that I decide to stop listening. My Dutch-minded brain can’t handle it. Bono walks around the room, engaging anyone who’ll listen in conversation. He’s practically bouncing off walls, making Eric’s excited behavior pale in comparison.
“Bono,” I finally break in. “Is there a party tonight?”
He turns to look at me, lips curled back from white teeth. “Why, yes, if you can call it that,” he muses.
“You said in Portugal I could come to a party sometime,” I remind him.
“Well…” His eyes flicker to Edge, who gazes back unashamedly. “Actually I believe that was Edge’s doing…”
“Edge!” I spring on him. “Can I come to the party?”
Obviously he’s wondering how he fell into this one. “Yeah… um, sure, we’ll just be hitting a club though, nothing big…”
“Nothing…? Edge, knowing us it will get big!” Bono turns around, unable to stand still for a moment.
“Isn’t there an album you should be working on?” Eric asks them, shooting a glance at me.
Bono sighs. “Ah, ya got us…”
“I’m not sure they’ll believe our excuse,” Adam mumbles.
“Right- haven’t you ever heard the saying, Eric, that all work and no play makes a rockstar dull?” Bono’s smile is wide. “No, really, we’re just not up for flying out tonight.”
“It's a bit of a waste of creative time,” Larry murmurs, so low that only a few people hear. I’m one of them..
Bono comes and puts his arm around me. “Come on, Marieke. We’ll give you a party you can’t forget.”
And so we go to the overground.
***
The place U2 takes me is noisy and overcrowded with people. Lights flash on the inside, and I scan warily for a disco ball. If there is one I’m leaving. A ton of people are out on the dance floor, grooving it up to a DJ’s sound, and a few women throw themselves over the men at the bar- some of whom don’t look too happy about it.
“Why?” I ask Bono, the nearest band member to me.
“Doesn’t look our type, does it?” he answers in the form of a question. “I’m sorry, you must not know us.”
We head in, me walking cautiously, everyone else looking relaxed. I’ve never been to any clubs, only low key bars. I’ve always been too afraid of what could happen.
Our entourage consists of Bono, The Edge, Larry, Adam, their bodyguards, Eric, and a few tag-along’s- Bill and two crewmen. I don’t bother to ask their names. There’s a lot of smoke drifting around the club, and I glance with raised eyebrows at the “No Smoking” sign.
“Will you stay with me?” I shout over the music for Eric’s ears.
“Yes,” he yells back. The bass in the music throbs in my chest, and I press his hand.
The band members have gotten lost among the swaying bodies. I wonder if they’re dancing, and shudder at the thought of it. Something makes me doubt that any of U2’s members can dance well.
Eric and I sit down at the bar, taking up the empty seats of a couple who’ve gone to dance just after meeting for the first time. The bartender swings around, and Eric orders for himself in Spanish. I tell Eric my order, and when he repeats the request to the bartender the latter smirks at me. I don’t need to speak Spanish to know what he inquires- “Nothing stronger?”
“No,” I growl, and let him serve us. The ice in our drinks clinks against the glass as he sets them down in front of us. Eric asks me, “Do you want a sip of mine?”
“No, thank you,” I answer, and swivel my chair around so I can face the dance floor. To my relief, I spy one of the band members, and he’s not dancing. No, Bono is coming over to the bar, making his way through sweaty bodies to reach us. The lights can’t touch his shades.
I sip my drink and watch as the said light reflects off its watery surface. Bono sits down in the stool next to me. He orders his drink in a low voice, and then asks me, “How did you enjoy the show this night?”
“Good,” I say, swallowing my drink. “The phone call worked great.”
“Talk about that!” He grins. “That was the funnest call I’ve made on this entire tour. And it’s all because of you.”
“Oh, no it’s not,” I blurt, feeling embarrassed. “MacPhisto added a lot more.”
He turns his head up. “That’s true… I did add some more as I went along, but you can’t blame me. That was so entertaining… Marieke, you have no idea what it’s like to be onstage.” I imagine his eyes glowing.
“Something you did say I don’t understand, though.”
“Oh?” He drinks. “What was it, love?”
He won’t notice my blush in the flashing lights. “Why do you say you are Irish? MacPhisto is British. Am I right?”
Eric steals a glance towards me. I notice for the first time the shades his red hair is turning in the multicolored lighting. It makes me want to laugh.
“Hmmmm…” Bono sets his drink down on the counter and clasps his hands together. “Have you ever heard of Michael MacLiammoir?”
I rack my brains. “Um… no.”
He smiles and leans back, ready to spill all his knowledge on this man. “He was this English bloke, born with a very British sounding name, and eventually he just immersed himself in the Irish culture and changed his name to the Gaelic. Now, he wasn’t on my mind when I started the speeches, but MacPhisto may be a bit like that man.”
Something stirs in me, and I remember MacPhisto’s warning before he started the speech tonight- “No hablare espagnol,” in his very British accent. I think it’s the opposite of the man Bono’s described- an Irish man turned British, or rather Bono in character.
“It’s very…” I start to take a sip of my drink, but realize the glass is already drained. Draping myself over the counter, I finish, “Obvious.”
Bono drinks from his non-empty glass before answering me, and in that moment the bartender whirls back to us. “Quieres mas?”
More? “No,” I tell him in Spanish, as the current song blasting shifts into another one.
“Oh,” Bono starts, looking up from his drink perplexedly. “I love this song.”
Meanwhile, Eric is warding off the bartender on his side, who intent on serving him. “I don’t want a refill… thank you…”
Bono stands up suddenly and fixes his gaze onto me. “Like to dance, Marieke?”
I shake my head.
“Come on, you can’t be saying you’re no good at it.”
“Maybe you ‘re no good” I shout as a response.
He raises his eyebrows and takes a hold of my unwilling hands. I give him a stony look, but he pulls me all too easily off the stool.
“I can’t dance, no, but with you it wouldn’t look half bad.” Then we enter the crush of people on the floor.
“Seducer,” I mutter in Dutch, but he doesn’t listen, and we start to dance. Now that I’m on my feet, my reluctance seems to evaporate. We spin together, getting farther and farther away from the bar. Bono sings along with the words and grins openly when I stare at him.
His arms are strong around my body. I don’t care that his “dancing” isn’t quite right- it’s worth it for him to hold me. I lean into his muscular body, feeling some of his sweat drip onto me. I’m sweating a bit too- it’s really very crowded in here.
“You’re very happy!” I accuse Bono, raising my voice above the music.
His grin is something more like a smirk now. “Of course! I’ve got a dance partner, a party, a drink and a great song- and no one knows who I am!” He pulls me away from the throng of people. “What more could I need?”
Me.
I don’t say anything.
When that number’s over, Bono lets me go and I stagger back to the bar, pushing my way through gyrating bodies. Eric is joking and laughing with the bartender in a mix of Spanish and English, and his glass is half-full. Looks like someone got that refill… and maybe more…
“Great dance!” He thumbs me up.
“Want to cut in?” Bono breaks free of the dancers at last and plops back down at the bar, his hands settling on my shoulders in an offering for Eric. Eric winks with a naughty smile, and I wonder what Bono is doing behind my back.
So we twist together a bit, and Eric’s not a bad partner. Then I go roaming for new men. It’s not bad business, really- most of the men I ask to dance with me are eager at the prospect of a date. But I won’t let them take me home. After one dance I find someone else.
I don’t dance with any other U2 member tonight. Although I do chat it up with Edge- he’s gotten a bit tipsy. I suppose we all are, some more than others. I’m not drunk in the least. So glad I only took one drink…
We finally exit the place, all laughing and talking noisily. Eric’s arm comes casually around my shoulders, and I let him leave it there as he jabbers away. The entourage slides around the corner and travesl up an alley, back to the black limo that’s taken us to this club.
Yes, we are very inconspicuous.
About as true as the location stated in my profile. To both that and the story, I tell the fact of "A girl can dream!"
“Ritz Hotel?”
“Have you heard of it?”
“No. Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why are you calling it?”
“Because they wouldn’t let your favorite rock and roll band stay there… oh, was that surprising?”
“No… no, you… just got me…”
“The accent’s okay, isn’t it?”
“It’s more than okay. Did they truly not let you stay there?”
“Well… it may or may not have happened…”
“What was wrong with it?”
“Apparently you have to have the right clothes to get into the Ritz. Or at least that’s how MacPhisto will explain it. We can’t get in because there’s a problem with the dress code.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“The Spanish audience will understand it, and that’s what’s important. Now, anything you’d like to add?”
“Let me see the writing.”
It’s not bad being holed up in a dressing room behind the stage. I can ignore the fact that’s it’s stifling just to focus on being alone with Bono. The door’s closed, and we have peace together.
“What if you get him?”
“You mean Mr. Olivares?”
“Yes, what if it’s not the machine?”
“What do you think would happen? MacPhisto wants in the hotel. He wouldn’t give up.”
“He might know it’s a joke. You must be… real. True.”
“Do you mean convincing?”
“Yes, that’s it.”
A knock comes at the door. I lean back as Bono goes to answer it.
“Bono? You’re due for another soundcheck soon. How’s the writing going?” It’s Paul, coupled with another man I haven’t seen before now.
“We haven’t rehearsed the call,” Bono tells him. “That’s what you want?”
“Well, actually you haven’t been around to practice the encore at all. I think it’s time for that. The band’s waiting.”
Bono shakes his head. “We have most of tomorrow to practice the encore. Marieke and I have to finish writing.”
“All right.” Paul steps forward. “May we come in?”
“Sure,” Bono offers, moving farther inside to let the two men enter.
The man I don’t know comes to sit by me. “Hello, I don’t think we’ve met yet.”
“Marieke Lang,” I introduce myself. He shakes my hand tightly.
“Bill Flanagan.”
“Okay, are you ready?” Bono asks us, the audience. We nod. He starts reading from the script in MacPhisto’s voice, and I hang on to every word.
“No hablare espagnol,” he begins in a clearly British accent. A knowing smile spreads across my face. “Do you know who I am?”
“Yes,” I mutter, and one corner of his mouth twitches up.
“I know who you are. I know you all even better than you know yourselves. Let me introduce you to my band!” Bono gestures to his left, and reads, “This is The Edge; isn’t he an exciting pop star? And here’s Adam Clayton, he’s the cat that got the cream!” He glances to his right, a half-smile leaning on his face as if he’s forgotten he’s not really onstage.
Now he throws his words behind him, addressing an imaginary drummer- “Larry Mullen Junior, giving Bruce Springsteen a run for his money!” A few laughs come from around me, obviously reveling in a joke I don’t get. Bono gives a laugh too, getting out of character for a moment.
“And now let me tell you a story… about a hotel that wouldn’t let your favorite rock and roll band stay there…” He puts on his pathetic voice.
Paul holds up a hand.
“Yes?” Bono asks in his normal Irish accent.
“What hotel are you talking about? We didn’t have any problems getting in to this one.”
“It’s the Ritz I’m talking about, and it’s not important if it happened or not. Now…” Bono goes back to his MacPhisto voice. “The Ritz Hotel? Have you heard of it? Apparently they don’t like rock bands in The Ritz. They have a problem with the dress code…” He shrugs at us, as if wondering why that could possibly be.
“Now, at this time of the night I usually make a phone call. Sometimes to the President of the United States, but not tonight. Tonight I’m calling that hotel, so you can all give out to them!” He lowers the paper and finishes in his normal voice, “That’s all so far.”
I hold up my hand.
“Marieke?”
“It is good,” I tell him. “I like the call. However, I think you should stop more, so the fans can understand.”
“That’s right,” Bono says. “I’ll make sure to pause more often, don’t worry. Anything else you’d like to add?”
“Yes,” I say. “What if there is a long wait on the telephone? What will you say?”
“I’ll improvise it. Anything’s gone over well at the last shows.”
“Well…” I think. “Maybe you can sing a song, or talk to the crowd. You can’t forget them, or they’ll be lost! Is there anything happening in Madrid to talk about?”
Bono’s eyes are drilled into me. “In Spain, the elections are coming up…”
“MacPhisto will like that,” I say. “He’s the Devil- he loves dirty politicians!”
This makes Bono laugh, and I feel proud of myself.
Bill holds up a hand.
“Yes?”
“Just wanted to talk with Marieke for a moment…” I look at Bill, surprised at hearing my name called. Although he mispronounced it- jeez, how hard is it to say my name right?
“You’re pretty good at this script-writing,” Bill tells me now. “Where are you from?”
“Holland,” I reply, suddenly self-conscience at my clear accent. “I’m a fan. Where are you from?”
“America,” he says with a grin, and I guess I should have realized it… his accent isn’t all too different from Eric’s.
“What do you do?”
Bill sighs happily. “Me, I’m a music journalist, and I’m going to be writing a book on Zoo TV.”
A book…? I sort through the words in my mind. Now what was book… ah, there we go. Hm. It’s a funny thing to imagine- a book about Zoo TV, like we’re making history and people will want to read about it for years to come.
“Will I be in the book?” I ask, a little mischievously.
“If you want to be!”
And that sounds all right with me.
Paul stands up, and addresses Bono as he bends over and brushes himself off. “I’ll just leave the two of you alone-“
“Three,” Bill corrects.
“… but don’t forget that you have soundcheck in ten minutes.” He goes to the door. “Goodbye, guys.”
“Bye, Paul,” Bono murmurs, and Bill and I add our words of parting.
“Now, Marieke, let’s get this speech finished…”
***
22nd of May. I’m standing backstage with Eric, wearing the clothes of the Zoo TV crew- but fitted to my feminine body. We have both our gazes trained on the stage as Bono jerks, stumbles, turns around, and express himself by kicking. So far he’s really on fire tonight.
Eric and I barely talk this time. I’m starting to suspect he might be a fan just like me. Our reactions to the songs are just the same, and our bodies move in unison with each other as U2 plays. I reflect on how I like Eric better when he’s not talking, and jam out.
This time the quick change is easier for me. When Bono comes and takes his jacket off, I hand him his other one without even looking downward. When he asks for the hat and the belt, I focus on his hands and nowhere else as I give them up.
The next change is more interesting. I try to resist the temptation, but fail when his arm presses against mine for a second- and suddenly I am staring at his sweaty chest, my fingers rigid from trying not to touch. Bono treats me impatiently, like last time, and jerks the new shirt away.
A second later, any bruised feelings are mended when Bono sings, “I want to run!”
Finally the main set has ended, and I take Eric back into the dressing room with me. If I’m going to help Bono with anything in there, I’m going to need a guy to back me up. Bono takes his shirt off first, and it’s not quite as much a distraction… but then when I clutch up the red shirt, the breath just knocks out of me. It comes then- I am helping to dress MacPhisto. Ignoring Eric’s reaching hands, I throw the shirt to Bono and let Eric do the rest.
When I dare to look again, Bono is MacPhisto. He’s applying the makeup with an air that only a cultured British (or maybe Irish) devil can have. I allow myself to gawk for a moment, and then realize that all he needs now is the horns.
Those horns are shoved into my hand- wait… since when was I Bono’s stylist?- and I get to do the honors of crowning MacPhisto. Besides our first dance onstage, this is the closest I’ve been to him. What will he think of me? Will I behave around him?
My hands slip gently, carefully, down the side of MacPhisto’s head, and he gives a little sigh, something that I would have died at the sound at, but I’m too nervous. I muster up the courage to smile at the Devil’s reflection and inquire, in a slightly high pitched voice, “Are you ready, Mr. MacPhisto?”
“Yes, I’m fine,” he tells me in his British accent. “Thank you, love.” Then he gets up and squeezes his feet into the platform boots. He faces me, weaving alone by the mirror, and winks. Now my brain has gone out like a light… but Eric is shaking me, pulling me back towards the stage so we can watch the encores.
MacPhisto is singing gleefully- “DESIIIIIIIIIIRE!!” He dances around the stage, clearly enjoying all the love that the fans are pouring out to him. Suddenly he slows, strolling about with wide eyes as the rest of the band vamps for a bit.
“Dollars…” he sings. “She’s my protection. Yeah, she’s the promise… in the year of election…”
He stares into the audience and seemingly directs his next words to one woman. “Oh sister, I can’t let you go… I’m like a preacher stealing hearts at a traveling show.” He speaks the lines instead of singing, and I can hear his dear British accent come out on that. Girls in the audience scream.
“For love or money!” He reaches inside his jacket and begins tossing dollar bills around the stage, into the audience- “For love or money! More money! Money…”
“And the fever, getting higher,” I whisper.
The audience sings. “DESIIIIIIIIIRE!”
“Desire!” MacPhisto flings himself about onstage. “Desire!”
“Desiiiiiiiire,” Edge sings calmly.
Okay, that’s enough, I think. I’m eager to see how our creation, the speech and phone call I wrote with Bono, will work out for MacPhisto. Will he do justice to our words?
But the song ends with MacPhisto still singing.
“Moon River, wider than a mile! I’m crossing you in style, someday! Oh, you dream maker! You heart breaker! Wherever you’re going, I’m going your way!”
I smile and giggle, recognizing the song as one he had sung at the Lisbon show, and he asks the crowd, “That’s lovely, isn’t it?”
The audience erupts with their approval. When they’re done MacPhisto warns them- “No hablare espagnol. Do you know who I am?”
“WHOOOOOOOOOOO!” is the response, along with a few shouts of “Bono!” I guess they still haven’t caught on to the new persona thing.
“Because I know you probably even better than you know yourself,” the swanky devil continues. “Let me introduce you to my band. Where is Edge- there he is. Don’t you think he’s an exciting pop star?” The crowd politely cheers in assent. Edge looks pleased.
“Larry Mullen Jr., giving Bruce Springsteen a run for his money I’d say!” Apparently the Spanish don’t get the joke any more than I do. “Adam Clayton, there’s the cat that got the cream!”
And now he cries in a rougher voice- “Look what you’ve done to me!” Amusingly enough, I can now hear a few members of the audience taking up a chant- “Bo-no! Bo-no! Bo-no!” They sing it over MacPhisto’s next, harsh sounding words- “You’ve made me very famous- and I thank you!”
Finally the fans stop their chant as MacPhisto pulls out another catchphrase- “I know you like your pop stars to be exciting, so I bought these!” I fidget a bit, impatient. He’s just building up to the real speech. I want to see how well Bono’s and my words fare for this man.
It comes soon enough. “Shall I tell you a story? About a hotel in this very city… who wouldn’t let your favorite rock and roll band stay there.” I detect a note of sadness in his last words.
“Well… they don’t like rock and rolls bands in The Ritz, apparently,” he sighs, and gazes despondently out into the audience. A few people shout “No!” Bono was right- the story is going over well.
MacPhisto picks it up- “They have a problem with the dress code. Now round about this time I often make a phone call from the stage. Sometimes to the President of the United States. But not tonight; I’m going to call that hotel… so you can all give out to them!” A tentative smile creeps to his face as he moves backstage to the phone, telling the audience offhandedly, “I’m very tired, just hold on two seconds.”
MacPhisto dials, leaning against the phone’s stand. “I must say, you speak English awfully well,” he compliments them. “I’m Irish myself of course.” There he goes again with the Irish thing. Is Bono forgetting that he’s in character? The other end of the phone rings.
“Ta da ta da…” MacPhisto sings.
Ring.
“Ta daaa, ta da…”
Ring.
“La da da, da daaa…”
A voice on the other ends picks up and starts speaking Spanish. It’s going too fast for me to understand.
“Hello, is that the Ritz Hotel, Madrid?” MacPhisto inquires, his face concentrated.
The unknown speaker replies with what must be a “Yes.”
“I- I’d like to speak to Mr. Olivares, please,” MacPhisto tells him. The voice sounds a tad bit confused- “Mr. Olivares?”
MacPhisto tries touching his good side- “Thank you very much.” The voice, however, still isn’t sure- “Mr. Olivares?”
“Yes…”
“You will have to hold the line,” he says in English, and MacPhisto calls, “Thank you very much,” once more as waiting music fills the stadium.
“They’re playing my tune!” MacPhisto cries, pure joy written across his face. A lady’s voice speaks in Spanish, obviously a recorded message. MacPhisto sings along- “Ta da daaaaaaaa! Ta da da, da da da daaaaaaaa… Love that one!” The recorded message speaks again, only in English, just like the KLM messages.
“Please hold. Your call will be dealt with in a few moments.” This greatly amuses MacPhisto. “It’s no problem at all, we’ve got all night, haven’t we?” The crowd cheers in delight as the music continues.
“Off with the horns, on with the show, eh?” MacPhisto asks, and giggles as he tosses them backstage. I’m too focused on the stage to pick them up this time.
“La da da daaaa…” The music plays.
“La de da, da de da da…” Music.
“Spanish eyes are waiting for me…” he throws in. I can see Edge and Adam smirk at each other onstage.
”Could you please hold; your call will be dealt with in a few moments. Thank you…”
“Oh, I don’t mind waiting at all!” MacPhisto cries, reassuring the disembodied voice on the other end. The music continues…
“La da daaaa!”
Music.
“La da, da daaa…”
Music.
“Da… da… da…da… da… da da daaaaa!” All through this, the waiting music continues. This is going on for far too long- good thing Bono and I have discussed what to do if this happens.
The woman’s voice speaks the same message in Spanish, and MacPhisto calls out, “How’s the elections going then?” He gives the audience a big smile. A few more cheerful notes of the waiting music punctuate his speech as he calls, “Vota MacPhisto, I’d say!”
“Would you please hold; your call will be dealt with in a few minutes.”
“La da daaaa…” he sings in response to that. “Poor old Franko, you’ll miss him though won’t you?”
The music swells.
“All that pulling out of toenails, it’s just not the same without him,” he concludes, and a man’s voice picks up. “Hello?”
“Hello, Mr. Olivares?”
“Yes,” the other man answers.
“I just- I have to- I have a question to ask about- I’d like to stay in your hotel…” MacPhisto’s obviously been caught off-guard.
“Yes?”
“…but I believe there’s a problem with the dress code,” he finishes. “I’d just like to say I’ve got the right suit now.”
“Yes…”
“And if I’m wearing the right suit, would you let me stay in your hotel?” MacPhisto’s beautiful blue eyes are intent, his voice curious.
“But- you will need tie and jacket!” Mr. Olivares exclaims.
“I beg your pardon?” MacPhisto says, unfazed.
“You will need- ie and- et-“ The line is breaking up.
MacPhisto takes a moment to decipher that. “Ah, I will need a tie and a jacket? But I have on a very special jacket, and I have some horns. Would that be a problem?”
“Oh, not a problem at all,” Mr. Olivares explains.
“So, no problem for Mr. MacPhisto?” he adds, and I suppress my squeals of delight. I know what’s coming next, and no one else does.
“Of course not, no problem,” he repeats.
The Devil’s eyes are calculating. “Well thank you very much, you’ll have MacPhisto but you won’t have the group of U2. That’s fine, thank you!” And as the crowd cheers, the band begins Ultraviolet.
I laugh.
***
It takes a few songs, but by now the entire band is backstage and changing back into their normal clothes- well, if normal is the word for it. Edge’s pants sparkle with rhinestones- I should click a picture for Lina, I think absently- and Larry’s got on a tank top. Eric is electric and won’t stop talking, which causes a few smiles from the band. I guess I can say I’m no better- I’m hopping around anxiously, alternating between congratulating every band member in sight and asking when the one out of sight will return. Edge is the only one who cares to be patient with me, and says, “He’ll be out when he’s ready.” I can only stand around and wonder who tricked me into leaving Bono’s dressing room.
Finally the door bursts open, and Bono flings himself into the room. “Hey!” he shouts, looking absolutely pleased with himself. “Who’s up for some celebration? Marieke… you’re a genius. That script was great!” He beams.
“Thanks,” I tell him, and he crosses the room to give me a hug. I gasp, feeling the sweat through the thin cloth of his sleeveless shirt.
Bono moves away from me and starts talking at an extremely fast pace, so fast that I decide to stop listening. My Dutch-minded brain can’t handle it. Bono walks around the room, engaging anyone who’ll listen in conversation. He’s practically bouncing off walls, making Eric’s excited behavior pale in comparison.
“Bono,” I finally break in. “Is there a party tonight?”
He turns to look at me, lips curled back from white teeth. “Why, yes, if you can call it that,” he muses.
“You said in Portugal I could come to a party sometime,” I remind him.
“Well…” His eyes flicker to Edge, who gazes back unashamedly. “Actually I believe that was Edge’s doing…”
“Edge!” I spring on him. “Can I come to the party?”
Obviously he’s wondering how he fell into this one. “Yeah… um, sure, we’ll just be hitting a club though, nothing big…”
“Nothing…? Edge, knowing us it will get big!” Bono turns around, unable to stand still for a moment.
“Isn’t there an album you should be working on?” Eric asks them, shooting a glance at me.
Bono sighs. “Ah, ya got us…”
“I’m not sure they’ll believe our excuse,” Adam mumbles.
“Right- haven’t you ever heard the saying, Eric, that all work and no play makes a rockstar dull?” Bono’s smile is wide. “No, really, we’re just not up for flying out tonight.”
“It's a bit of a waste of creative time,” Larry murmurs, so low that only a few people hear. I’m one of them..
Bono comes and puts his arm around me. “Come on, Marieke. We’ll give you a party you can’t forget.”
And so we go to the overground.
***
The place U2 takes me is noisy and overcrowded with people. Lights flash on the inside, and I scan warily for a disco ball. If there is one I’m leaving. A ton of people are out on the dance floor, grooving it up to a DJ’s sound, and a few women throw themselves over the men at the bar- some of whom don’t look too happy about it.
“Why?” I ask Bono, the nearest band member to me.
“Doesn’t look our type, does it?” he answers in the form of a question. “I’m sorry, you must not know us.”
We head in, me walking cautiously, everyone else looking relaxed. I’ve never been to any clubs, only low key bars. I’ve always been too afraid of what could happen.
Our entourage consists of Bono, The Edge, Larry, Adam, their bodyguards, Eric, and a few tag-along’s- Bill and two crewmen. I don’t bother to ask their names. There’s a lot of smoke drifting around the club, and I glance with raised eyebrows at the “No Smoking” sign.
“Will you stay with me?” I shout over the music for Eric’s ears.
“Yes,” he yells back. The bass in the music throbs in my chest, and I press his hand.
The band members have gotten lost among the swaying bodies. I wonder if they’re dancing, and shudder at the thought of it. Something makes me doubt that any of U2’s members can dance well.
Eric and I sit down at the bar, taking up the empty seats of a couple who’ve gone to dance just after meeting for the first time. The bartender swings around, and Eric orders for himself in Spanish. I tell Eric my order, and when he repeats the request to the bartender the latter smirks at me. I don’t need to speak Spanish to know what he inquires- “Nothing stronger?”
“No,” I growl, and let him serve us. The ice in our drinks clinks against the glass as he sets them down in front of us. Eric asks me, “Do you want a sip of mine?”
“No, thank you,” I answer, and swivel my chair around so I can face the dance floor. To my relief, I spy one of the band members, and he’s not dancing. No, Bono is coming over to the bar, making his way through sweaty bodies to reach us. The lights can’t touch his shades.
I sip my drink and watch as the said light reflects off its watery surface. Bono sits down in the stool next to me. He orders his drink in a low voice, and then asks me, “How did you enjoy the show this night?”
“Good,” I say, swallowing my drink. “The phone call worked great.”
“Talk about that!” He grins. “That was the funnest call I’ve made on this entire tour. And it’s all because of you.”
“Oh, no it’s not,” I blurt, feeling embarrassed. “MacPhisto added a lot more.”
He turns his head up. “That’s true… I did add some more as I went along, but you can’t blame me. That was so entertaining… Marieke, you have no idea what it’s like to be onstage.” I imagine his eyes glowing.
“Something you did say I don’t understand, though.”
“Oh?” He drinks. “What was it, love?”
He won’t notice my blush in the flashing lights. “Why do you say you are Irish? MacPhisto is British. Am I right?”
Eric steals a glance towards me. I notice for the first time the shades his red hair is turning in the multicolored lighting. It makes me want to laugh.
“Hmmmm…” Bono sets his drink down on the counter and clasps his hands together. “Have you ever heard of Michael MacLiammoir?”
I rack my brains. “Um… no.”
He smiles and leans back, ready to spill all his knowledge on this man. “He was this English bloke, born with a very British sounding name, and eventually he just immersed himself in the Irish culture and changed his name to the Gaelic. Now, he wasn’t on my mind when I started the speeches, but MacPhisto may be a bit like that man.”
Something stirs in me, and I remember MacPhisto’s warning before he started the speech tonight- “No hablare espagnol,” in his very British accent. I think it’s the opposite of the man Bono’s described- an Irish man turned British, or rather Bono in character.
“It’s very…” I start to take a sip of my drink, but realize the glass is already drained. Draping myself over the counter, I finish, “Obvious.”
Bono drinks from his non-empty glass before answering me, and in that moment the bartender whirls back to us. “Quieres mas?”
More? “No,” I tell him in Spanish, as the current song blasting shifts into another one.
“Oh,” Bono starts, looking up from his drink perplexedly. “I love this song.”
Meanwhile, Eric is warding off the bartender on his side, who intent on serving him. “I don’t want a refill… thank you…”
Bono stands up suddenly and fixes his gaze onto me. “Like to dance, Marieke?”
I shake my head.
“Come on, you can’t be saying you’re no good at it.”
“Maybe you ‘re no good” I shout as a response.
He raises his eyebrows and takes a hold of my unwilling hands. I give him a stony look, but he pulls me all too easily off the stool.
“I can’t dance, no, but with you it wouldn’t look half bad.” Then we enter the crush of people on the floor.
“Seducer,” I mutter in Dutch, but he doesn’t listen, and we start to dance. Now that I’m on my feet, my reluctance seems to evaporate. We spin together, getting farther and farther away from the bar. Bono sings along with the words and grins openly when I stare at him.
His arms are strong around my body. I don’t care that his “dancing” isn’t quite right- it’s worth it for him to hold me. I lean into his muscular body, feeling some of his sweat drip onto me. I’m sweating a bit too- it’s really very crowded in here.
“You’re very happy!” I accuse Bono, raising my voice above the music.
His grin is something more like a smirk now. “Of course! I’ve got a dance partner, a party, a drink and a great song- and no one knows who I am!” He pulls me away from the throng of people. “What more could I need?”
Me.
I don’t say anything.
When that number’s over, Bono lets me go and I stagger back to the bar, pushing my way through gyrating bodies. Eric is joking and laughing with the bartender in a mix of Spanish and English, and his glass is half-full. Looks like someone got that refill… and maybe more…
“Great dance!” He thumbs me up.
“Want to cut in?” Bono breaks free of the dancers at last and plops back down at the bar, his hands settling on my shoulders in an offering for Eric. Eric winks with a naughty smile, and I wonder what Bono is doing behind my back.
So we twist together a bit, and Eric’s not a bad partner. Then I go roaming for new men. It’s not bad business, really- most of the men I ask to dance with me are eager at the prospect of a date. But I won’t let them take me home. After one dance I find someone else.
I don’t dance with any other U2 member tonight. Although I do chat it up with Edge- he’s gotten a bit tipsy. I suppose we all are, some more than others. I’m not drunk in the least. So glad I only took one drink…
We finally exit the place, all laughing and talking noisily. Eric’s arm comes casually around my shoulders, and I let him leave it there as he jabbers away. The entourage slides around the corner and travesl up an alley, back to the black limo that’s taken us to this club.
Yes, we are very inconspicuous.
